it's not "ha ha" funny. peculiar, i guess.

the more i hang out with people who have strong opinions on things- religion, politics, sci fi, etc- the more i'm struck by how much people agree. everyone who is extremely passionate about something, it seems, has the same core belief: that if everyone in the world was like them, the world would be great.

i hang out with a lot of pacifists, and they all seem to think that if they could simply get EVERYONE to be pacifists, the world would be pretty sweet. pacifism is one of those things that's a little bit tough to do when you're only one of a very few in a whole sea of people who think violence is a great (or at least acceptable) answer to most stuff. tough- but not impossible.

same with my socialist and communist friends. the problem, it seems, according to them, is not with socialism or communism (or capitalism to my capitalist friends, or democracy to my democratic friends) but with people who refuse to accept and work within the system. communism fails because people screw it up, they argue, not because communism is flawed.

i've been hanging out with more anarchists, and they seem to agree. the problem isn't even really capitalism or democracy, but the people who refuse to let go of capitalism or democracy.

and i do this too, no doubt. it's been pretty painful trying to find a faith community (or any community) i can feel at home in. basically i want a church that studies the Bible, but wants to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine. i want a church that believes in the laying on of hands for healing, but refuses to have an american flag at the altar (or anywhere else in the church). i want a church that practices social justice and encourages people to eat local, organic, and fair trade food, but also welcomes and loves people who believe the only food worth eating is fried in bacon fat. twice. i want a church that eats fair trade local organic bacon fat fried food. in short, i want a church made up of people exactly like me, who think like me, and want to do the things that i want to do. and that's just not right.

we are a body with many parts and many members for a reason. i think that applies to humanity as a whole as much as it applies to the church. it's easy to find people who think like i think, who do the things i do, who want what i want, but it just isn't right. jesus hung out with the prostitutes, lepers, and the poor people no one else wanted to hang out with. but he also hung out with the tax collectors, the rich people no one else wanted to hang out with. and he also hung out with the sadducees and pharisees, the self-righteous religious people no one wanted to hang out with. and sometimes (mostly to piss people off, i think) he hung with all of them together.

so here's the thing. i've found lots of churches that are willing to hang out with the homeless and the HIV positive and refugees, but they don't want to hang out with the conservatives and the people in the military. and i've found churches that are willing to hang out with republicans and televangelists and the wealthy, but they don't want to hang out with the anarchists and the homosexuals. and more than anything i've found churches that want to hang out with the white upper middle class democrat suburbanites, but don't want to hang out with ANYONE else.

so i think i'll throw a party. i'll invite my anarchist friends, and my pentecostal christian friends. i'll sit my gay friends next to my friends who protest at abortion clinics. my hiv positive friends will bring the dip and my vegan friends will dumpster dive for some bread to go with it. my parents will be invited, and i'll sit them between a creationist christian and a few mennonites, just to see how that goes. i'll have to strategically place the pacifists, of course, to try to prevent knife fights, and what food i serve will be tough. how do i feel the southern baptists and the freegans together? some people don't drink, some won't come if there is no alcohol. what kind of entertainment will i have? naked twister? a meditation hour? a documentary about the war in iraq?

maybe i'll just set a box of kittens loose in the room and lock the door from the outside.

expect your invitation soon.

poop. poopity poop poop poop.

so. i get to work today, and ALL THREE of the toilets in the building have overflowed. like, into the hallways. and the BATHTUBS were backed up, too, and the dirty water and ALL THE POOP from the toilets were somehow traveling back up through the pipes and FLOWING INTO THE BATHTUBS as well as out onto the floor. so there was POOP on the floor, WATER AND PEE EVERYWHERE, and BATHTUBS FULL OF WATER PEE AND POOOOOOPPP. it was SO GROSS. we called the plumbers AGAIN (they were out here about 2 weeks ago) and he said there is a huge problem (no shit! no pun intended) and he has to get all these special equipment to find out what's going on and fix it. it involves sending a metal pipe thing with a camera on it through the system. that is one video i do NOT want to see.

so as the plumber is doing his thing, the fire alarm starts going off. we check to see if there is a fire, and there isn't, so we reset the alarm. and the it goes off again. so we reset it. so it goes off again. so we reset it. and that's what has been going on FOR THE LAST HOUR. and now the guy from the security system is here, and he thinks when all hell broke lose in the water system, some water (AND PROBABLY POOOOOOP) got into the fire/alarm system, and is making it freak out.

so as the fire alarm is going off, the fire department keeps coming out, and we're trying to call them to tell them that it is just a false alarm and there is no fire, just a lot of poop, but every time the alarm goes off, the phones cut out. because that's what you want in an emergency. no way to contact the outside.

