Posts filed under 'Poverty'
July 8th, 2008
Brian will never pay the $110 fine he got last night for riding the subway without a ticket.
Brian will never find a job. Well, he’ll never look for one in order to find one. He will spend his days begging and if he’s late to the shelter, he’ll spend his nights outside-like last night. In fact I know that when he’s dressed for it he prefers outside.
Last night Brian slept in the ribbon of park that runs through Railtown. And–not being dressed for it–this morning he was deep-chilled, holding in what heat remained by wrapping his arms around himself. That’s why when I first saw him I was concerned he was hurt, or had been beat up, and was relieved that he was only cold. I’ve seen Brian is various states of repair and disrepair and Maybe it was the day but his bundled appearance must have appealed. Within the space of 10 minutes he had a hot coffee–from a nurse he informed me–and enough change from myself and two women in a van to buy a good breakfast.
The day was a self-starter and Brian welcomed the bounty. But good luck to the Commission in collecting their levy.
Happy are those who consider the poor;
…they are called happy in the land. (Psalm 41)
June 17th, 2008
…I seem to be following a thread from yesterday’s post.
Years ago I came across a quote, which I can no longer locate, that said something to the effect that we need to ask for forgiveness from those we care for.
On this, initial confusion has given way to some clarity: When I started work as manager of a homeless shelter, the work was, in my mind, something far more noble than the industry I was leaving. I relished comments like, “Oh, the work you do is so difficult…but it must be rewarding.” And I didn’t resist the implication that other work, by virtue of its secularity or its attention to widgets, was socially (and spiritually) inferior.
Thankfully, over time, a number of small rancorous events served to reflect my attitude back to me. What I see now, a thing of distress to me and an irony that escaped me entirely, was that this rarefied attitude automatically undermined my compassion for the people I tried to serve. If inwardly, I saw “my work” as elevated above the kind of gainful employment I encouraged “street people” to seek, of what use was that? Worse, if I fell (which I did) for the accompanying inside message that told me that my identity is all about my work? well, now it’s not just what I do that’s more important, it’s that I’m more important. And what does all this project into the ether?
Of course it’s easy enough for those on the so-called receiving side to detect the smell of this attitude–an attitude which is really a subjugating spirit that extends a hand only through condescension.
But anyone in a position of helping another person is in a position of power. And so any sort of giving outside of some humility is mere self-congratulating care. The help may be received but not welcomed. Received, but resented. Think of America’s bewilderment at not being liked even after dropping bags of rice on drought-gutted African countries. A sense of social and spiritual superiority is a creeping vine. It takes time and perhaps outright in-the-face hostility, and then a willingness for reflection, to cut it off at the base.
Care that is condescending, that draws attention to itself and so unduly points out need in others just sets up and reinforces socio-spiritual class systems. No, the only way through this is acquiring, through contemplation and practice and much rehearsal and many refresher courses, a transformational understanding that knows, in the thick of human encounter, that we are all one.
May 28th, 2008
Empathy and consideration for the life of another person is hard to keep in possession. The daily pull into myself and the world-of-my-life can only be balanced by a daily encounter with another human face.
And so this morning when I stopped to talk I made myself conscious of the accumulation of your joys and sorrows that were soft-sculpted into your face. I saw both the nuances and the patencies of your history. All those experiences etched in.
You were half a block away. When I crossed the street and stepped up on the curb I saw the inevitability of your approach. You walked toward me, your self-consciousness a forgotten thing, and one of the reasons you looked out of joint with time and place.
Your face, that unfinished painting through which you look at me and the world, revealed some dark passages. I often mask my own face–and we all have our veneers–but yours was far more vulnerable. Yours, a far thinner veneer.
Your story, the details of which are all unique and varied, beg some tragic questions. Asked, you told me how they look to you now. You drifted here from a northern reserve, a reserve you say is dying, hopeless. You said there was nothing for you there…but I understood that this was not nothing in the way I told my friends a half-generation ago when I left my own town, saying, “there is nothing for me here.” Your nothing is on a scale I can’t grasp.
