my sad lament

I am involved in a lot of different things through my work, but as I mentioned yesterday and a few times in the past one of them is a seasonal program, a simple yet compassionately run project that brings anyone who needs it in from the cold no matter their state, if they can keep it together they can come in. I always breathe a sigh of relief when it opens because we are doing more and there is room for everyone but then spring comes around and I find I dread it's impudent arrival. The warmer days and still cold nights mean a lot of things but most of all it means the end of this place.

Tonight was the end so I went back alone even though M wanted to come because I needed my own way to say goodbye. I walked in to the usual crowdedness and that alone is a knife in the heart because tomorrow our doors will be closed and in a perfect world we'd be empty by now. The fear is palpable in some because they haven't figured out a Plan B and tomorrow is coming fast and others are so used to this their hope is gone and it's merely the latest inconvenience in a lifetime of woe. I notice one man on crutches with a disposable camera taking shots of the building and of a few friends. I ask him if he wants me to take one of him and he poses; this place was good to me and it's important to remember that when I'm gone. I can't help but touch his hand for a moment, words are meaningless and I have nothing else to give and we sit for a minute. The volunteers seem especially kind, giving everyone extra food and coming around to refill the drinks. I stopped to thank them and they mention their sadness and that they made extra food because filling bellies was all they could do and we clasp hands and they promise to see us again next year.

The staff are out back furiously BBQ'ing, even though dinner was already served it's their own way to say goodbye and they'll pull it out once things quiet down, a late night snack for all. Everyone has their game face on because no one likes what this day means and yet everybody knows the score. I see some old timers and we sit and talk, we hug and one or two of them kiss me on the cheek because we never know if we'll see each other again until we see each other again. Almost everyone I talk to says thank you, even if we weren't appreciated all the way through goodbyes make even the toughest sentimental and above all there's a simple camaraderie. I know it is their suffering that matters and my emotions are nowhere near the point but I will hold these moments inside my heart.

I have to pry myself away, I simply don't want to leave and yet my child and partner are waiting at home. Dusk turns to dark and I say a few more goodbyes and share a few more hugs and walk out the door, pausing to turn and look at the whole of it, folks milling around and watching TV, some are sleeping and others heading to the shower with tiny donated bottles of shampoo. I deliberately soak it in and I feel the tears I've been swallowing all night fill the back of my eyes. I walk into the darkened parking lot and when I reach my car I climb onto the hood and sit and cry, my tears shame me because any sorrow I feel is meaningless in the face of this suffering and yet if nothing else I hope it will make me try harder tomorrow because at the end of the day I'm just a girl who hates the injustice of this and sometimes the losing feels so much more than the winning and all I can do is bear witness the best I can.

up and away

She was so excited, it's not her fault that she can't understand her mama when she tells her this is the last week of the program that I didn't mean that everyone living there now had another place to go. So she implored me to take her last night, one of the last nights of the year we'll have this program bustling with heat and laughter and crying and sleeping and filth and mashed potatoes and blankets and four very large walls that create a holding place of sorts for some of the best and worst parts of our humanity. We pull into the lot and weave the car around the already growing line of folks waiting to get inside. Clenched in her hand was a balloon, the one prize of today and the only prize that mattered, a balloon she clearly insisted had to come with us because it was beautiful and because she wanted to show it off.

So whose fault is it when her mama swung open the door to lean into the back and unhook the buckles and the prized balloon leaned into the gust and whipped around me and out of her hands and up up up into the sky.

