I'm Homeless, not Dangerous!

This was written as a response to a conversation on a local social media site. 

I also have been homeless, living in my car.  Several times.  Several times, I was also employed, the most recent time as a computer tech.  (Still didn't cover rents in Seattle).  I am not a drug addict; I get drunk on the cheese fondue, for cripes' sake. My mental illness is an anxiety disorder; well controlled now that I have a roof over my head.  I am completely harmless and often spent my spare time at the library listening to Broadway show tunes.  

If you-all want to *help* homeless folks, please start treating them like you would any other person you meet.  I met many homeless folks while I was living in my truck.  The worst thing any of them ever did to me was run a noisy generator near my car because they apparently didn't like my parking there. The guys sharing a wine bottle or playing chess might catcall or make insulting comments, but when they found out I lived in my truck, they were usually caring, intelligent, and kind.  

Folks with homes and money did much worse to me on a regular basis, including abusing my cat to get back at me for parking an empty car in a middle class neighborhood during the day (in an area that couldn't have interfered with anyone's parking needs).

I know of one group of homeless guys who watched out for a woman who stood on the street corner and ranted; she was probably schizophrenic.  "We watch out for her," one guy told me. "There's a guy with a shop who doesn't care if she sleeps in his doorway. The church let her live in a house they have, but she's usually too paranoid to use it. She has it if she wants to be inside."

As long as we continue to criminalize not having a place to live, as long as we assume that everyone who doesn't have a home is dangerous, as long as we react in unwarranted fear, we are making it much harder for us all to survive what's around the next corner.  Assuming you will never end up in your car, or worse, is completely unrealistic in this economy.  

I suggest you *ask* people if they want help, and ask *what* kind of help they want. Shelters are not nice places, and many folks prefer their car or even the streets. 

Donate regularly to an agency that helps people out.  Buy the "Real Change" (and then read it; it's a great newspaper). Offer to buy a panhandler a sandwich or a soft drink of their choice. Bum a cigarette and *talk* to them.  Listen to their story instead of assuming you know who they are.  Offer them that paperback book you were going to jettison. Give them a quart of oil, a gift card to Jiffy Lube, or a gas can and 5 gallons of gas if you aren't comfortable giving cash.

Also, please keep in mind that the average wait for an apartment via various low-income housing agencies is at least two years - and that is if one is disabled. It can take much longer in some situations.  

Maybe just smile and wave and say hello, like you would any other neighbor.  If we're wise, we realize we are all in this together.

Finding My Inner Jock

I've never been a jock. Far from it. I was the last kid chosen in elementary school games. I never once won a Field Day ribbon. I've always been uncoordinated and I hated every minute of every PE class I ever had to take. 

But today, I think I got a glimmer of my inner jock. I have not only found a form of exercise that I come back to several times a week, I am seeing significant increases in my strength and stamina. Since this comes in the same year that my back has given me one problem after another, severely limiting mobility and exercise, it is doubly thrilling to me.

Last spring, a local non-profit organization gave me a scholarship to take a beginning sailing class, something I've always wanted to do. As it happened, I was dealing with significant pain during the 6-session class, and also had quite a bit of anxiety about tipping the boat over, a worry I'm still struggling with. I wasn't quite ready to give up at the end of the class, but with no sailing partners in sight, I was never able to go back to it.

Not long after the class ended, a cortisone shot relieved the neck pain I was feeling. The sailing venue also keeps paddle boards and kayaks around for their more casual customers. A friend was taking an advanced kayaking class at the same beach, and I had enjoyed kayaking in the past. I made a deal with my friend to meet her there on her class day, so I'd have motivation to show up. 

The weather was hot, the lake was there, and thanks to their generous policies for disabled folks, I paid $25 for a season pass. Within days, I was motivating myself, and had taken to sitting on a paddle board with my feet in the water to cool off. It was hot out, Seattle-style – 85°F! I started out paddling up the lake to a beach roughly 1/2 mile away, and was quite thrilled to make it there and back the first time I tried.

At the time, I couldn't carry a kayak by myself, couldn't stand up after paddling without the help of the paddle and significant struggle, and that trip up to the beach and back was quite enough for one evening. I was hooked, though, and I kept going back.

My neck quit acting up after the shot and some PT. Then my hip started making it so painful to walk that my mile-long dog walks changed from several times a week to non-existent. Stevie and I had to make do with a few short walks daily. PT helped my hip to some extent, and we are walking to the dog beach once or twice a week now. Now my lower back is unhappy.