Your drama, your paths, have to do with deep and complex breakage’s. I offer you so little, except a bit of time and spare change; you awaken a piece of humanity within me.
You know, of course, why you’re resented by many. And sometimes by me. You arouse emotions within me that I would sooner put aside. You are a constant reminder of a reality I want to forget. I don’t like being forced to notice the base poverty of my response to you. And so I ultimately blame you for my lack of compassion for you.
March 6th, 2008
There is a glaring difference between the Veradero peninsula and most everywhere else in 
Cuba. And from a certain philanthropic sensibility the difference is guilt inducing. In a limited respect, concerning the country’s two proximate living conditions, It’s like the reverse of the fly in the ointment.
We stayed at one of Veradero’s many all-inclusive hotels. From our room at the Isberostar Tainos we looked out across acres of visitor’s villas to the Straits of Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. And on the beach we joined the well oiled and well baked, raising our Mojito’s in salud. But south of the hotels, ten miles away across the bay, was the city of Cardenas. The buses carrying tourists don’t stop here. Cuba prefers to hide a city like Cardinas.
As a tourist from a decidedly first-world country I found it necessary to accept my birthplace, my history, and my limited experience without rationalization or excuse, without forgetting or neglecting what I found and witnessed. Some of the 
tourists I observed stayed on the instituted turista path and moved with an established sense of entitlement–for some, perhaps it’s a defence. On the other hand spending the days in a slurry of guilt serves no one…unless it’s one’s preferred form of penance (I have some experience with this).
My practice–perhaps, hopefully, a kind of mindful detachment–was that I thoroughly and gratefully enjoyed the beach, the food, the people, our friends, our new friends, and pretty much all the toda inclusiva amenities. And at the same time, while walking the degenerated streets of Cardenas, and then meeting the Lopez family, I listened, engaged as well as I could, and joined our friends in giving gifts.
January 22nd, 2008
Van Morrison is in my head singing…."gotta make it through January, gotta make it through February," and I pine for summer and the stirring of a warm western breeze.
I was happy to see Brian this morning. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. He said he spent a bit of time in jail…something to do with refusing to stay out of the subway and off the LRT. He likes riding the LRT. But he is back panhandling at Starbucks and things seem right again. (But how could they be for Brian?) He was glad of today’s slight moderation in temperature, and added that he was happy he lived here in Canada, away from the "crazy weather." I agreed. Then he said, "But February is coming and that’s always the coldest."
I recall a very cold mid-winter day years ago, so cold that my truck refused to completely warm up. A mile out of the city stood a woman, her hand weakly raised in a hitch-hikers signal. I slowed and stopped beside her. She seemed warm enough in a giant overcoat and scarf and Kodiak boots. She opened the door, laboriously it seemed, and she didn’t bother to look at me. She had high prominent cheek bones, a round face and deep watery eyes. She shut the door behind her we started off toward the city.
She said, "I had a dream about you." I caught my breath. "I know you, your name is Bruno," she added. I smelled the sour odour of disinfectant. I noticed she had no gloves on and in one hand she gripped a wad of tissue which she would hold up to her nose and mouth every few moments. She had soaked the tissue with Lysol. I remember hearing that Lysol when inhaled can make you feel warm. She never felt her hands freezing.
I stopped across from a Chinese café. This is where she was determined to get out. I wondered if I should just drive her to an intox centre, the Spady perhaps. Instead I gave her money for a meal and then gave her orders to throw away the Lysol and make sure to get something to eat. She offered a sexual favour for the money. I said no and tried to hurry her out of the truck. I felt shame, shame for me, shame for her. I said a quick prayer for her and drove off. She could have been any age between 20 and 50. I felt nauseous and helpless. I didn’t ask her her name, something I almost always do. It was the cold, I reasoned.
August 12th, 2007
Let me introduce you to author Cheryl Kaye Tardif and her story…and how she is using one story to help homeless people.
Thanks, Steve, for having me visit Grow Mercy on Day 12 of my ‘Touring the World’ virtual book tour, where I’m promoting my latest novel Whale Song, a novel that will change the way you view life…and death. This is the first stop where I get truly personal, sharing a very painful part of my life…but one that is also filled with hope.