Her wailing was immediate. I scooped her up and out so at the very least she could watch it soaring higher and higher from that ragged parking lot on a dusky last evening in March. And as the balloon became a ball became a speck I turned around and saw the line we'd parked behind was watching it too, all eyes on me they witnessed the entire thing and can now hear her cries. I walk the few steps over to the line full of haggard exhaustion, of wrinkles and dirty coats and geniunely tired smiles. A woman is looking at her kindly, several others are still watching the balloon as it races towards the end of the sun. One of the men looks at me and asks what did you tell her? And I replied that her mama screwed up and let the balloon fly away. I tried to catch it but it flew away so fast. He nods, his face serious. Well at least you told her the truth. M's head raises from the watery place on my shoulder, tears all over her face and gulps but why, mommy, why? And to everyone involved and for many more reasons than the balloon I simply have no good answer for this.

single file

i happened to be around at check in time. the line was long and ragged and heaving and jovial and shuffling and cold. i sat for awhile and watched folks going through the drill, the man with the security wand waving it over outstretched arms, the other with gloves on doing discreet bag checks, weapons you see, they are not allowed.

i notice one guy, his belongings are in an old 10 gallon bucket. he lifts it up on the table for the cursory look. the guy behind him is bouncing, cracking jokes. his red hat tells me which team he favors or perhaps he simply wore it because it was all he had.

the woman in the wheelchair, she's smoking and spinning her chair in listless circles. her hair's a bit matted, eyes darting around. she's got a bag on her lap, she looks unhappy and it's easy to imagine why. a social worker walks out and talks to her, she smiles a bit and starts talking, talking, talking. the social worker listens. i know this listening, sometimes it's all you've got.

i spot someone i know so i jump off the desk i am perched on to go say hello. a man opens a door for me, a tall man with a shirt that says he's a vietnam vet. he's staying here along with vets from almost every war we've had in the last fifty years. i thank him and he smiles a beautiful broad smile. i smile back and walk through the door, his veteran-ness not lost upon me and a thousand questions cross my brain and i ask none of them because the moment is not right.

there's an old guy, he's limping and has a long bushy beard. he bends over to pick up something he's dropped and for a minute i think he's going to fall over. someone else steadies him, puts his hand on his back and picks up the dropped item and hands it to him. the old guy smiles, mumbles a few words and limps inside.

another man heads into the building and walks up to the desk. he asks to use the phone and is told he has to wait. there are rules for that here too, see. even a simple phone call requires a process. i understand these things, these many peace keeping things that are necessary when you are warehousing human beings and yet at the same time it all seems so complicated, this stripping of rights in the name of mercy.

and then a guy walks past the desk grinning and announces they've got BBQ tonight, y'all. A few of the guys clap their hands, this shelter meal perhaps a bright spot in the midst of endless circles, of waiting and cold and fear and loneliness and for a brief moment the thought of food is uniting, the hope of a hot meal and a spot of kindness along the way.

morning has broken (pt. 4)

I headed back to the site yesterday morning and immediately spotted the mom, sitting up and looking okay. Apparently she was in some sort of distress related to the stressful conditions she's been living with but she and the baby were okay and they sent her back. I speculate as to whether she'd have been released had she had insurance but perhaps all was simply okay. Relieved, we turned to the task at hand, finding a better place for them to live. I had placed a few calls over the weekend and one of them called back a little while later, offering an interview and if they were accepted, a room. A room that others desperately needed too, this family was not the only one. The woman on the other end made a point of explaining that but also listened to their story, the difficult conditions, the baby, the little girl. There was less surprise than compassion, for them or for my pleading, I'd take either one if it helped.

She told me they needed to arrive in a couple hours, if they were late they'd miss their chance and they'd go to the next in line. I frantically called till I found them and knowing the bus was a tricky option for folks who didn't know their way around, negotiated a ride. The beauty of that was the folks who stepped up, a couple of old timers volunteered their battered cars to transport them, one with the family and one with their belongings, a jalopy caravan of strangers meandering across town.

I got a call just after the scheduled time, the woman who set the appointment called to let me know they arrived and then her boss, the one I'd appealed to earlier called me back to let me know they'd been accepted and brought into the warmth of their program with a spanish speaking counselor and an open day care slot for the little girl. Mom needs to rest awhile, we'll take care of her the woman said and I could tell this family moved her as they'd moved me, the simple essence of their need spoke volumes. I gave an inappropriate Whoohoo! Hell Yes Thank you! to a peer that I've mostly sat across from in community meetings, woeing the state of funding and yet for a moment we shared some of the juice, the reason we both are here. That little girl didn't need to be sleeping beside all your bums, she said, hey now, woman, I replied and she laughed and we hung up smiling.