when i said i didn't want a desk job, that i wanted to be involved in direct services to underprivileged people, this isn't really what i had in mind. i imagined more emotional fulfilment, more life changes, heart wrenching stories, and FAR LESS POOP.

how does a pacifist celebrate veterans' day?

every one of the men at the shelter where i work is a veteran. both of my grandfathers were veterans. both of my brothers-in-law are veterans. so how do i celebrate them and their lives when i disagree with the entity that made them veterans?

it has sort of come up before. this summer i was all ready to stick my "when Jesus said love your enemies, he probably meant don't kill them" sticker on my car, but decided against it when i realized that said car would spend most of the summer in front of a veteran's home- a veteran who did NOT need to let me stay there. when questions about my involvement with the mennonite church have come up, it's been impossible to describe my attraction to the faith without mentioning the fact that it's a historic peace church. there has never been any kind of argument or fight (which is good, since i, you know, CAN'T fight) but it's something that has been in the undercurrent of my interactions with my brothers in law; it hasn't really ever come up with any of our residents because i don't think they know that mennonites are pacifists, and it hasn't been an issue with my grandfathers because they both died before i knew what a pacifist was. but one of my brothers in law was a marine, and the other was in the air force, and both served active duty abroad.

the issue of veterans' day reminds me of something my awesome friend brian (http://brianjgorman.wordpress.com/)'s genius dad (http://michaeljgorman.net/) said in a lecture he gave. he mentioned the french village Chambon-sur-Lignon which saved the lives of about 3,000 Jews during the holocaust. the citizens of the predominately christian village felt that it was their duty as christians- and humans- to protect the lives of other humans, so they hid them in their homes, churches, schools, etc. when the nazis figured out what was going on, they went to the mayor and demanded the Jews. the mayor responded by saying something like "we don't know Jews here. only people" (only i bet he said it in french). Dr. Gorman pointed out that the same philosophy can and should apply to us today. i don't know undocumented immigrants, asylum seekers, iraqis, mexians, or somalis; i only know people. i don't know gays or lesbians or transsexuals; i know people. i don't know criminals, murderers, rapists, inmates, or people on death row; i know people.

it's easy (for me) to apply the "i only know people" idea to people that i already want to love, people i feel are oppressed, people that Jesus loves and wants me to love, too. but the thing is, justice isn't just if it doesn't apply to everyone, and i would argue the same is true of love. i don't know veterans; i know people. that idea is easy to apply to my brothers in law, because i already know and love them. they seem like real people to me because i eat dinner with them and talk about horses with them and sleep in their houses. but for some reason the wider population of "veterans" is hard for me to love because i'm afraid that somehow loving them will mean saying i approve of choices they made/ situations they were forced into, and i don't.

but veterans' day isn't about celebrating war. it's not about celebrating killing. it isn't about glorifying slaughter or guns or tanks. it's vetarns' day, not war day. the same way celebrating someone's birthday doesn't mean i approve of times in that person's life when they stole or lied or cheated on significant others, celebrating veterans' day doesn't mean i approve of participation in war. it's no longer an issue for me. i know i can celebrate (and love) veterans and hate war, because i do. in fact, loving veterans means i hate war more, because war has put and continues to put veterans and would-be veterans in danger. if the people serving in the armed forces right now die in the line of duty, i'll never get to meet them, which means i'll never get to love them. if my sisters' husbands (God, that's such an awkward relationship to make plural) had died while serving, i wouldn't know them. my sisters wouldn't be married. i wouldn't have a nephew. i'm not ok with that.

so i'll celebrate veterans' day because i DO love veterans, and i hope to have a chance to love more in the future. i don't love them BECAUSE they're veterans, or despite them being veterans. i love them for who they are, not what they do or what they've done before. so yeah, i'll celebrate them.

happy veteran's day.

Dear Work

remember when i was so excited about direct service to the homeless, building relationships, therapeutic art, etc? well, I'm still excited about those things. but let me tell you about my week.

Monday was fine. Of course, the boyfriend of a former resident came in, demanding we pay him $1,500 for his car that the former client totalled, threatened to sue us, and seemed about ready to snap and kill us all, but we dealt with it. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Tuesday I came to work at 8, as usual, and had a 2-hour all staff meeting. It took 2 hours out of my day that I would have usually spent doing my usual work, but I spend at least 2 hours a day e-mailing people (or writing blog entries...) so it wasn't really a big deal. As the meeting was getting out, a client came in and said there was an emergency in the women's bathroom- and oooohhhhh there was. The toilet had overflowed- or perhaps "erupted" is a better word- all over the bathroom floor. And this was more than water, let's get that clear from the beginning. So, we're trying to stop the water, trying to clean up the mess, and trying to get the maintenance guy to come fix it. In the time it takes the maintenance guy to get here, the mess (which was CONTINUING to come out) had flowed into the hallway. The mainenece guy said he couldn't fix it so we had to call a plumber. By the time the plumber got here, the mess had crept into the dinning room and kitchen (yeah, THAT'S what you want near your food) and the men's toilet upstairs had also exploded.

