Someone tried to convince me today that I don't understand the poor. "You don't get it. These are not sweet single mothers who just need a bit of help. Most are drug addicts who beat their children and take advantage of the welfare system."
Ignorance is so cute. And how sweet of her to try and educate me.
It is time to introduce Dorothy. My most precious saint (one of four, actually) was a member of the Communist Party. She was an anarchist and a suffragette. She was jailed at least 11 times and encouraged the men around her to resist their draft notices. She refused to pay her taxes or vote in an election. She drank and smoked too much and slept around. She had an abortion long before it was legal to do so.
Even after her conversion, the Church was irked by the work she was doing and they butted heads constantly. Dorothy did not glamorize her work with the poor. Her work was physically demanding and there was very little respite for her and her daughter. She hated the mental illness and the stench. She found them difficult to stand and craved silence.
She understood the poor.
She understood poverty.
She understood the will of God.
We don't serve the poor while wearing rose colored glasses. We don't serve them because we feel sorry for them or because they have passed some test that proves their worthiness of charity. We serve them because it is a command from God. We serve them because we are all undeserving of the blessings of this world. And whether our money and needs are met through our own hard work or if they come as a result of government assistance or generous charity, ultimately all of our blessings come from God.
Those of us who are blessed by God with health that enables us to work, return that blessing to God by our obedience in caring for others.
So we serve, without judgment.
We serve the addict.
We serve the criminals.
We serve the victims.
We serve the violent.
We serve the sick.
We serve the crazy.
We serve the liars.
We serve the manipulators.
We serve the faith-less.
And we thank God for the blessings we receive through this service and pray for His grace and mercy.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
To my fellow pro-lifers: We need to make some changes.
To my dear friends who are pro-life, it is time we had a heart to heart chat. We are losing credibility and need to make some changes. We need to make our message consistent. It is time we all asked ourselves:
Am I really pro-life? Or am I simply pro-birth?
If we are pro-life than we advocate for intrinsic value that is within each life. Beginning at conception until death. This includes each tiny baby inside its mother's womb, But our dedication must be consistent and so it must go beyond the uterus.
Because we are pro-life, we must believe that when a woman has a baby, we, as a society, must commit to the basic care of that baby either by government or neighbor.
Because we are pro-life, we must love all of our neighbors. Every color, every gender, every sinner must be treated with the respect that is due each person who is created by God.
Because we are pro-life, we must fight our government from enacting revenge on criminals through the death penalty. It is not a woman's right to stop life in her body, and it cannot be a governments right to stop life in a prison. These murders and rapists and terrorists can be imprisoned, can find repentance and discover the love of God.
Because we are pro-life, we must stand up and speak out against the needless torture and waste of animals. We must demand that these animals be provided a respectful life and a decent death. Animals were created by the same God who created our children and they need our voices.
Because we are pro-life, we must take a higher road, away from the rhetoric and anger that comes from opposing viewpoints. Our pro-choice colleagues are indeed pro-choice, not pro--abortion. No one relishes the idea of abortion. It is tragic for the mother and deadly for the life she carries. But she must be treated with love and compassion. We need to respect the lives of those who fight against government interference even if we do not agree with them.
Our inconsistencies are undermining our cause. We have spent decades fighting, yelling and sometimes hurting those around us. Maybe we can spend some time listening, praying, marching and loving.
Am I really pro-life? Or am I simply pro-birth?
If we are pro-life than we advocate for intrinsic value that is within each life. Beginning at conception until death. This includes each tiny baby inside its mother's womb, But our dedication must be consistent and so it must go beyond the uterus.
Because we are pro-life, we must believe that when a woman has a baby, we, as a society, must commit to the basic care of that baby either by government or neighbor.
Because we are pro-life, we must love all of our neighbors. Every color, every gender, every sinner must be treated with the respect that is due each person who is created by God.
Because we are pro-life, we must fight our government from enacting revenge on criminals through the death penalty. It is not a woman's right to stop life in her body, and it cannot be a governments right to stop life in a prison. These murders and rapists and terrorists can be imprisoned, can find repentance and discover the love of God.
Because we are pro-life, we must stand up and speak out against the needless torture and waste of animals. We must demand that these animals be provided a respectful life and a decent death. Animals were created by the same God who created our children and they need our voices.
Because we are pro-life, we must take a higher road, away from the rhetoric and anger that comes from opposing viewpoints. Our pro-choice colleagues are indeed pro-choice, not pro--abortion. No one relishes the idea of abortion. It is tragic for the mother and deadly for the life she carries. But she must be treated with love and compassion. We need to respect the lives of those who fight against government interference even if we do not agree with them.
Our inconsistencies are undermining our cause. We have spent decades fighting, yelling and sometimes hurting those around us. Maybe we can spend some time listening, praying, marching and loving.
A Peek Into My Family
Yesterday we all woke up too early and several of us went back to sleep. I made biscuits for breakfast, but didn't have crisco. I used butter which left the biscuits flat and uninspiring. My husband got showered and dressed and was looking fabulous and judgemental in his black shirt. He plunked down on the couch and waited for me to get 4 kids ready. So I, of course, ended up going to church in jeans and a t-shirt.
On the drive over I discovered I had poop on my hand. Whose (what, where, when) poop? I have no idea. It was dry and green-ish-yellow, smeared across my palm. Honestly, I did shower.
We arrived in time to both hit donut social hour and have two arguments about donut social hour.
Argument #1: we arrived just a minute too early and husband didn't want us to be the first in the room to get donuts. He says it makes us look suspicious and greedy. So everyone waited in the hallway until several other families entered the reception hall while I washed mystery poop off of my hand.
The second argument came when my 9 year old son took two donuts. TWO. DONUTS. Apparently the donut police told him last week he could only take one. My 15 year old remembered this and scolded him. My son cried. My husband eye-rolled me and said I was looking for trouble. Then my 15 yo looked around the room and declared the rule violation excusable because so many people were gluttonously consuming two donuts.
My husband skipped off to sing in the choir while I split up the children. My 13 yo daughter agreed to sit in the cry area with my 7 year old. Not because he cries, but because he is impossible. My other two children came with me inside church. The peace lasted for, maybe, 3 minutes.