So it's over for us but not for them, their journey is far from done but in our business small victories mean a lot. When I picked M up last night she wanted to go see her new friend but I told her she was gone. Why, she whined, I wanted to play with her again. I remind her this is good news, they are in a better place now and she says that's good mommy, that's good.

trouble (pt. 3)

I brought M to work with me late in the afternoon. We'd selected a Spanish book of hers to share as well as some snacks, we'll make this a playdate if it kills me. We walk in the door and it's crowded but through the mass of people I saw them sitting in the spot we reserve for families. I notice the little girl is fast asleep and then I see her mother. Something is wrong.

I pick M up and walk over fast, mom is sitting on the floor, she's crying and wrapped in a blanket. As I get closer the blanket falls down and I realize she's holding her stomach. I go to her and she motions to her belly, a man nearby says it's hurting her a lot but it's not the baby, it can't be, she's only seven months. Men, I think as I grab my phone because who knows what month it really is and what does that matter anyways. Ambulancia? I ask and she nods so I call 911 and within minutes they arrive. In the meantime we lay her down and put a pillow under her head. All the while her daughter is still sleeping and I am wondering how she'll wake, during or after her mom is already gone. Shortly paramedics flood the room and start peppering her with questions: how far apart, at how many weeks did you deliver last time, has your water broken? She's looking at me and I stop them. Spanish. They need to speak Spanish but none of them do so a client steps forward and translates. By this time they've loaded her on the stretcher, her husband has to stay behind because kids can't ride in the ambulance. Her daughter wakes up as she's being wheeled out of the building, I see her sleepily watching the tail end of the action and wonder if she'll cry.

I hand the paramedic my card and ask him to give it to the doctor. She won't know how to get back and her husband won't know how to find her. You must have them call us. They nod, eager to go.

The little girl is awake now, she sees M and gives her a shy smile. M looks at me and smiles and tugs me over. She sits on her mat and opens the bag she brought and brings out a book. She hands it to her and they start reading side by side. One of the staff brings them some chips and I want to interfere but I don't. M realizes immediately chips, she says and beams at me. Just one, I say, futilely and I know it. Three, she replies and turns back to her new friend, mouth already full. Her father is standing in the corner, two countries and an ambulance between him and everyone else. I realize then mom is the rock and without her there, I worry even more. He doesn't even know where the hospital is and he's not asking. I realize he's staying here and she's on her own.

We stayed for another hour and then came home, the girls giving each other shy hugs as we leave and M asking to come back tomorrow, this chips still fresh on her mind. There's been no word since, no word on if the baby's coming or if it's something worse but no matter what she's lying somewhere alone in a hospital while the rest of her family is on the floor. If there's no news this morning I'll go to the hospital, either way the story goes on.

Today's the last day to send your Just Posts to me at girlplustwoATyahooDOTcom. There's still time to join us at the Roundtable as we celebrate the first year of Just Posts.

where do the children play (part 2)

I was haunted by the little girl I mentioned yesterday so I went back to see what we could do. I walk in and see them immediately, mom sitting watchful over the sleeping toddler on a mat on the floor. I quietly inquire and learn that one of the staff found them on a street panhandling and hungry, and they can't speak english. I round up an old timer who's able to translate and go and sit on the floor next to the mom. After some back and forth I learn that the husband had work for a while but it's gone with the weather, they are unable to get any sort of governmental assistance as no one has papers and they have literally no money at all.

The little girl wakes up while we are talking, she is radiantly beautiful with thick black hair and chocolate eyes. I smile at her as she clings to her mama, a shy smile peeking through. After obtaining her permission to see if we can find room at a family shelter we make some calls and come up empty but weekends are tough like that and I wasn't surprised. I then ask if they need anything and the mother says they have no diapers or warm clothes beyond what is on their backs. That's easier to manage so we quickly call a co-worker and arrange delivery for all of it (thankfully with holiday generosity our supply closets are full). I can't help but notice the little girl's fingernails, they need trimming and they are black with dirt. I can't imagine how she keeps her kids clean the way they are living and even though I've seen it a thousand times I am getting soft in my old age, or better said my mothering age and I feel lost sitting there because it's still going to take a few days to find something else and this is no place for kids.