As the plumber was leaving, a new client came in. Since the last client to leave was mine (please see last post to learn how excited I was about that happening...) the new client was assigned to me. So, we meet, and are talking, and he seems nice, but sort of "off". He seems incredibly nervous, agitated, even, with incredibly rapid speech, no eye contact, and lots of jittery movements. We sit down to do the intake interview and evaluation, and come to find out he has been in prison for the last 4 years for aggravated assault, was released three months ago, and has been homeless since then. He has bi-polar disorder, depression, adult ADHD, panic disorder, and anxiety disorder. Because he has been living "in the bushes" (his words, not mine) for the last three months, he hasn't been medicated for that time. Nice. Way to go, criminal justice system. Let's lock people up in institutions that only encourage violence and criminal behavior, do nothing to rehabilitate them, then send them out into homelessness. "Don't take drugs!" we'll yell as they leave. "And don't steal, either!". I hope the Baltimore police department and criminal justice system are pleased with themselves for the treatment of prisoners and the homeless (two parts of the population who are, like undocumented immigrants, anyone of Arab decent, gays, lesbians, and people who are funny looking, apparently exempt from human rights).

ANYWAY, lack of medication for such serious illnesses explained his behavior (and made me more than a little nervous). The intake process can take up to two hours, and after about 45 minutes this guy wasn't even able to stay in his seat. He asked if he could go outside to smoke, and I said sure, hoping it would calm him down. He wasn't gone for more than a minute when he comes back in, visibly shaking, and crying. One of the other counselors got to him before I did and asked what happened. I didn't hear his response, but heard her say "Who did? Who's out there?". She goes outside, and while I'm asking the client if he's ok, yells for the only male staff person present to come outside. I can hear lots of yelling and thumping outside the door. He goes outside, and then she starts yelling for me to call 911, which I do. Of course, I have no idea what's actually going on, so I am of little to no help to the 911 responder. Eventually she comes back in and explains what's going on. Apparently a drunk and/or high and/or crazy woman (not a resident) attacked my client while he was smoking, and then tried to break into the building. By the time the police who up, she's gone. They want a report from my client, who is clearly terrified of the uniformed officers (another testament to the treatment of criminals, suspected criminals, and the homeless, if you ask me). By the time they leave, my client is so terrified and shaken up that he won't even sit down to talk to me. He is just pacing back and forth through the office, and checking the windows. Great. Perfect. This is exactly the kind of thing that my 4 years studying art and a few days of training here prepared me to deal with.

I decided to let him go and calm down and finish the interview the next day; clearly nothing would get done if I had tried to do it then. By this time, it was about 3:45. I get off work at 4:00. I wrote a narrative on my client, and then left. On my way out, I realized someone- presumably the crazy woman, or perhaps my client, had peed in the entry way to the building. Which is just as well- not like our toilets were working.

Today I came into work, sat down to read the news on BBC.com as I do every day, and at about 8:03 had to go break up a fight between two female residents. Let me tell you, I don't really worry about being hurt by the male residents. Most of them seem to have a protective feeling toward me, which doesn't bother me, considering they're all about my father's age. Of course, there is the one male who stares at me way too much, and when I asked what he wanted for Christmas opened his arms wide and said "YOOUUUUUU", and the one who, while standing behind me, tried to caress my hair and neck, but OVERALL I'm not afraid of the males. The females, on the other hand, will rip me, each other, and any other person or thing that comes between them to bits. So that was exciting.

It's almost 12 now, and so far the fight (and resulting counseling session with one of the women), and an inspection by the fire Marshall, is all the excitement there has been today. Which is good, because if one more stressful thing happens, I might actually die.

I will conclude with a letter that I think sums up my feelings.

Dear Work,

Quit being so hard. Let's be honest: a year of service was a way of dodging adulthood, not falling head-first into a stressful job with long hours and (literally) no pay. Serving Jesus and "the least of these" was meant to make me feel good, not cry. I'd appreciate it if the sexual harassment, violence and threats of violence, drug use, and cycles of poverty and homelessness could stop. Thank you for your time and attention.

xoxo,
Maggie

happy halloween.

Note: My work has a Halloween party every year, and encourages staff to dress up, so keep in mind that for the duration of this story (well, the parts that happened on Friday) I was dressed as a panda. It will factor in later.