Because that is when the dog came to church. All four of my children rushed to the vestibule to see the hilarious sight of an elderly golden retriever who decided he needed some Jesus that day. The door to the building was open, so I am sure he felt welcome. He trotted in the door and sat down to the side of a pew towards the back of the room. He proceeded to lay and roll over and listened to a sermon.
Church, for all intents and purposes, was over for my children. I can't really blame them. There was a dog in the Church!
I will say this in all honesty and from the bottom of my heart: That dog was more well behaved then any of my children, at any time, at any Catholic mass, ever. He sat quietly and listened. He didn't need to go to the bathroom or get a drink or color or be entertained in any way.
Once mass was over, the dog skipped out the door with the rest of our parishioners. I think he was rushing to get into line at the buffet. That's what we did.
Friday, March 23, 2012
My review of The Hunger Games. No Spoilers.
I need to publicly thank my daughter's English teacher, who made THG required reading last summer. We had 10 months of enjoying this series before it became a sensation and it made the movie experience that much more satisfying.
Of course we had tickets for opening day but at the very last minute we decided to brave the Midnight release. What a great decision! Parking was easy and seating was immediate. Lots of daring souls came dressed as Capital citizens and there was even one Katniss, perfectly replicated.
We spent 2 hours bonding with those around us, while we played angry birds and waited patiently for 12:12am.
The audience was obviously split between the 99% of us who had read the book and one poor soul in front of us who hadn't. She laughed at all the wrong places and was shocked at the violence but she was a fun addition to the group.
The plot fell almost perfectly in step with the book. The additions of the games from the Capital perspective was refreshing and actually helped tie the written narrative together. My biggest concern was how the director was going to handle all the internal dialog that is written in the book. I shouldn't have worried because it was handled perfectly. I didn't feel rushed and the silence wasn't awkward.
The movie was perfectly cast, save for Woody Harrellson, who was really good, but I still see him behind the bar with Shelly Long. Just a generation glitch. We had to sacrifice some character development due to time constraints, but that is why you just cannot see this movie without having first read the book.
And, as my 15 year old daughter commented on our way out of the theater at 3am, the movie is almost a perfect reflection of our world today. We in the United States sit in our own Capital and gorge ourselves on frivolous entertainment and stupidity, while the districts around the world struggle for survival, ignored and abandoned by those in power who could rescue them. Let them be hungry. Let them suffer with diseases. Let them create my toys, dig my diamonds, satisfy my disturbed passions and supply my table while I take their existence and value for granted. The Aid we send them does not compare to what we take from them and the world will not stay satisfied forever.
It was a great night.
Of course we had tickets for opening day but at the very last minute we decided to brave the Midnight release. What a great decision! Parking was easy and seating was immediate. Lots of daring souls came dressed as Capital citizens and there was even one Katniss, perfectly replicated.
We spent 2 hours bonding with those around us, while we played angry birds and waited patiently for 12:12am.
The audience was obviously split between the 99% of us who had read the book and one poor soul in front of us who hadn't. She laughed at all the wrong places and was shocked at the violence but she was a fun addition to the group.
The plot fell almost perfectly in step with the book. The additions of the games from the Capital perspective was refreshing and actually helped tie the written narrative together. My biggest concern was how the director was going to handle all the internal dialog that is written in the book. I shouldn't have worried because it was handled perfectly. I didn't feel rushed and the silence wasn't awkward.
The movie was perfectly cast, save for Woody Harrellson, who was really good, but I still see him behind the bar with Shelly Long. Just a generation glitch. We had to sacrifice some character development due to time constraints, but that is why you just cannot see this movie without having first read the book.
And, as my 15 year old daughter commented on our way out of the theater at 3am, the movie is almost a perfect reflection of our world today. We in the United States sit in our own Capital and gorge ourselves on frivolous entertainment and stupidity, while the districts around the world struggle for survival, ignored and abandoned by those in power who could rescue them. Let them be hungry. Let them suffer with diseases. Let them create my toys, dig my diamonds, satisfy my disturbed passions and supply my table while I take their existence and value for granted. The Aid we send them does not compare to what we take from them and the world will not stay satisfied forever.
It was a great night.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Who's Complaining?
My dad worked hard. He worked everyday from 8 to 5 at a tiny desk with a crippled leg that caused him chronic pain. He worked hard with his one eye as the sole supporter of two children who were less than grateful. I don't ever remember him taking a sick day or an extended vacation.
My dad sacrificed his dreams to help his parents and he sacrificed his health to raise his children. He sacrificed his freedom and his dignity. He cooked dinner every night, cleaned every Saturday and took me to church every Sunday. He worried himself into debt and never complained at the turns his life had taken. He lived and died in pain. He deserved much better. I have no idea if he was happy. I hope somewhere in between his poor health and his poverty he found moments of joy. He was a good man.
My dad believed the American fairytale. That all citizens have equal opportunity for success. He believed that hard work would create success and wealth. Even at the end, as he suffered with cancer and the painful tumors that were attaching to his spinal cord, he was able to justify why his disability claim was denied. There were people worse off who needed the money.
There can be a partnership between success and compassion. If we all embraced generosity as a way of life, we could remove labels like "socialism" and "capitalism", which try to demonize both success and fairness.
My dad sacrificed his dreams to help his parents and he sacrificed his health to raise his children. He sacrificed his freedom and his dignity. He cooked dinner every night, cleaned every Saturday and took me to church every Sunday. He worried himself into debt and never complained at the turns his life had taken. He lived and died in pain. He deserved much better. I have no idea if he was happy. I hope somewhere in between his poor health and his poverty he found moments of joy. He was a good man.
My dad believed the American fairytale. That all citizens have equal opportunity for success. He believed that hard work would create success and wealth. Even at the end, as he suffered with cancer and the painful tumors that were attaching to his spinal cord, he was able to justify why his disability claim was denied. There were people worse off who needed the money.
My fellow Republicans: IT IS WRONG...To continue the lie that those who are wealthy worked hard and those who are poor are lazy; IT IS WRONG to take pride in your own accomplishments without recognizing the "hand-ups" your community and your country provided you; IT IS WRONG to resist and refuse participation in giving back to the country that afforded you these blessings and opportunities; IT IS WRONG to selfishly insult those in poverty who "just suck off the system" and not credit those in poverty who helped create your wealth. IT IS WRONG to deny that the color of a persons skin can still be a barrier to safety and success. We cannot wipe our hands and declare that prejudice does not exist.