The mom stands up and as she does I realize she's not only pregnant but hugely so. She already looks young, terrified as can be, and now this. The old timer translating didn't know either, he looked at me as she stood and his eyes widened. Shit, he said in english. Embarazada, in Spanish. She nods quickly and looks at the floor and my mind is reeling. I ask her how far along and she says seven months so I ask if she's seen a doctor and she shakes her head no. I am gripped by this, this young woman terrified and homeless, about to give birth without any prenatal care sitting in the pouring rain with her child and a hundred street folks. I gently ask if she'd like to see a doctor and she nods her head yes.

Her daughter is two but acts much older. She doesn't leave her mama's lap, she doesn't fidget or complain. She sits that way for over two hours, something M could never do in a million years. She's so well behaved it breaks your heart, as if she's learned to expect so much less in such a short time. Her mom is so good with her, tender in the best sort of way, a way I fear I might not be able to muster if I were in her shoes. I am curious to know how they ended up here, how or if they crossed the border as a family, how they've survived till now but it's a dangerous topic and besides, we've only just met. I tell her in broken spanish that I have a little girl too, perhaps her daughter would like someone to play with and she nods her head yes, a smile on her face. She tells her daughter and she smiles broadly at that so I promise to return with M tomorrow and let the girls play.

I leave shortly after, on the way home I remember I need to stop at the store. I am standing in the produce section mindlessly choosing organic fruit over the other when all of a sudden I start to cry. I am looking at bananas in tears because it's fucking audacious and incomprehensible that I drive away while she sits with her daughter on her lap in a cold room on the floor and I get to choose fruit without thinking of the price. I almost want to do something crazy like throw myself on the floor and wail amidst the tomatoes, the vine ripened and the romas, the fancier ones that were probably imported from a million miles away but instead I finish, head down and purchase things we could most likely do without while a woman just like me has absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing in this world to call her own but the family around her.

Occasionally some of you ask me how I do it and today I don't know. Today I am haunted by this woman, this girl. Today I hate poverty and I hate the unfairness of money and chance and luck and lineage. I hate borders and hunger and the priorities of our nation. Today I am shamed that our house only has three people in it and we have money in the bank and food in the fridge. Today I will bring my child to a play date at a shelter because I don't know what else to do.

wet and shiny and full of illusion

I've been busier than a one legged girl in an ass kicking contest. See, it's raining and it's raining a lot. California doesn't quite know how to handle an actual storm so there are flash floods and power outages, downed trees and accidents everywhere. It's our genetics to fail at weather. You northerners and easterners, you can laugh all you want. But I wear flip flops year round, so mock me, I can take it. But I digress.

A storm like this is hard on folks with no place to sleep so we started working overtime to open projects for additional hours and larger numbers. Processes that require getting government types here to plead our case to government types farther up the food chain hoping it will eventually trickle back down to us. These good people went the distance for us over the past 48 hours and amidst middle of the night calls and incredible feats of teamwork we ended up successfully offering additional safety nets for folks opened on a dime. Feeling victorious last night I headed over to a church where more good people opened their doors for our makeshift operations. I arrived right before mealtime where several church members were preparing to open the food line, a line with maybe fifty or more already at attention between the piles of bedding on the floor. A woman holding a spatula was calling for attention to bless the meal. Immediately our folks, hungry and probably tired of that line started that hushed yet really loud sort of whispering shut up, shut up. they are saying grace, shut the fuck up I heard one guy say and head bowed I couldn't help laughing. The meal was blessed to a resounding AMEN and a round of applause and in no time at all everyone had a hot meal.