First, I’d like to pose a few questions. If you saw a beggar on the sidewalk, hand out for a bit of change, would you scowl, judge him and walk by? Or would you say ‘Sorry, I don’t have any change.” Or would you buy him a coffee and donut? Or would you hand him some money?
I know that these questions pose a moral dilemma for most. The first thing that seems to come to mind is that the beggar will only use the money for nefarious purposes–booze or drugs. And we have an aversion to helping anyone with those addiction problems. We also judge these people. Some of us think, “I worked hard for my money. Why should I give it to him when he can’t be bothered to get a job?” Some of us feel that we should ‘protect them’, buy them food or drink so they don’t spend it on a bottle of rye. Some of us give the money, thinking ‘it’s his choice’.
A while ago I heard two girls in a downtown Wendy’s discussing a man pushing 
a cart outside. They called him a “bum”, laughed at him, and said he “should get a job”. In their callous naiveté, they thought a job would solve everything for this man. They had no concept of the fact that a person with addictions is physically and mentally unable to keep a job, without a lot of support and therapy. Spurred on by a burst of anger, I stormed outside the Wendy’s with a nearly full container of fries and I asked the man if he wanted them. The light in his eyes was the only answer I needed. Everything he owned was in that shopping cart, with no money for the day’s meal. I talked to him for about 5 minutes, and that man had stories to tell. An avid reader and educated fellow, he once had a job, a family…everything. Then he lost them all. I gave him some money, let him make his own choice for his life.
The opinion of these girls is a common one, and I will admit that even I have had those thoughts, once, about two years ago. Until something happened to change the way I view other people, especially those begging for change. Something that made me want to face those girls and yell, “Don’t laugh at him! That could be your father! Your brother!” But I didn’t. Instead, I went outside and spoke with a man whose life was measured by the belongings in a rusty shopping cart. I’m glad I did. And I owe my actions to my brother Jason.
A number of years ago, I invited my younger brother to come stay with us in Edmonton, Alberta, to look for work and help him get a fresh start. He had been living on Salt Spring Island in BC, and like a typical young person, he’d been getting into some minor trouble. In his early 20s, he moved to Edmonton, and everyone thought his life was just beginning. We never suspected what would happen. Not really.
On January 23rd, 2006, my 28-year-old computer-genius brother with his crazy humor, copper hair and freckled face was brutally murdered. It happened early in the morning in a cold, dark alley not far from the Mustard Seed Church, with no witnesses. I try not to think of his last moments, but it is hard not to imagine him begging for help, or crying for my Mom. Even typing this now is difficult. It’s been over a year since Jason died, yet sometimes it feels like yesterday. I miss him. I miss his laughter, his practical jokes and his generous spirit.
My brother led the life of that man with the cart. He had been homeless for a time, had tried numerous jobs, but his alcohol addiction overwhelmed him. He was on medication, off and on, for depression, and refused to keep in touch with our family. In some ways, he was determined to break free from his lifestyle; in some ways, he wanted us to be separate from it. Even though he lived in the same city, I never knew where he was from one day to the next, and long months would go by with no contact. To be truthful, I was relieved. There is nothing worse than watching someone you love spiral out of control and know that there’s nothing you can do to stop it. His choice, his life.
The morning that the police found Jason was a day like any other for me. I didn’t see the news, and even if I had, they had not released a name. So I went to work, writing in my office like any other day. I was finishing a second version of Whale Song in hopes that it would get picked up by a bigger publisher. And then someone knocked on my door…or the doorbell rang. I don’t remember. When I saw the two men on my doorstep I immediately assumed they were politicians. It was election day. They asked if I was Cheryl Tardif. I said yes. Then they asked me if I had a brother named Jason Kaye. I said yes and let them inside, thinking my brother was in trouble with the law.
It’s funny, that day–funny in a weird dreamlike way. Everyone in my family, including me, had always said that we were expecting a call from the police to say Jason was dead. We had even imagined that he’d end up in an accident, or stagger into a ditch and peacefully fall asleep. We knew he was an alcoholic and we knew he suffered from mental illness. But still, as I sat at my kitchen table with the two detectives, I didn’t really see it coming. Not at first. Not murder.