There can be a partnership between success and compassion. If we all embraced generosity as a way of life, we could remove labels like "socialism" and "capitalism", which try to demonize both success and fairness.
And America is certainly not fair. Our government places ambiguous and ever-changing numbers which control whether some people can have medical care or not. Can have an education or not. Can have food or not. Can have disability income or not. People learn to survive within a system that is complicated and prejudicial with whatever skills and resources they have available. If the poor in our country are fighting a class war, it is certainly not the poor who started it.
"The opposite of poverty is not wealth. The opposite of poverty is justice."
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Race was not a factor in Trayvon's death...
I've been watching the story develop of young Trayvon Martin, killed in Florida with a bag of skittles in his hand. Newscasters are throwing around the word "racist" like it's a basketball searching for a basket. Bounce--"Was the shooter a racist?" Bounce, Pass--"I'm his best friend and I know he is not a racist." Bounce "Racial slur" bounce--bounce--bounce. It makes my head hurt.
It's too easy to accuse someone of being a racist and too easy to deny that we are one. There is no way to prove that a person is a racist and no way to prove that someone is not.
Trayvon was not killed because his shooter, Zimmerman, was a racist, but Trayvon was killed because Trayvon was black. He was killed because he had dark skin and met a suspicious, angry man at the wrong time and in the wrong place. The killer-Zimmerman prejudged Trayvon's intentions as evil based on how Trayvon looked. He made very quick and erroneous assumptions. While Zimmerman can deny being racist, he cannot in any way deny being prejudiced.
In this time, In this place, let's all come together and agree that the only race is the human race. There is no such thing as black race, white race, Asian race. Race was a hypothesis that has never been supported by real science. The idea of classifying humans into races was to justify the subordination of one race over another.
We have different cultures and come from different places on this ever-shrinking planet. Even within our own blood relations, we have different shades of skin and different colors and textures of hair, but this is not indicative of race. It is indicative of humanity and it's greatness.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/03/21/justice/florida-teen-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_c2
It's too easy to accuse someone of being a racist and too easy to deny that we are one. There is no way to prove that a person is a racist and no way to prove that someone is not.
Trayvon was not killed because his shooter, Zimmerman, was a racist, but Trayvon was killed because Trayvon was black. He was killed because he had dark skin and met a suspicious, angry man at the wrong time and in the wrong place. The killer-Zimmerman prejudged Trayvon's intentions as evil based on how Trayvon looked. He made very quick and erroneous assumptions. While Zimmerman can deny being racist, he cannot in any way deny being prejudiced.
In this time, In this place, let's all come together and agree that the only race is the human race. There is no such thing as black race, white race, Asian race. Race was a hypothesis that has never been supported by real science. The idea of classifying humans into races was to justify the subordination of one race over another.
We have different cultures and come from different places on this ever-shrinking planet. Even within our own blood relations, we have different shades of skin and different colors and textures of hair, but this is not indicative of race. It is indicative of humanity and it's greatness.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/03/21/justice/florida-teen-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_c2
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Social Work Confessions "Come on Scooby Doo, we're gonna go check out the weirdo."
Ah, drug use. AKA Social Worker job security. I personally prefer the families who are upfront with me about it. They keep it out on the coffee table or tell me their high minutes before we walk into court. Cheers for honesty!
I have no judgement on these parents as long as their children are receiving excellent care. If the kids are well loved, well cared for, clean and fed. If they are read books at night and are given kisses every morning, do what ya gotta do, because addiction sucks.
But if your house is nasty and your kids haven't been to school in days or bathed in weeks. If they are begging at neighbors houses for food and their tears go unheeded. If there are so many strangers coming in and out of your house that your kids have to hide under the sink to feel safe...
If your beautiful child comes to me and says that:
"Mama keeps her joints in my Scooby Doo lunch box under the couch."
Then my reply will be, "Thank you very much, lets go find you some new parents."
I have no judgement on these parents as long as their children are receiving excellent care. If the kids are well loved, well cared for, clean and fed. If they are read books at night and are given kisses every morning, do what ya gotta do, because addiction sucks.
But if your house is nasty and your kids haven't been to school in days or bathed in weeks. If they are begging at neighbors houses for food and their tears go unheeded. If there are so many strangers coming in and out of your house that your kids have to hide under the sink to feel safe...
If your beautiful child comes to me and says that:
"Mama keeps her joints in my Scooby Doo lunch box under the couch."
Then my reply will be, "Thank you very much, lets go find you some new parents."
What's our Excuse ? Pt 2. The Biggest Lie.
WANTED: Clean Cut, Well Educated, Mentally Healthy, Sober, Gainfully Employed, Poor Person who is in desperate need of my generosity and wisdom. Ability to pass a Criminal Background Check is A MUST.
It's like someone runs a cheese grater across my brain, seriously. "God helps those who help themselves."
I get the theory. You want your money to go to a worthy cause. Responsible giving, right?
Oh, where do I start? How about this? There is no such thing.
If I am a Christian, then I must realize that the orders on my life to be generous and serve are pretty simple. Christ never advocated for responsible giving. He said give. Period. No exceptions for us and no requirements from them.
Give to everyone, give to your enemies, give to the criminals. Give your clothes, your food, your time and your compassion. Give, give, give, give, give. I am truly thankful Jesus made it so simple, because I would tie myself into knots trying to decide who is worthy of my dollar.
Why do we allow our attitudes to become so hateful and prejudicial when we see a begger on the side of the road? Why do we fight against the pull of our soul?
We don't want to be scammed. We don't want to be embarressed. Is it really more responsible to give to a non-profit organization whose CEO is making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? When we fall into the trap of second guessing our donations all the time, we will never give. It's too easy to talk ourselves out of it and then forget that the need is real. The pain and tears and desperation are out there waiting for our response.
It's like someone runs a cheese grater across my brain, seriously. "God helps those who help themselves."
I get the theory. You want your money to go to a worthy cause. Responsible giving, right?
Oh, where do I start? How about this? There is no such thing.