It's easy to delude oneself in those moments, spirits are high and the mood is good. It's easy to overlook the tragedy, that each of these people have no place to go and all the food in the world doesn't change that for a minute. I spot a little girl, maybe three or four, her plate piled high. Her hair is a mess and I am temporarily broken. She looks up and smiles. I crack a bit on the inside but also know it's the best she'll do tonight. An old timer, a guy I haven't seen all season comes up. girl, look at you. where you been? where have you been, old man, I haven't seen you all year. He looks at me then away. I think I know. Ah, what for this time around? A fight. I can't seem to help it. It was only for a few months. He has a few less teeth than I remember but a bit more weight, three hots and a cot have some benefits. He stands close, eavesdropping as I am meeting with a couple of folks strategizing how to transport folks in the morning to our new spot, one they can stay in all day and out of the cold. He's smiling when I am done. You a big shot now, girl? Sitting at the big table? I smile and shrug. But you are still here. You can take the girl outta the shelter but you can't take the shelter outta the girl. Something like that, I say, I like this guy and I've liked him for a long time, his bullshit included. He asks for a hug and I give him one, hard and look him in the eyes. Anytime you want to change things, J, you let me know. Too many years of this shit will kill you. I know, he replies. But it's all I know. You still married? I smile at him again, some things never change no matter how much hard living comes in between.

two little girls, pt 2

Because I know her story now belongs to all of you:

I woke up cold yesterday thinking of her so I spent several hours researching options and phoning in favors. The kids are on the floor, it's cold. But this close to Christmas the rooms at the inns are already so full. No one's fault really, there are hundreds of little girls just like her already holding tight to the little some of us can provide. But after a couple of hours of scheming and negotiations I struck pay dirt, a room that can hold all of them in a program two towns over. A room they can move into tomorrow.

Unable to reach the family until we open the site back up in the evening I accept this program on their behalf, knowing all the while that it's their decision and all I can do is present them the option and let them decide. But feeling victorious, we tackle how to get them there at the appointed time if the answer is yes. So we arrange for the ride still knowing all the while it's not up to us.

I am waiting for them when they walk in the door. The kids aren't doing so well today, the cold is wearing them down, one is crying, M's friend is half asleep and her nose is running. Mom looks so tired. I might have been grinning when I saw them but if you ask me about it later I'll lie and tell you I was simply doing my job.

We sit down together at a table and I carefully share the news prefaced with the understanding that they are in no way obligated to accept and with apologies for not being able to include them in the process. They listened quietly, mom starting to cry. I shared all that I knew: a well reputed program, a private room, they can all stay together, it's free and they can stay up to three months, it's out of the cold, it's for families and it's better than here. I told them I'd let them discuss it as a family and I stand up to give them some space but the mom blurts out we'll take it, and the dad nods his head. Yes. But celebrations are mixed since the kids are sick. I watched M's friend have a meltdown, her little body exhausted from endless bus rides and drafty cold rooms, long walks in the cold and a lack of nutritious food. Her mom gently laid her down on her mat with a blanket folded up to make a pillow, the noise and the lights unwavering still. She looked so much like M in that moment, three year old girls are the same everwhere I suppose.

So today is a good day and a scary day, this family who will be placing their faith in strangers who will drop them off at a strange place with people they do not know. And these people will welcome them in and give them food and blankets and clothes and toys and they will work with them to find jobs and increase their income, to get the older daughter in school and to allow them some time to heal. And if the stars align it will stick and it will be the edge they need and they'll move from there into their own home and they'll never see the inside of one of these places again, but that's sometimes the stuff of fairy tales and we won't know till we know. But for now there's a happy ending, and we'll take what we can.

two little girls

Every year we open our winter programs which provide a few hundred additional beds for folks who need a place to escape the cold. I breathe a sigh of relief every year because I know how desperately those beds are needed for folks who manage to survive in the elements the rest of the year. I make a point of bringing M to the site regularly during the winter. She loves to go to mommy's work and help put the mats on the floor and I love it because she gets to see my passion and expand her mind.

Tonight started off the same, running into some old timers and old friends. One of the staff came up and said I am glad you're here. We've had more children the last few nights. It's no secret to anyone that children in these places damn near kills me and they know it and I know it too. Just as she finished speaking a family walked in with three kids, the youngest looks the same age as M. M noticed her immediately and ran up to her and the little girl reached out her hands and M took them and as it is with little ones, friendship was instant. Poverty is irrelevant, social class and all the rest. Children are always so much smarter than the rest of us.

