On April 15th, the homeless shelter where I've worked since November closes for the season--thankfully!
I never thought I'd express gladness over being out of another job, but the last five months of working with the local homeless population has taken a toll on me. My compassion is quickly drying up because a lot of those people have sucked it out of me like vampires. Here are some examples:
- A middle-aged woman who never showers and who I have had to admonish (more than once) to flush the toilet after she takes a shit.
- A petite 33-year-old woman with a little-girlish face who enjoys playing up to the men and pitting them against each other. She'll walk up to Mr. X and say, "Mr. Y just called me a bitch." Next thing I know, I'm breaking up a fight between Mr. X and Mr. Y! For all I know, Mr. Y may not have said a word to Ms. Petite, but the chivalrous Mr. X just has to make a damned fool of himself to defend her honor.
- Any number of guests who cost the taxpayers thousands of dollars going through rehab or detox, only to finish the program and within days (or even hours) go back on the stuff that got them in trouble in the first place.
- Guests who sneak alcohol into the shelter and don't even have the decency (or is it the brains?) to hide the empty bottles and cans. Rather, they leave them lying around for the staff to find!
I could go on and on, but you get the idea.
A lot of those people are homeless because they are their own worst enemies. Far too many of them have a sense of entitlement, as if we are somehow responsible for getting them out of their situation. Yes, there are those of us willing to point them in the right direction and provide them with the means to improve their lives; but they have to take it from there!
Thankfully, I've also worked with a number of guests who looked at their homelessness as a temporary situation from which they were determined to escape ASAP and did just that. But they're not the ones I see every time I show up for a work shift.
Suffice it to say, after five months of working with this population, I think I'm fully qualified to teach middle school!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sometimes they force you to be a prick
Tonight at the homeless shelter, there was a first for me: I threw someone out.
Recently, a new guest turned up: a stunningly arrogant and insulting 21-year-old. Granted, we were all pretty full of ourselves at that age, but this kid abused the privilege.
I do quite a bit around the shelter that I'm not required to do. For example, I've brought in a number of my personal DVDs and VHS tapes for the guests to watch. The other night, that kid was going through my movies and had something snotty to say about almost every one of them. A typical remark was, "This fuckin' Star Trek shit oughta go in the fire."
Other guests and staff member have had problems with the kid too, but I was willing to cut him some slack. After all, I reasoned, I was a lot like that at his age myself. Perhaps someday, I thought, he'll grow up and learn to be more sensitive toward people's feelings. Tonight, however, he pushed me way too far.
We have a rule at the shelter that once a guest has signed in for the night, they may not leave the property until the next morning. We have that rule in place because in past years, there were problems with guests leaving the grounds and coming back drunk or stoned and causing trouble for the staff and other guests. One guy, I'm told, even came back with a gun!
So when the kid asked if he could run out to Dunkin' Donuts for a Coolatta, I told him no and explained the above rule. He badgered me about it until I finally became exasperated and told him to get off my ass. Next thing I knew, he was gone.
Good, I thought. Maybe he won't come back. I should have been so lucky.
An hour later, he strutted through the door, a Coolatta cup in his left hand. I pointed at him and said, "You're not staying here tonight."
In an act of sheer cluelessness, the kid asked, "Why?"
"Why? Because you chose to break a rule after I took the time to explain it to you in detail! You want to symbolically give me the finger--fine! You're not staying here tonight. Get out."
"Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?"
"That ain't my problem. You broke the rules, you did so knowingly, and you're not staying here tonight. End of story."
The kid was incredulous. "You're throwing me out 'cause I went to get a coffee?"
"No. I'm throwing you out because you think you can break the rules and get away with it. Now get the hell out of here before I call the cops."
He stormed out the door saying, "This is some fucked-up shit, man."
I still feel lousy about throwing the kid out into the chilly March night. But if I let him break the rules without consequence, then we'll soon have more guests who think they can do the same thing. And that simply cannot happen if we're serious about giving these people a safe place to spend the night.
Recently, a new guest turned up: a stunningly arrogant and insulting 21-year-old. Granted, we were all pretty full of ourselves at that age, but this kid abused the privilege.
I do quite a bit around the shelter that I'm not required to do. For example, I've brought in a number of my personal DVDs and VHS tapes for the guests to watch. The other night, that kid was going through my movies and had something snotty to say about almost every one of them. A typical remark was, "This fuckin' Star Trek shit oughta go in the fire."