However, my physical therapist and I realized that the kayaking was helping my back and my general well being immensely, so I kept it up, happy to have something physical to do that didn't result in more muscle spasms or pinched nerves. Slowly, I started carrying first the light-weight paddle boards back to the rack, and sometimes lugging the kayak one way, even though it was a struggle. I discovered that jumping off the paddle board into deep water both helped whatever parts hurt (the buoyancy of water is a great gift!) and also avoided the issue of trying to stand up after kayaking. I couldn't begin to right a turtled sailboat or climb back into one during the class, but I started practicing climbing back on the flat paddle boards, a much easier proposition.

I've had a great summer, with the highlight being the trips to the lake to paddle whatever craft I chose that day. A couple of weeks ago, I saw myself in the mirror sans tee-shirt and realized that for the first time in years, I had arm muscles. Big arm muscles! The first inklings of jock-ability crept in!

My paddles got longer, because going to that nearby beach and back wasn't enough any more. What used to be an hour-long trip now takes me about 35 minutes. One calm day, I even made it across the lake. A week later, I paddled to the beach and back in 17 knot gusts. Bragging about that impressed even my highly experienced, energizer-bunny kayaking friend!

My confidence in my ability to do things I wouldn't have tried at the beginning of the summer has increased. I haven't yet climbed back into the kayak by myself, but I think I could with the help of a paddle float. Having confidence about a physical skill is such a rush!

Today, I carried the kayak to the water and realized that it was fairly easy to do, not a major struggle. I paddled to the beach, and thought I might take it easy, because my arms felt a little sore. By the time I was ready to start back, the wind had picked up, and I felt ready to do my usual longer paddle. I realized I was paddling at a pretty good clip, and that it had become an aerobic exercise. When I got back to the put-in, for the first time, I stood up without using the paddle as a crutch! And although it was hard, I carried the kayak back to the rack and put it away.

I had to beg an ice cream from the dockmaster (I didn't have my usual $1, so I'll pay her later), but boy, oh boy, am I psyched. I think I might be a little bit of a jock after all. Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep paddling through the winter!

Woman and Dog

Several months ago, one of the fixtures of the early am dog park crowd lost her 4 year old German Shepherd (GSD) very suddenly to cancer. Barleycorn* was a puppy mill dog, so disturbed that all she could do was pace in circles. Inga is 70ish, walks slowly with a cane and probably has emphysema.  She has been rescuing and training GSDs for 50 years.

She trained Barleycorn to be her service dog and one would never have
known the dog's history from the way she blossomed and took care of
Inga.

When Barleycorn died, Inga, a strong, proud and stubborn woman, stopped coming to the dog park and, last I heard, broke off contact with most of her dog park friends.

Today, I stopped by the park late morning, and recognized Inga's car,
thanks to the "Well-behaved women seldom make history" bumper
sticker. (Did I mention I like and respect this woman?)

She was just coming up the walk, reaching for every breath and accompanied by Daniel, a black and tan, 5 month old GSD pup. He gave me a shy kiss, but made it clear that Inga is his charge and his person.

Daniel has big feet to fill, following after Barleycorn, but he is doing
his very best. The cycle of woman and dog being very good for each
other begins again.

*names changed for privacy

A tinge of rose, a tinge of hope

2013 dawned clear and cold, sunny and rosy, frosty and chill. We went to the park by the lake and walked along the shore. Scraping the car went easily, and the defroster was just starting to clear the windshield when we pulled into the parking lot.

Sun lit the bits of fog floating above the steamy lake. The light was pink, and a sailboat etched in the haze was a solitary figure floating on reflective liquid silver. I wished for my camera, but will have to make the words paint the pictures this morning.

The Cascades were sharp silhouettes against the blue. Although they are white with snow this time of year, they were dark shadows this morning, jagged and distant.

The pink light of sunrise played off the mist and the cold. A single paddle-boarder (dressed Seattle-style in hat, coat, shorts and flip-flops) appeared out of the cloud, a distant figure prompting me to comment that only a guy would be dumb enough to be out there in this freeze.

But Seattle is Seattle, and January 1 is January 1. The recent addition of a line of Porta-potties herald the event of the day, the noon-time Polar Bear swim, with a new “Polar Bear Club” right beforehand, “a special time just before the "Polar Bears" for younger folks or people needing a little more room.”

A young man and a rosy-cheeked woman threw a stick for their Aussie, the remnants of an early breakfast on a nearby picnic table. The Mallards gathered near the shore, the water shiny and reflective, a tinge of fuchsia above the silver. A fat squirrel, probably triple his summer weight, streaks across the frosty grass towards the line of trees still showing green, Camellias, a tall Madrona, and the red-barked cedars.

Finding it within his awkward silhouette to soar, a merganser lazed through the mist, and 2013 dawned clear and cold. Obama won major concessions last night – he seems tougher and more resolute, if that is possible – in this second term. The future seems more rosy than a year ago, a tinge of hope above the gray.

