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