So, as I said here a few weeks ago, I got my first client at work. He was pretty nice, a recovering crack and heroin addict, currently on methadone treatment. He is also an alcoholic, though not in recovery. He is 51 years old, African American, and a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, where he served for 4 years. He is HIV negative, and has been diagnosed with Depressive Disorder NOS and PTSD.

He seemed nice enough, though a lot of stuff seemed to be going wrong (in addition to, you know, the whole homeless drug addict thing). He had no family or friends he could stay with, and was living in an abandoned garage before coming to Project PLASE. He had pending charges of possession and loitering (which he neglected to TELL me until he had been with us a week). Actually, there was a lot he neglected to tell us. He didn't tell us he got take home does of methadone on the weekend, so he wasn't turning them in. (Methadone, by the way, is an artificial chemical thing that people who are attempting to get off of heroin or other opiates take. Heroin can sometimes actually change your brain and prevent it from making serotonin, which is partially why withdrawl is so awful and quitting so hard. Methadone, when taken every day, greatly lessens withdrawl symptoms, and helps the brain replace the chemicals it needs, which means the person has fewer cravings, since cravings are the brain saying "HEY I NEED THIS CHEMICAL TO FUNCTION". It is red, looks like cough syrup, and smells awful. A lot of the people at our facility who were dependent on heroin are now dependent on methadone. You have to go to a special clinic every day to get it, and it can be sold on the street, because if you take enough, you get high. The dose that people at our facility take just makes them real sleepy. There are lots of legal, moral, and medical issues and discussions about its use, which I'd be happy to give my opinion on, if anyone cares). ANYWAY, methadone is a controlled substance, so it is REALLY important the clients give it to us, because the controlled substances are signed in, counted every day, put in a lock box, etc. All prescriptions are turned in to us, in fact, and monitored closely (meds are a big part of my job). So, when we found out he had methadone in his room he hadn't been turning in, that was a big deal. Also, he had come back to our facility drunk multiple times (clients are not allowed to use ANY kind of drug or alcohol while they're with us). He was put on contract, and given a 4:00 curfew, which he almost never made. He missed every single one of his appointments with me (his counselor) except one. He lied about his pending legal charges, never brought in documentation of his DD 214, cash assistance, or substance abuse treatment history. On Thursday, he came in to the facility drunk, again (BAC of 0.2). That's a LOT of stuff to go wrong in a 2-week stay at a shelter. We called the VA, because they fund the beds of all the veterans, and told them what was going on (as we are legally obligated to do). They said they have way too many people waiting for a bed to continuing housing a person who is clearly not ready for help. They kicked him out.

It wasn't my decision to kick him out- I would have liked to try to work with him more. Even Project PLASE didn't really want to kick him out. PLASE's ideal plan would be for him to go to a 30-day in-patient substance abuse treatment program, but even if he did that, the VA wouldn't let us hold his bed for him, since so many veterans are homeless and need treatment that PLASE provides. So basically, he would just be homeless again after he got out of in-patient treatment. As it stands now, he's just homeless with no in-patient treatment.

So, it's Halloween. I was hoping to go home early (maybe around 2:30 or 3) to get ready to go to DC for the weekend. But I had to stay to have a conference and decide what to do with this guy. And around 3:30 he comes in, drunk again. We sit down and talk with him, asks what he needs, what he wants us to help him with. As usual, he says basically nothing. We tell him what the VA has decided, and he hardly reacts. When he leave the office, I'm sent behind him to go with him to his room to check for methadone and any other substances he shouldn't have; he had two bottles. I took them.

As I left his room and took the bottles to the office, I felt so, so awful. Here is this 51 year old man, a marine, being told that he can't take his own medication, that he can't handle his own life, and being kicked out of his likely last chance facility to find permanent housing. And the person who is telling him he has to leave, the person taking his medication from him, the person informing him that he is, once again, homeless, is me. A 22-year-old white girl just out of college with little to idea what she is doing, basic (at best) understanding of substance abuse and treatment, and no background in social work. Don't forget, I was also DRESSED AS A PANDA; add "irrational fear of pandas" to DD NOS and PTSD. Dammit.

This was the worst day I've had at work, one of the hardest days and things I've ever done. As I left work that day, walking (DRESSED AS A PANDA) back to my house, where I live with such great people, a house full of food and compassion and friends and love, I had the same feeling I would get every time I'd walk out of an orphanage in Kenya. That feeling of, sure, maybe I understand suffering a little better, but now I'm just leaving that situation, and all those people, behind. I'm going to my home, a better place, a place where things like homelessness and AIDS and orphans and drug addiction not only aren't seen, but don't even make SENSE. I leave changed, but with an awful, aching knowledge that I changed little, if anything, myself.

I cried the whole way home, as much for him as for the orphans in Kenya, for the refugees I now live with. What is home to an orphan? To a homeless addict? To a refugee? What is home to anyone?