If I am a Christian, then I must realize that the orders on my life to be generous and serve are pretty simple. Christ never advocated for responsible giving. He said give. Period. No exceptions for us and no requirements from them.
Give to everyone, give to your enemies, give to the criminals. Give your clothes, your food, your time and your compassion. Give, give, give, give, give. I am truly thankful Jesus made it so simple, because I would tie myself into knots trying to decide who is worthy of my dollar.
Why do we allow our attitudes to become so hateful and prejudicial when we see a begger on the side of the road? Why do we fight against the pull of our soul?
We don't want to be scammed. We don't want to be embarressed. Is it really more responsible to give to a non-profit organization whose CEO is making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? When we fall into the trap of second guessing our donations all the time, we will never give. It's too easy to talk ourselves out of it and then forget that the need is real. The pain and tears and desperation are out there waiting for our response.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
What's our Excuse? Part1- How Embarrassing!
A few weeks ago, my husband and I were having a date night out to the casino. He likes the penny slots and I love live music, so win-win. For an extra measure of good luck, I forced my husband to switch lanes at the last second so we could toss a dollar to a beggar on the side of the road. He risked our reasonable insurance premiums by cutting off a couple cars and stopped on a dime next to the very nice gentleman who was actually not begging, but just waiting for the light to change so he could cross the road.
Whoops. My bad.
Then there was that time when I tried to help the wheelchair-bound-man move a shopping cart. He thought I was stealing the cart and starting yelling at me...at Walmart...during Christmas shopping days.
I've was on the opposite side of this last year when a kind lady, filled with compassion watching my husband and I tussle over the price of shoes at the Salvation Army, handed me a 20.00 bill and walked away before I could recover from my mortification to return it to her.
My point is that we are scared of embarrassingly helping the wrong person. Of being shut out and shut down. There are, of course, worse things to being embarrassed over.
Offer help, accept help. I constantly have to force myself out of the "bootstrap" theology we are taught in the United States. God put us here with instructions to help. People are suffering in mind, body and soul. I want to always make myself available.
"If people wish to help, let them come and see--the reality is more attractive than the abstract idea."
Mother T.
Whoops. My bad.
Then there was that time when I tried to help the wheelchair-bound-man move a shopping cart. He thought I was stealing the cart and starting yelling at me...at Walmart...during Christmas shopping days.
I've was on the opposite side of this last year when a kind lady, filled with compassion watching my husband and I tussle over the price of shoes at the Salvation Army, handed me a 20.00 bill and walked away before I could recover from my mortification to return it to her.
My point is that we are scared of embarrassingly helping the wrong person. Of being shut out and shut down. There are, of course, worse things to being embarrassed over.
Offer help, accept help. I constantly have to force myself out of the "bootstrap" theology we are taught in the United States. God put us here with instructions to help. People are suffering in mind, body and soul. I want to always make myself available.
"If people wish to help, let them come and see--the reality is more attractive than the abstract idea."
Mother T.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Desperate Female seeks Honest, Focused Charity
Since the dirty laundry has already been aired by the great Mother T., I don't feel too bad about laying this out there. Too many charities begin with the intentions of serving the poor and end catering to the upper middle class. It's not always a bad thing to support the arts or a university or a football stadium or whatever, it is just not what I am looking for.
I admit my standards are high but I don't apologize. For my whole life I have wanted to be on the front lines of charity. I want to hand out the food and provide the medical care. But since my life took a different path of marriage, family and a job, I have resolved to just be supportive.
Like all women, I fantasize over the characteristics of a perfect mate:
I admit my standards are high but I don't apologize. For my whole life I have wanted to be on the front lines of charity. I want to hand out the food and provide the medical care. But since my life took a different path of marriage, family and a job, I have resolved to just be supportive.
Like all women, I fantasize over the characteristics of a perfect mate:
- You must be directly serving the suffering poor and destitute.
- Your CEO cannot be a millionaire.
- Having a faith-base is preferred but should not be a requirement of those you serve.
- Overwhelmingly compassionate
- No-strings-attached, non-judgemental generosity.
- Personal sacrifice
- Appreciation of all donations, $1.00 to a bazillion dollars
- A-political, meaning you can have an opinion but not support a particular party or candidate.
"I'm Gonna Help Someone, Damit!"
I truly hope that God is impressed with my intentions, because most days it seems like intentions are all I have to offer.
Some people I meet are impressed with my choice to serve the community as my profession. Even my priests and other social workers consider my actual job above and beyond. But Mother Theresa saw through that facade. She knew what is missing.
"Without personal sacrifice, the good we do is simply social work."
Personal sacrifice is was separates the saints from the social workers. It is what moves me from a job to a justification of my existence.
Mother T., Dorothy Day, Irene Sendler...these are my heros. They marinated in personal sacrifice, in voluntary poverty. They lived in chronic insecurity. They gave their lives completely and wholly, not for a paycheck, but for a faith. It wasn't easy. They struggled emotionally and physically. They were hungry and sad, but their commitment to this way of life never wavered.
I want to throw up my rock-n-roll fingers and scream in unity with their choices. I want to kneel beside them in prayer and march along side them for justice. But all I have are intentions.
I believe and preach service to the poor, sick and imprisoned...while I sit in my cozy chair and watch Seinfeld reruns. I write and encourage everyone to give away everything that is non-essential...while I remind my husband that my birthday is coming up. I judge the actions of politicians and the wealthy as they ignore the poor...while I feed my face. What am I really doing to serve those around me? Not much. Not near enough.
"Shepherd me, oh God, beyond my wants; beyond my fears. From death into Life."
"Without personal sacrifice, the good we do is simply social work."
Personal sacrifice is was separates the saints from the social workers. It is what moves me from a job to a justification of my existence.
Mother T., Dorothy Day, Irene Sendler...these are my heros. They marinated in personal sacrifice, in voluntary poverty. They lived in chronic insecurity. They gave their lives completely and wholly, not for a paycheck, but for a faith. It wasn't easy. They struggled emotionally and physically. They were hungry and sad, but their commitment to this way of life never wavered.
I want to throw up my rock-n-roll fingers and scream in unity with their choices. I want to kneel beside them in prayer and march along side them for justice. But all I have are intentions.