Her mom approached and we started talking. Her story is similar to the thousands I've heard over the years and no less heartbreaking and once again this is no place for children. It may be relatively safe but her kids are on the floor in a warehouse amidst a hundred adults, a seething, exhausted place where the lights never go out and the concrete never gets warm. They have no car, no phone, no money. They spend their days at the library and their nights here with us. She's afraid to bathe them properly because there are no private shower stalls. Her children are beautiful and well behaved. Everyone smiles at the kids, the sadness and the joy of it, the old timers and the punks. Everyone smiles at the kids.

I cannot bear that this is the best we can do for these kids two weeks before Christmas so after obtaining her permission I start calling in favors and pulling some rank. There are kids here tonight, I say several times to several people whose cell phones I call after hours and yet they pick up we need to find them a place to live. After a bit some of the best case workers I know agree to come down and see what they can do. It's this spirit that never fails to move me. We move into action together and each person will bring something; money for the deposit, the friendly landlord, an open unit in their system. We bring these things and pool them and sort them out and see which one sticks this time around.

While this is happening M and her daughter are racing around up and down between the huddled masses. There is no fear to M, the burly, filthy, bearded men step around them in amusement and probably some annoyance as they sing and hold hands and dance their way around the room. They are both three and in this moment it would be easy to forget how different their lives are, how this little girl will sleep cold huddled on the floor after M and I go home. I see M flop down on the little girl's mat, laughing, she kicks her shoes off. This is fun for her, I know she can't understand and yet it feels wrong for her to do this. In this moment the unfairness rages inside of me. But they are two little girls having fun.

It's finally time to leave; all that can be done tonight is done and I promise her I'll return tomorrow with some warm clothes of M's and a case worker or two. She walks us outside and to our car and leans over and hugs me. This is so hard, she says. I squeeze her tightly and hold on. You are so brave, I reply. It might not feel like it but you are so very brave. We can do better than this. We will do better than this. And I know I am promising this to both of us.

On the way home M is chattering about how much fun she had. She asked if she could go to her new friend's house sometime and I turned around and looked at her. Baby, she doesn't have a house. She sleeps in that big room on the floor at mommy's work. Oh, she says. Oh. But we have a house, mommy. Can't she get a house too?

And we drive home to the warmth, the unfairness of it still rages on.

And ironically given how I am feeling tonight, I have a new review up about a toy M played with recently up at my other gig. If you want something a bit lighter and certainly more fun, clickety click.

good night and good luck

We run a couple of programs that are funded only during the cold weather months. Yesterday was the final night of the season which means a lot of folks won't have a place to sleep tomorrow. I dropped by to see how things were going around dinnertime; I wanted to say goodbye to a couple of friends and thank some others for working long hours all winter long.

I was sad to see how full the place was. Mostly because in the back of my mind all I can think is that these hundred or so people aren't going to have this place tomorrow. There is always a special BBQ on the last night, and there was a round of applause from the guests as they got in line to get their food. I wasn't eating but I clapped too, a forced cheerfulness that didn't quite seep under my skin.

I overheard several folks saying their goodbyes, swapping tentative destinations; corners or parks where they might find each other over the weekend. A few were trading belongings, the guy with two razors gave one to the guy with an extra pair of socks, and so on.

The mood was somber. It's not like the last night at camp where the mood is buzzing with what comes next and who's doing what, this was a reluctant sort of happiness; happy that they've got full bellies but behind the smiles was weariness. It's been a long season already, and it's not going to get any easier for most. It must be so exhausting. Each day must feel like years.

I was getting ready to leave when there was a bit of commotion. It seems that either facing the next unknown was a bit too much, or perhaps it was a last hurrah, and that mixed with heroin is a wicked combination. Staff called 911 while he was convulsing on the bathroom floor. An overdose, intentional or not still causes the same physical reaction; I've not seen it a lot but the few times I have it's sickening at best. I had M with me so when things went south I couldn't stick around, and besides, once they get in the bus we don't often hear how things turned out except for word of mouth.