Other guests and staff member have had problems with the kid too, but I was willing to cut him some slack. After all, I reasoned, I was a lot like that at his age myself. Perhaps someday, I thought, he'll grow up and learn to be more sensitive toward people's feelings. Tonight, however, he pushed me way too far.
We have a rule at the shelter that once a guest has signed in for the night, they may not leave the property until the next morning. We have that rule in place because in past years, there were problems with guests leaving the grounds and coming back drunk or stoned and causing trouble for the staff and other guests. One guy, I'm told, even came back with a gun!
So when the kid asked if he could run out to Dunkin' Donuts for a Coolatta, I told him no and explained the above rule. He badgered me about it until I finally became exasperated and told him to get off my ass. Next thing I knew, he was gone.
Good, I thought. Maybe he won't come back. I should have been so lucky.
An hour later, he strutted through the door, a Coolatta cup in his left hand. I pointed at him and said, "You're not staying here tonight."
In an act of sheer cluelessness, the kid asked, "Why?"
"Why? Because you chose to break a rule after I took the time to explain it to you in detail! You want to symbolically give me the finger--fine! You're not staying here tonight. Get out."
"Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?"
"That ain't my problem. You broke the rules, you did so knowingly, and you're not staying here tonight. End of story."
The kid was incredulous. "You're throwing me out 'cause I went to get a coffee?"
"No. I'm throwing you out because you think you can break the rules and get away with it. Now get the hell out of here before I call the cops."
He stormed out the door saying, "This is some fucked-up shit, man."
I still feel lousy about throwing the kid out into the chilly March night. But if I let him break the rules without consequence, then we'll soon have more guests who think they can do the same thing. And that simply cannot happen if we're serious about giving these people a safe place to spend the night.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Asshole bumper sticker of the week
Spotted as I drove home from the anti-war rally mentioned below:
The sticker sported the world-famous likeness of Che Guevara, but with a red slash though it. The caption read, "COMMIES AREN'T COOL."
The same fuckwad also had a "GIULIANI '08" sticker on his rear bumper. Believe it or not, though, it wasn't an SUV!
The sticker sported the world-famous likeness of Che Guevara, but with a red slash though it. The caption read, "COMMIES AREN'T COOL."
The same fuckwad also had a "GIULIANI '08" sticker on his rear bumper. Believe it or not, though, it wasn't an SUV!
War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!!!
Despite a steady rainfall, yesterday from 6:00-7:00 p.m. Eastern U.S. Time, close to 100 people in small, isolated Willimantic, CT participated in a protest rally on the fifth anniversary on the start of the Iraq war. The rally took place at the intersection of Main and Jackson Streets, near what we informally call the Frog Bridge.
On Sunday, a bunch of us had gathered at the Wrench in the Works Collective up the street to make props. They included a 10-by-7-foot cardboard mouth, complete with blood-drenched fangs, with the words "WAR MACHINE" painted above the upper lip. Into the mouth we threw oversized dollar bills and a mannequin dressed in Army fatigues, among other things. In return, the mouth spit out oversized oil cans that bore such brand names as "Persian Gulf," "Ammobil," "Gunoco," and "Texxon."
We also had two protesters on stilts. One was dressed like Uncle Sam, except that she wore a skeleton mask and carried a faux scythe a la the Grim Reaper. She also had oil cans (real ones this time) tied to a string around her neck and periodically simulated drinking from them. The other stilt-walker was dressed like a hideous, nightmarish clown, but with a ten-gallon hat and a six-shooter. Gee, who could that have symbolized???
Somebody else brought a bullhorn, which I used to lead the throng in a rousing chorus of Edwin Starr's "War." Only I knew the lyrics, but my brother and sister pinkos were familiar enough with the song to shout "War!" and "Absolutely nothing!" at the appropriate times.
A half-hour before the rally, a couple of dozen folks gathered a mile or so up Main Street at Memorial Park for a march to the main event. Unfortunately, I couldn't participate as I've been having lower-back problems lately. I was at the rally, though, and damned glad to be part of it.
Sad to say, I've no doubt we'll be doing something similar on March 19, 2013.
On Sunday, a bunch of us had gathered at the Wrench in the Works Collective up the street to make props. They included a 10-by-7-foot cardboard mouth, complete with blood-drenched fangs, with the words "WAR MACHINE" painted above the upper lip. Into the mouth we threw oversized dollar bills and a mannequin dressed in Army fatigues, among other things. In return, the mouth spit out oversized oil cans that bore such brand names as "Persian Gulf," "Ammobil," "Gunoco," and "Texxon."