I believe and preach service to the poor, sick and imprisoned...while I sit in my cozy chair and watch Seinfeld reruns. I write and encourage everyone to give away everything that is non-essential...while I remind my husband that my birthday is coming up. I judge the actions of politicians and the wealthy as they ignore the poor...while I feed my face. What am I really doing to serve those around me? Not much. Not near enough.
"Shepherd me, oh God, beyond my wants; beyond my fears. From death into Life."
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Social Worke Confessions Part 4-The ponytail trauma
Lice. That is why I always put my hair up in a pony tail when I go to visit families. If I don't have a hair bow, I'll use a rubber band or yarn or glue. I love my job and I really love these families I have visited with over the years. I want them to see I am comfortable in their homes, but as I watch their children scratching their scalps like a dog with fleas, I am forced to take action.
Another smelly trailer. Another dirty home. Another perfectly lovely family stuck in the grip of poverty and ambivilence. The accusation was that the children were going hungry. So before I left, I made sure I scanned the kitchen to check for food.
It all happened rather quickly:
Another smelly trailer. Another dirty home. Another perfectly lovely family stuck in the grip of poverty and ambivilence. The accusation was that the children were going hungry. So before I left, I made sure I scanned the kitchen to check for food.
It all happened rather quickly:
- I opened the refrigerator
- Dozens of large cockroaches scurried out onto the floor
- I stepped back in order to avoid a roach invasion of my sandles
- My pony tail got stuck in the very effective fly paper that was hanging from the ceiling.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Birth of Hate.
My son was bullied this past week. I mean real, true, bullying. The kind that After-School-Specials are made of. It had been building. There had been small signs and passing comments that my son made. I should have known. That's not true. I DID know. I ignored it because I couldn't face the truth that my sweet son, having arrived at a new school 5 months ago, was not welcomed with open arms. It was just too painful.
And he cried.
Of course he did.
And then the students broke the awkward silence, pointing, laughing and mocking each tear. Mercifully, a teacher came and took my son out of the cafeteria, to the principal. In her office, every pervasive insult and eyeroll was spilled out.
Many public leaders mock the way our society has turned soft. How everyone gets a trophy and everyone gets to be a cheerleader. Why competition has been replaced with fairness. My son, as he grows and remembers this day, will have some choices. He can choose to be angry and vengeful or he can forgive. He can hurt those who hurt him or he can work towards fairplay, compassion and kindess. He can punch back or turn his cheek, sacrificing his own dignity so he can be an example of humility.
As a mother, I want those kids to hurt. As a Christian, I want those kids in Heaven. I hope my son chooses to forgive.
"Humility is learned by experiencing humilation with dignity" Mother Theresa
But, there he was. Standing in the rain after school with the principal, under her umbrella. There was no where for me to hide so I had to listen.
3 boys came up with the plan and got the rest of the class to go along. My son had already been told by these boys that he was "stupid" and that "no one in the class likes you". So, already feeling vunerable, my son walked into the cafeteria and sat in the middle of the long, rectangle table, at the seat that had been "saved" for him. As soon as he sat down, all the other kids scrunched their noses and moved away from him, leaving him sitting all by himself, bewildered momentarily before the hurt hit and settled in.
Of course he did.
And then the students broke the awkward silence, pointing, laughing and mocking each tear. Mercifully, a teacher came and took my son out of the cafeteria, to the principal. In her office, every pervasive insult and eyeroll was spilled out.
Many public leaders mock the way our society has turned soft. How everyone gets a trophy and everyone gets to be a cheerleader. Why competition has been replaced with fairness. My son, as he grows and remembers this day, will have some choices. He can choose to be angry and vengeful or he can forgive. He can hurt those who hurt him or he can work towards fairplay, compassion and kindess. He can punch back or turn his cheek, sacrificing his own dignity so he can be an example of humility.
As a mother, I want those kids to hurt. As a Christian, I want those kids in Heaven. I hope my son chooses to forgive.
"Humility is learned by experiencing humilation with dignity" Mother Theresa
Social Worker Confessions Part 3- The Smell
Any Social Worker who has done home visits understands what I mean when I say "the smell." My SW friends and I have actually dedicated many hours over the years trying to disect what filth is combined to produce "the smell". It is lack of ventilation + dirt + mold + trash + b.o + that little extra something that makes it permiate through a closed door.
They were a nice enough family. The mother was a witch (the kind that did spell, not the kind that rhymes with the B-word.) and the father was chronically unemployed. Their kids were always caked with dirt and wore flannel in 100 degree weather. The trailer was old and broken down. There were random animals running around the dirt yard.
And there was "the smell". It was all encompassing and stuck to your hair. It enduced a gag reflex and made you want to quit your job and go work at Wal-Mart as a door greeter.
I had visited this family several times, menthol rubbed inside my nostrils made the visits bearable. But one day was different.
Mother answered the door so excited. She exclaimed "I found the smell!!"
Oh happy day for us all.
"It was the maggots that were livin' under the carpet! I knew it felt squishy!"
Social Workers. Our work is nothing if not glamourus.
They were a nice enough family. The mother was a witch (the kind that did spell, not the kind that rhymes with the B-word.) and the father was chronically unemployed. Their kids were always caked with dirt and wore flannel in 100 degree weather. The trailer was old and broken down. There were random animals running around the dirt yard.
And there was "the smell". It was all encompassing and stuck to your hair. It enduced a gag reflex and made you want to quit your job and go work at Wal-Mart as a door greeter.
I had visited this family several times, menthol rubbed inside my nostrils made the visits bearable. But one day was different.
Mother answered the door so excited. She exclaimed "I found the smell!!"
Oh happy day for us all.
"It was the maggots that were livin' under the carpet! I knew it felt squishy!"
Social Workers. Our work is nothing if not glamourus.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Social Worker Confessions-Part 2. Gunfire.
As a social worker who often has to visit homes of people I have never met, I understand it may be dangerous. It never really feels dangerous. I am a pretty nice social worker. I have good crises skills and, truth be told, I honestly enjoy the work and the families I serve. But I really don't like being shot at, shot near or shot around.
You may be surprised to know how many people answer the door holding a rifle. This used to shake me, but it happens so often that I almost expect it now.
The first appearance of a gun came when I was still in training. I was following around the most amazing social worker I would ever meet, Ramona. She was my Yoda. But Ramona's job was to take children away, so of course none of the families could appreciate how fabulous she was.