Don't Label People With Down Syndrome

Don't Label People With Down Syndrome is an important column written by a parent with a son affected by Down Syndrome. Labels are important, and so is the reality of raising any child.

The Legacy of Holly Near and Women's Music

It's been a long, long time since I made it to a concert, but I went to see Holly Near perform on Wednesday night. Her lyrics still inspire me, her songs are still made for a roomful of women harmonizing, and her political vision still encompasses a wide variety of issues and insights.

I first heard Holly's music in Greeley, Colorado, known for Monfort's stock yards and the smelly sugar beet plant. We Colorado folks had never heard of Women's Music, but I was lucky enough to have a housemate from the Bay Area. She brought albums from Cris Williamson, Meg Christian, Margie Adam, Kate Wolf and others, and we played them 24/7. 

My housemates and I were members of a theatre troupe that put on improvisational shows for Deaf and hearing children, and I remember signing Cris Williamson's Song of the Soul in one of our shows. We sang and lip-synced and signed and danced and loved and became politicized through this wonderful new music. 

So did the kittens. Our upstairs housemates had a litter of little ones. One afternoon, we were playing Meg Christian's "Leaping Lesbians" and looked up to see the kittens sneaking down the stairs with huge eyes and poofy tails, to find out just WHAT this woman was singing about!

I went from driving my dorm roommate crazy with Kris Kristofferson to playing Women's Music on my little record player. It wasn't even a stereo! 

When I moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1978, I found a community of women who regularly attended concerts by women from Olivia Records, as well as Claudia Schmidt, Kate Wolf, Alive!, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Teresa Trull, Kay Gardner and many others, as well as local women like Liz Olds and Ann Reed. I've seen Holly perform in venues as small as our church basement women's coffeehouse and as large as the Michigan Women's Music Festival, which drew 10,000 women for a long weekend in August.

I remember the sign language interpreter giggling her way through Meg's song about menstrual cramps. "oooowwwaaahhhoooowww!" 

I had never heard of Ukiah, California, but it will always be on the map for me because of a song (Water Come Down) about riding the irrigation water down the ditches, and how Holly has "never felt anything quite like that since!"

I remember sitting next to my housemate in our church basement coffeehouse, each of us breathing an awed sigh of recognition when Holly signed "family" in the song about looking up to her sister, "You Got Me Flying." I remember Timothy Near and Susan Freundlich signing a song together, weaving the signs and their bodies together in a way that was part Sign and part dance.

I remember women filling several sections of a huge divided classroom at the University of Minnesota, and Holly dividing us into sections to sing "Nicolia". The winter night was dark and cold, but the harmonies were beautiful and I always came away from concerts high, empowered and unable to sleep for needing to sing. 

I remember carefully going through every album looking for a song that was sufficiently lesbian to satisfy my discomfort with the Top 40, yet subtle enough to teach to a high school choir. Somehow, Something About the Women, which seemed safe enough to my naive eyes (after all, I was comparing it to "Leapin' Lesbians", "Golden Thread" and the Lesbian Concentrate album!) didn't fool that advisor one bit! She insisted on hearing all my songs privately from then on, before letting me play them for the students! In the early 1990's, when I worked in another high school, I was out to the entire school population, students and staff. And there were out gay kids who were much braver than I had to be! Schools are still not safe for GLBTQ students, but it they do have visible and proud role models now.

I remember not really being clear about the ramifications of the shootings at Kent State until I heard It Could Have Been Me Every song taught me something new about this politically aware new world I was entering. Holly's songs made me think about issues, history and how everyone has their own story to tell, whether their "skin is golden, like mine will never be", whether they are a teacher in some Third World country or a poet continuing to sing even after the junta shot his hands so he could no longer play his guitar.

I found my heart in lyrics that promised that Someday One Will Do and gave me hope that someday, someone would "Sit With Me" through the night. I knew one woman who called that the "co-dependency" song, but I always thought that label was pretty cold. Everyone needs to be able to fall apart sometimes outside of therapy, even in therapy-happy Minneapolis!

Tonight, remembering songs from thirty years ago, and going through the discography to find their titles, I still hear each song in my head, bringing back a time of vibrant community, hope and despair, personal, political, ethical and spiritual growth. Looking back, alone or with other women, I realize that we really did make a difference in this world. Holly and Cris and Meg and the others were leaders, but each of us was changed irrevocably by the music and the times, and we all made a difference.

Women's music, most particularly Holly's consistency, wisdom and humor, showed me the way. I will never forget the music or the experience of sitting in that auditorium, singing about a young woman who learned to organize!

Thank you, Holly. We're still here.

Quiet

Cool rainy night in Seattle, listening to Carrie Newcomer. Sore, stiff knee from a collision with a running dog this afternoon. Damp puppy snoozing on the floor across the room. House is very quiet. 


Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray. 


We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.