Sometimes this place is no place for a baby, some might say it never is. There were one or two other kids there with their mom who didn't have the same luxury of having somewhere else to go. M didn't see inside the bathroom so there weren't any questions about why that man was on the floor. I was happy not to have to find an answer. Even still, we were both rather quiet on the drive home.

My mood was somber tonight and I still can't sleep; I lay comfortably in my bed with clean sheets, my child tucked in her bed and J nearby. I know where I am going to sleep tomorrow, and it seems that that alone should make me feel less unsure, but the truth is it all seems muddled, BBQ mixed with pain and suffering, potato salad on the side.

the boy in the box

She gave birth to him without insurance, without prenatal care, without knowing much about anything. She labored alone, birthed alone, and held her baby alone.

The next day she was asked to leave. The birth was normal, they told her. It's time to go. You do have somewhere to go, right? (the answer to this question needs to be yes) and so she left. Alone, she left the hospital and waited at the bus station. Her clothes and the blankets from the hospital wrapped around the baby.

The bus came and she got on. There is a bus that rides all night long, it's infamous; a mobile shelter of sorts. She rode, and as she rode she got to know her son. She gave him a very big name, four different names with many syllables, so many perhaps, to cloak himself with. His name is very exotic, it's fit for a king. Her son and his very big name.

After two days of riding the bus she got off. Hungry and tired, unsure. A mother. Somehow she was directed to us, somehow she wandered in. Head down, voice low, she mumbled. A mumbler, I thought. Mumbling isn't good.

At her feet was a box, a box one might think is full of clothes, of a few belongings. As she waited at the counter the box made a noise. A noise making box, I thought. This also isn't good.

She reached down and lifted up the boy with many names. A baby is in that box, I thought. This is really, really not so good.

I am so tired of riding the bus, she said. I can't do it anymore. And nor should you. You must be hungry, let's get you something to eat.

She pushes up her sleeve when she sits down, medical bracelet still on her wrist. I notice then there is one on her son, it's still there too. May I hold your baby so you can eat? Only if I sit right there, and sitting right there is fine with me.

He is beautiful. A head full of hair, snuggled in sleep. He sighs and jerks. You must be exhausted, I say. She's yet to look me in the eye.

As luck would have it, we have room for them. After dinner she settles in, other moms swarm around her, advice brimming, useful and not. She sits quietly, head lowered. I imagine her wishing she could disappear. She holds her son to her chest.

In the morning she takes her baby to the makeshift clinic onsite. The nurse says he's fine, and makes sure she knows how to feed him. It's not often she gets to show someone how to do that, and she's kind with the woman, so kind. She finds a can of formula, just in case you need a break or he's still hungry after you feed him, she says. She also arranges to see them again tomorrow, and somehow that made things feel a bit better, at least for me. Please, I say. I know, the nurse says. I'll do all I can to help.

I met her three years ago this month, this woman and the boy in the box with four very big names. After six months we lost track of them, but I hope those six months mattered. She lived in the shelter, and she learned how to be a mom, perhaps not in that order, but together all the same. This boy and his mom, in a different sort of box, a kind not so easily disposed of. I remember this night like it was yesterday.

I can't help but think about how M was born six months after he was, and how they are so close in age and yet so far apart. I wonder how we can make that gap smaller, and not just for this boy in a box with four very big names.

a reunion of sorts

I brought M with me when I went over to the shelter last night - and when we got there it was time to set up the room - basically lining the floor with rows and rows of narrow mats with about a foot in between. M immediately jumped in, dragging mats around and making the old guys who were trying to set up laugh. As they went along, another guy came and started helping, and it struck me there was something familiar about him, but he had a lot of tattoo ink on his face and that wasn't something you'd easily forget, so I didn't really make much of it.

A bit later he came up and commented on M, saying, man, she's cute. I haven't seen my own son in six years. He went on to say that he was happy because he had a guy storing his stuff for him and when he went and picked it up today his prized possession was still there - the only picture he has of he and his son.