We were sitting in someones home, on their tacky floral couch discussing very non-chilantly how we were going to walk out of their home with their two children. The dad stood up. Quietly walked into a back room. I could hear drawers opening and closing frantically. I was trying to decided whether to make a run for it, but I was afraid if I stood up, I would pee on myself. Very unprofessional. So I watched as the dad returned to the living room and Ramona stared him down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a pack a cigarettes. (Well, it could have been a gun!)
I think maybe I fainted or something. I have no recollection of actually leaving the house or getting back to the office.
The second time was actually not a pack of cigarettes. I was called to the highway to pick up two children aftter the highway police had pulled them over and found they were trafficking enough pot to smoke each day, every day for the rest of eternity.
When I arrived, the children were still buckled into their car seats. (yes, they were actually pretty good parents aside from the trafficking.) The police were all lined up behind their cars, weapons drawn, while I walked to the van. I had my plastic badge to protect me while gunfire cracked over me head between the father and the police. I got the kids unbuckled and took them away.
Social Work is an Adventure.
You may be surprised to know how many people answer the door holding a rifle. This used to shake me, but it happens so often that I almost expect it now.
The first appearance of a gun came when I was still in training. I was following around the most amazing social worker I would ever meet, Ramona. She was my Yoda. But Ramona's job was to take children away, so of course none of the families could appreciate how fabulous she was.
We were sitting in someones home, on their tacky floral couch discussing very non-chilantly how we were going to walk out of their home with their two children. The dad stood up. Quietly walked into a back room. I could hear drawers opening and closing frantically. I was trying to decided whether to make a run for it, but I was afraid if I stood up, I would pee on myself. Very unprofessional. So I watched as the dad returned to the living room and Ramona stared him down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a pack a cigarettes. (Well, it could have been a gun!)
I think maybe I fainted or something. I have no recollection of actually leaving the house or getting back to the office.
The second time was actually not a pack of cigarettes. I was called to the highway to pick up two children aftter the highway police had pulled them over and found they were trafficking enough pot to smoke each day, every day for the rest of eternity.
When I arrived, the children were still buckled into their car seats. (yes, they were actually pretty good parents aside from the trafficking.) The police were all lined up behind their cars, weapons drawn, while I walked to the van. I had my plastic badge to protect me while gunfire cracked over me head between the father and the police. I got the kids unbuckled and took them away.
Social Work is an Adventure.
Andes Mint Cookie Recipe
1 1/4 cup of Imperial Margerine
1 Cup sugar
1 Cup Brown Sugar
2 Eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 Cups Flour
1 teaspoon Baking Soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup of Hershey's Chocolate Chips
1 Bag Andes Mints
Preheat oven to 350. Cream butter and sugars together. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine dry ingredients in a seperate bowl and add all at once to wet mixture. Add chocolate chips. Chill dough in refrigerator for 15 minutes.
I use a two teaspoon melon scoop for consistency. Drop cookies onto cookie sheet. These cookies will spread quite a bit, so leave room.
As soon as you take them out of the oven, place an Andes mint on top. Leave it to melt for a few minutes and then go back and spread the melted mint with the back of a spoon. These cookies are best made the night before.
Enjoy.
1 Cup sugar
1 Cup Brown Sugar
2 Eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 Cups Flour
1 teaspoon Baking Soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup of Hershey's Chocolate Chips
1 Bag Andes Mints
Preheat oven to 350. Cream butter and sugars together. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine dry ingredients in a seperate bowl and add all at once to wet mixture. Add chocolate chips. Chill dough in refrigerator for 15 minutes.
I use a two teaspoon melon scoop for consistency. Drop cookies onto cookie sheet. These cookies will spread quite a bit, so leave room.
As soon as you take them out of the oven, place an Andes mint on top. Leave it to melt for a few minutes and then go back and spread the melted mint with the back of a spoon. These cookies are best made the night before.
Enjoy.
Childhood Traumas, Part 1- The Forbidden Lollipop
It was a different world back then. Educators prepared students for competition, not fairness. I prefer fairness all the way.
I was in kindergarten with Mrs. Shell at Rockford Christian Elementary School. She had just read us "Where the Wild Things Are." Our assignment was to draw a scene from the book and our incentives were lollipops. Not the lame dum-dum lolli's, oh no. These were the best of all lolli's. These were those tantalizing red heart lolli's with the word "LOVE" written in that white edible ink that came off on your tongue.
The sadistic turn in the plot came with these words from my teacher, "Only the very best pictures will get a lollipop." I was motivated. I decided to get extra points by drawing, not just a picture, but an entire scene. You will remember the one. The little boy is sitting in his tall, draped, striped tent wearing that crown.
I colored with my heart. I used different mediums to enhance the detail (crayons AND pencils) And in my objective opinion, my picture was by far the best.
At the end of the day, Mrs. Shell had layed each picture out on the floor at the back of the room for retrieval. I ran back and, you know it is coming, right? I looked to the picture to the left of my masterpiece. Lollipop. I looked to the picture on the right. Lollipop. I looked down at my own. No. Lollipop. No red heart. No white, yummy LOVE letters. Nothing. Just my rejected opus, lollipop-less.
I actually felt my heart sink into my stomach. The election was obviously rigged. That was the only explanation. My shock quickly turned to anger and embarrassment.
I walked out of the classroom to my waiting mother, unable to get the words out. How could I explain why every other child had a white/red tongue but me?? I decided to spare her the truth of my failure and I swallowed my despair.
I have never ever read "Where the Wild Things Are" to my children. Some scars just do not heal. And I give my children lollipops freely and without the ambiguous strings of my childhood.
Monday, March 12, 2012
If You Teach a Man to Fish, He Will Probably Starve
There was a Rich man who saw that his Poor neighbor was hungry. The Rich man felt sad and decided he wanted to help the poor man. The next day Rich awoke from a peaceful nights sleep and after having a large, satisfying breakfast, he went and said to his Poor neighbor, "I will help you."