We also had two protesters on stilts. One was dressed like Uncle Sam, except that she wore a skeleton mask and carried a faux scythe a la the Grim Reaper. She also had oil cans (real ones this time) tied to a string around her neck and periodically simulated drinking from them. The other stilt-walker was dressed like a hideous, nightmarish clown, but with a ten-gallon hat and a six-shooter. Gee, who could that have symbolized???
Somebody else brought a bullhorn, which I used to lead the throng in a rousing chorus of Edwin Starr's "War." Only I knew the lyrics, but my brother and sister pinkos were familiar enough with the song to shout "War!" and "Absolutely nothing!" at the appropriate times.
A half-hour before the rally, a couple of dozen folks gathered a mile or so up Main Street at Memorial Park for a march to the main event. Unfortunately, I couldn't participate as I've been having lower-back problems lately. I was at the rally, though, and damned glad to be part of it.
Sad to say, I've no doubt we'll be doing something similar on March 19, 2013.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A homeless woman I work with just had a miscarriage.
One of the guests at the homeless shelter where I work is a 26-year-old single woman (I'll call her Janet) with two kids her parents are raising for her. Janet also was five months pregnant with the child of another shelter guest when she had a miscarriage last week.
From her two previous pregnancies, Janet knew that she needed surgery during her second trimester or risk losing the baby. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to herself, Janet chose to keep delaying the operation until it was too late.
She and the dead child's father are both devastated. I feel so badly for them but can't do a damned thing to make them feel any better. All I can offer is a sympathetic ear and a warm place to sleep until the shelter closes for the season on April 15th. I only hope this tragedy doesn't drive them both back to heroin.
From her two previous pregnancies, Janet knew that she needed surgery during her second trimester or risk losing the baby. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to herself, Janet chose to keep delaying the operation until it was too late.
She and the dead child's father are both devastated. I feel so badly for them but can't do a damned thing to make them feel any better. All I can offer is a sympathetic ear and a warm place to sleep until the shelter closes for the season on April 15th. I only hope this tragedy doesn't drive them both back to heroin.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Did you know Buddy Holly was from New Hampshire?
I didn't know that either until last night.
This winter, I'm working four nights a week at a homeless shelter. Last night, I brought in my DVD of "La Bamba" for the guests to watch.
As the closing credits rolled, this one guy said, "Ritchie Valens--he was from Connecticut, you know."
My chin about hit the floor. "What are you talking about?"
"Sure," the guest continued. "And Buddy Holly was from New Hampshire."
"Not even close," I exclaimed. "Buddy Holly was from Texas, and Ritchie Valens was a Californian."
"I don't think so."
"Didn't you pay attention to the film? Alan Freed called him the California Kid!"
"Nah. Ritchie Valens was from Connecticut; I think Stamford. And Buddy Holly was definitely from New Hampshire."
I sighed. "And Louis Armstrong grew up in Detroit, two doors down from Bob Marley."
Why is it the more stupid and ignorant men are, the more they think they know?
This winter, I'm working four nights a week at a homeless shelter. Last night, I brought in my DVD of "La Bamba" for the guests to watch.
As the closing credits rolled, this one guy said, "Ritchie Valens--he was from Connecticut, you know."
My chin about hit the floor. "What are you talking about?"
"Sure," the guest continued. "And Buddy Holly was from New Hampshire."
"Not even close," I exclaimed. "Buddy Holly was from Texas, and Ritchie Valens was a Californian."
"I don't think so."
"Didn't you pay attention to the film? Alan Freed called him the California Kid!"
"Nah. Ritchie Valens was from Connecticut; I think Stamford. And Buddy Holly was definitely from New Hampshire."
I sighed. "And Louis Armstrong grew up in Detroit, two doors down from Bob Marley."
Why is it the more stupid and ignorant men are, the more they think they know?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
AT&T Yahoo's Top 3 "News" Items
1. Britney's Hospital Stay Extended
2. Big Super Bowl Upset
3. Celebs Party Hard at Super Bowl
Is it any wonder I'm embarrassed to admit my U.S. heritage, even when I visit Canada?
2. Big Super Bowl Upset
3. Celebs Party Hard at Super Bowl
Is it any wonder I'm embarrassed to admit my U.S. heritage, even when I visit Canada?
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