At this point I say, you look really familiar to me. He said yeah, I was thinking that too but I've been in prison for the last six years so it's hard to say. And then he went on to ask me if I wanted to see the picture. Of course, I said. And so he dug it out and started to unwrap it.
He handed it to me and it was like a freaky bolt of lightning. Not only did I know this cat, but I am fairly sure I am the one who took the picture he is holding. He's sitting in front of an old family shelter I used to work at, and I was this dude's case worker.

I said, whoa, is your name _____ ? And he said, uh, well, shit... no one's called me that in six years. I go by Blue now. And I said Hey man, this might sound weird but I think I took this picture.....And we sat there for a minute dumbfounded and realized, yep, I did. We both remember it exactly the same way.

I mean, plainly put, what a fucking trip.

I remember when he went to jail. He was already on parole and stole a package of lunchmeat to feed he and his wife, got caught, and got six years. Six years for lunchmeat. I remember how outraged we felt back then. (And please know, I realize he did other really bad things or he wouldn't have been on parole. But they were non-violent charges, at least. But still, I know. But still. Lunchmeat.)

After a while I decided to run M home and then I came back and we ended up spending an hour or so catching up. He's different than I remember - cagey and a bit defensive, urgent to prove he's not a bad guy. A hell of a lot of ink on his face, symbols and sayings and god knows what else. I can only imagine what six years in prison does to a man.

He saved all of the certificates he earned and wanted me to take a look at them. I was surprised to see they had a hell of a lot of programs. I am not sure what job will look at Certification of Completion at the XXX State Penitentiary in a kindly fashion, but I'd imagine having a resume of some sort after six long years means a lot to him.

The last few days has re-opened my eyes to some things I've been missing. Some things I want to do differently. It's been good, despite my whining. I see more possibilities now. Or I've found a new energy. I've allowed for some missed opportunities out of laziness this year. It's been good, these last few days. I needed a whack in the head.

cold and bright

Firstly, I apologize for not being around so much in the last few days. I've been pulled into a bit of a crisis, and have had to pull several long nights.

It's uncommonly cold in the Bay Area this week (yes, yes, yes, we are total sissies) but the problem is approximately 3,000 people are unhoused on any given night and when the temperatures drop below freezing, people who usually sleep outside will die.

Our goal is always to house any person in need - but occupancy limits and bureaucracy can cramp our style - so we were able to get some of those restrictions lifted and by creative use of blankets and floor space have been able to allow for an increased number of beds.

Problem, though - is that everyone starts paying attention. Homeless in cold weather = bad. Homeless rest of the year = look the other direction. And I really, really struggle with bureaucracy. I. really. struggle. Hours spent in roundtable meetings with state and local officials debating messaging and trying to wrap their arms around (messaging) a problem for five days that OCCURS ALL YEAR ROUND makes me a bit batty. Let's just say I've mastered a poker face over the years.

So I've spent a few nights at our various shelters this week and had an opportunity to see some old friends; guys who have been in and out and around, which makes me happy and sad at the same time.

While I was hanging around last night, I got to witness some extremely touching moments. Homelessness is far from glamorous, but if you look between the cracks and take a moment to listen, the bright lights shine through.

I watched a very tough and streetwise staff member bring a plate of food to an extremely mentally ill woman who'd been rolling in and out of our system for years. She always takes the same position - sitting in the corner doubled over holding a doll. I've seen her in that position on street corners and shelter floors more often than I can count. So this lovely man walks over with her plate of food, sits down next to her, and puts her food next to her. Without lifting her head she mumbled something and handed him her doll. I about lost it when I watched him take that doll in his arms as if it were a baby, cuddle it against his chest, and told her that he'd be happy to hold her baby while she ate her dinner. And he did, the entire time.

Bright spots, indeed.

So I may not be around too much this weekend - I am on call and spending more time at the shelters tonight...but I promise to be back soon. In the meantime, wish me luck. I am weary and cranky and could certainly use it.