Rich retrieved his fishing pole from his locked shed and invited Poor to his private, well-stocked, fresh-water stream that ran behind his home. He taught Poor to bait and cast. Rich was successful and caught several large bass for dinner that night. Rich smiled inwardly as knew that he had done a great thing for Poor. Rich taught Poor to fish and now Poor would never be hungry again. Rich took his bass, his bait, all the hooks and his pole home. Rich had a filling dinner, threw away the leftovers and fell asleep, still smiling.
The next morning, Rich awoke again from a peaceful slumber filled with sweet dreams, and ate a delicious, nutritional meal. He walked outside to find Poor dying from starvation. Rich was angry. He had wasted his energy and time teaching Poor to fish and here Poor was, still burdening society with his hunger and poverty. Rich cast Poor aside, scoffing Poor's lazy attitude and lack of work ethic. Rich wondered if Poor expected him to share the fish he had caught? Bitterness set into Rich's heart. "That will only make him more lazy and dependent upon my generosity," thought Rich. "Let his hunger motivate him to fish as I taught him to." Rich left with his pole, his hooks and his bait and went to go catch his dinner.
It wasn't that Poor hadn't tried. He cut a branch from a tree and found some leftover twine to try and make a pole. There was no bait, so Poor took a bit of bread and attached it to the end of the string. There was no hook, so Poor prayed for a miracle. Poor had no land. He walked several miles until he found a small standing of run-off water. It was polluted and contained no living thing. Poor didn't realize his attempts were futile. His hope and self-esteem plummeted as he continued, in vain, to try and mimic what Rich had taught him. After hours in the hot sun, Poor fell asleep, confused at his failure. It was fitful, sleeping on the ground, and he tossed and turned. His body ached and he woke up more tired than when he fell asleep.
Thoughts ran through his mind of survival. Could he steal a fish? Could he beg for a fish? Were his only choices crime or humilation? One would send him to prison and the other would make him a mockery of society. He thought of his children. How they were hungry and counting on him. He thought of Rich and all the fish he so easily caught with his shiney pole, sharp hooks and fresh bait. Hopelessness set into Poor's heart.
Luke 16: 19 - 31
Social Worker Confessions Part 1- Working with the Naked.
I have been a social worker for 18 years. In that time, I am sorry to say, I have seen more naked people than most social workers. I don't know why naked people surround my professional career. There was no class in college that discussed this specialty but there it is. Lots and Lots of naked people.
I will skip over those clients who answered the door in the buff. There are too many to count and I just have no explanation. I will also skip over the naked-mentally-ill, even though I would love to talk about that one guy who wiped his poopy butt on my skirt, it is just unfair.
I will begin with the police raid I accompanied to save two small children who had been, apparently, abandoned by their parents and were alone in their house. The microwave was on fire after one of the small kids tried to heat up a box of macaroni. After the crises had passed, I wondered the home and found both mom and dad...booty side up (I actually thank God for this mercy) and passed out on the bed, naked as the day their mama's had 'em. Yes, they had slept through the fire and the smoke alarm and the police banging down their door. They slept through 6 strangers storming and stomping through their home and continued to sleep peacefully until the police officer flipped their mattress, knocking them both to the floor.
Ah...good times.
I once found a child molester hiding in a back bedroom in a home full of children. He had the decency to cover up with a small, decorative pillow.
And how, HOW I ask you??? How could I ever forget HER. The wheelchair bound matriarch of many dysfunctional generations, who, after becoming so inflamed when her grown son was accused of molestation, miraculously stood up from her chair, lifted her dress and proceeded to flash her beautiful self to two government officials, one social worker and my retina. May she rest in peace....please. Because this memory of her is haunting enough.
I will skip over those clients who answered the door in the buff. There are too many to count and I just have no explanation. I will also skip over the naked-mentally-ill, even though I would love to talk about that one guy who wiped his poopy butt on my skirt, it is just unfair.
I will begin with the police raid I accompanied to save two small children who had been, apparently, abandoned by their parents and were alone in their house. The microwave was on fire after one of the small kids tried to heat up a box of macaroni. After the crises had passed, I wondered the home and found both mom and dad...booty side up (I actually thank God for this mercy) and passed out on the bed, naked as the day their mama's had 'em. Yes, they had slept through the fire and the smoke alarm and the police banging down their door. They slept through 6 strangers storming and stomping through their home and continued to sleep peacefully until the police officer flipped their mattress, knocking them both to the floor.
Ah...good times.
I once found a child molester hiding in a back bedroom in a home full of children. He had the decency to cover up with a small, decorative pillow.
And how, HOW I ask you??? How could I ever forget HER. The wheelchair bound matriarch of many dysfunctional generations, who, after becoming so inflamed when her grown son was accused of molestation, miraculously stood up from her chair, lifted her dress and proceeded to flash her beautiful self to two government officials, one social worker and my retina. May she rest in peace....please. Because this memory of her is haunting enough.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
754 in case you need to know.
I am nervous about putting these thoughts on paper, but having considered them for a long time, I am ready to go out on a limb. Deep breath. Crack my knuckles. Here we go...
THE FICO CREDIT SCORE SYSTEM IS UNFAIR AND BIASED AGAINST THE POOR AND MINORITIES
http://www.washingtonabc.org/conference-2011/racial-wealth-gap.pdf.
I understand that it may have started as a system to help banks decided who could pay this or that house/car payment. It may have seemed like a good idea.
The FICO system is now used to decide whether people can get car insurance, an a apartment, an education or a job and that, in my humble opinion, is unfair and prejudicial and I'll even say un-Christian
The FICO system is so relative to circumstances beyond our control. It is not just about whether a bill is payed or not. It is a mysterious system that few people understand; invented and controlled by...hmmm, no idea. Is it not easily corrected and our wrongs are recorded, not just for 7 years, but for an infinite amount of time. The information is easily manipulated and often wrong. It gives no consideration for difficult times or catastrophic health problems. Business are now making millions of dollars a year to "protect your identity" because the system is so failed.
It is another system in place to suggest that the world is so fair that we can judge everyone by this three digit number and get an accurate idea of who they are as a person. It assumes that everyone, before credit mistakes are made, has received the same financial education and has the same resources available to them for survival. The FICO system is a financial felony for a lot of people in this country. It handcuffs them to crime ridden areas of town and to a welfare system they would like nothing more than to get out of. It forces the poor to pay loan shark payments to gain legally-required car insurance or to rent-to-own a sofa for 4 times the price it is worth. And they don't have the money to begin with!
It leaves them powerless against society. If years of mistakes are made and then they get sober, get therapy and get motivated, they will still find most of their options for a success are closed because of their financial history. The fallacy that if only you work hard you will achieve the American Dream is such a cold-hearted lie. The dirty little secret is that if you are born poor, you will probably stay poor. And if you are born rich, no one cares about your credit score anyway.
There will be some random exceptions to this rule (HA! Positive Deviance) which society will point to as justification that your limitations are your own fault cuz "that guy did it." And then radio announcers will throw insults, calling you "the great unwashed", condemning you for using food stamps. They will sit back, confident that their own success is because of hard work and brilliance, take their ball and go home, giving you not even a passing thought.
THE FICO CREDIT SCORE SYSTEM IS UNFAIR AND BIASED AGAINST THE POOR AND MINORITIES
http://www.washingtonabc.org/conference-2011/racial-wealth-gap.pdf.
I understand that it may have started as a system to help banks decided who could pay this or that house/car payment. It may have seemed like a good idea.
The FICO system is now used to decide whether people can get car insurance, an a apartment, an education or a job and that, in my humble opinion, is unfair and prejudicial and I'll even say un-Christian
The FICO system is so relative to circumstances beyond our control. It is not just about whether a bill is payed or not. It is a mysterious system that few people understand; invented and controlled by...hmmm, no idea. Is it not easily corrected and our wrongs are recorded, not just for 7 years, but for an infinite amount of time. The information is easily manipulated and often wrong. It gives no consideration for difficult times or catastrophic health problems. Business are now making millions of dollars a year to "protect your identity" because the system is so failed.
It is another system in place to suggest that the world is so fair that we can judge everyone by this three digit number and get an accurate idea of who they are as a person. It assumes that everyone, before credit mistakes are made, has received the same financial education and has the same resources available to them for survival. The FICO system is a financial felony for a lot of people in this country. It handcuffs them to crime ridden areas of town and to a welfare system they would like nothing more than to get out of. It forces the poor to pay loan shark payments to gain legally-required car insurance or to rent-to-own a sofa for 4 times the price it is worth. And they don't have the money to begin with!
It leaves them powerless against society. If years of mistakes are made and then they get sober, get therapy and get motivated, they will still find most of their options for a success are closed because of their financial history. The fallacy that if only you work hard you will achieve the American Dream is such a cold-hearted lie. The dirty little secret is that if you are born poor, you will probably stay poor. And if you are born rich, no one cares about your credit score anyway.
There will be some random exceptions to this rule (HA! Positive Deviance) which society will point to as justification that your limitations are your own fault cuz "that guy did it." And then radio announcers will throw insults, calling you "the great unwashed", condemning you for using food stamps. They will sit back, confident that their own success is because of hard work and brilliance, take their ball and go home, giving you not even a passing thought.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The ball is dropped.
The other night, I swung by Sonic to take some dinner to my 15 year old daughter who was staying late at school. I occupied myself by watching 3 homeless men sitting at the outdoor Sonic tables, sharing a large bottle of vodka. They all had beards and a bedroll. It was 30 degrees outside, so who am I to judge? Drink up friends. But as I watched them, I began to wonder where society dropped their ball. WHEN DO WE STOP CARING ABOUT PEOPLE?
They were babies, probably cute because all babies are. They were held, at some point, by someone who had a connection with them. They were kids in school with teachers who maybe noticed that something was wrong. She tried to intervene. She cared and tried to make a difference. They maybe had friends or relatives who cried for whatever lifes circumstances were effecting their paths and choices.
There were social systems involved: DHS, therapists, jail, prision. Social Workers staffed their cases and lamented over their treatment plans.
They grew up and probably met a girl who loved them. Maybe they got married and had a baby of their own. Someone saw a good side and tried to build a life with them.
When did it stop? At what age? After which mis-step? Where did all these people go?
At what point did society brush their hands together and say "Whelp, you have had all your chances. Here is your one way ticket to the street corner. From now on we will mock and scoff your efforts, We will become suspicious of your intentions and judge your motives as evil or worthless. We will roll up our windows and snap shut our wallets for your own good, because any money you have will go to drugs and alcohol. We will hold our children closer as you pass by and yell at you to "get a job." The media and the police will beg us not to give you any money directly but to go through a reputiable agency who will spend our donations on overhead and branding.
The homeless in our community are the equivalent of the lepers that Jesus healed. They were outcasts. Thrown away. They induced fear for our health and for our soul. They made our skin crawl and we wondered what they had done to receive this punishment from God. We watched from the sidelines as they got what they deserved and felt justified in our disdain.
My God in Heaven. How do you see the homeless? When can I stop saying "It's such a shame" and begin to see the shame is my own.
They were babies, probably cute because all babies are. They were held, at some point, by someone who had a connection with them. They were kids in school with teachers who maybe noticed that something was wrong. She tried to intervene. She cared and tried to make a difference. They maybe had friends or relatives who cried for whatever lifes circumstances were effecting their paths and choices.
There were social systems involved: DHS, therapists, jail, prision. Social Workers staffed their cases and lamented over their treatment plans.
They grew up and probably met a girl who loved them. Maybe they got married and had a baby of their own. Someone saw a good side and tried to build a life with them.
When did it stop? At what age? After which mis-step? Where did all these people go?
At what point did society brush their hands together and say "Whelp, you have had all your chances. Here is your one way ticket to the street corner. From now on we will mock and scoff your efforts, We will become suspicious of your intentions and judge your motives as evil or worthless. We will roll up our windows and snap shut our wallets for your own good, because any money you have will go to drugs and alcohol. We will hold our children closer as you pass by and yell at you to "get a job." The media and the police will beg us not to give you any money directly but to go through a reputiable agency who will spend our donations on overhead and branding.
The homeless in our community are the equivalent of the lepers that Jesus healed. They were outcasts. Thrown away. They induced fear for our health and for our soul. They made our skin crawl and we wondered what they had done to receive this punishment from God. We watched from the sidelines as they got what they deserved and felt justified in our disdain.
My God in Heaven. How do you see the homeless? When can I stop saying "It's such a shame" and begin to see the shame is my own.
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