But someone was watching over me. My brother had left me some ‘gifts’. My husband showed up a minute later. He’d finished work extremely early that day. (Thank you, Jason.) When the detectives told me my brother was dead, that he had been murdered, there was no screaming or crying, no sinking to the floor like I would have imagined. Just a quiet calm that settled over my heart, and a quiet voice in my head that said, “This is the day you knew would come. Jason’s gone.”
The police told me that they had some problems tracking down Jason’s next of kin. After all, my last name is Tardif. I use Kaye, my maiden name, for writing purposes only. They called some Kayes in the area but none of them are related to us. And here was another gift. Jason had told his friends that his sister Cheryl (no last name) was an author in Edmonton who had wrote a book about whales. That’s it. That’s what the police had to go on. They Googled my name–and there I was.
Another gift: three months later, Whale Song was picked up by a bigger publisher and was re-released as a special, revised and expanded edition in April 2007, with a special dedication to my brother Jason. Whale Song is his book now. And as a result, I decided early on that it would benefit others who are struggling with life, addictions and mental illness.
That is why every time you buy a copy of Whale Song, you are helping three organizations: Hope Mission, Mustard Seed Church and the Bissell Centre. 5% of my royalties will go to EACH of these, to help combat poverty, homelessness and addictions. I invite you to order today, spare that bit of change, because I’m begging for it now…on behalf of those in need.
Today, August 12, 2007, not only can you help support these organizations, you also have a chance to win one of 44 prize packages. To qualify, you must first order Whale Song on Amazon.com or Chapters.ca on August 12th only. Then, go to my contest page and follow the instructions and rules very carefully.
Order Whale Song from Amazon.com
Order Whale Song from Chapters.ca
44 Prizes Contest rules.
Thank you again for letting me share my brother Jason with your visitors. For more information on Jason Kaye, please visit his memorial site at http://www.jaysporchmonkeys.com
I am also begging for change—not money, but change in how we look at others. The next time you see a beggar with his hand out, I hope each of you will think for a moment, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” Spare a little change in how you think, grow mercy…and gain a bit more soul.
~Cheryl Kaye Tardif
author of Whale Song, The River and Divine Intervention
http://www.whalesongbook.com
August 3rd, 2007
Fran will be evicted at the end of the month. Her apartment at the Burlington Arms, she’s been informed, is being converted to condo’s.
It happens, and Fran understands in a what-are-you-going-to-do sort of way. She tells me that most of her neighbours have been able to find places or make temporary arrangements.
But what Fran is really aggravated over is a Provincial government postcard size ad in the Sun Newspaper stating that legislation was passed last April 24, making it compulsory for owners and developers to give one year notice to tenants before making any condo conversions or major renovations.
Well, the ad, with phone number to call, should naturally be helpful. But to Fran, the ad is a lie. She called, and was told nothing could be done because the apartments were already designated as condos, had been, apparently, shortly after they were built. But to the tenants, Burlington Arms was an apartment block and had always been managed as such.
(Fran on the steps of the Legislature. She said she was interviewed by the Edmonton Journal and CFRN TV–now scooped by GrowMercy. She’s just hoping someone will listen.)
Once again the Alberta economic advantage is kicking in just in time to save the wealthy from the rabble. Such as Fran, formidable in her cardboard box, mobilizing who can tell what other vast resources so as to block Alberta’s nouveau riche property owners from their rightful windfalls. (Sorry, my cynicism is showing.)
August 2nd, 2007
Yesterday, Hilary Duff showed up to serve lunch at one of our (HOPE Mission) shelters.
…in the category of Quotable Quotes…
“The Hope Mission was a priority and we wanted to lend a hand,†Duff said after completing her kitchen shift. “It’s so rewarding for me. I love to get down and dirty and help out.â€
No matter what I may think of Hilary Duff’’s music, or acting, or accompanying persona, or for that matter, choice of adjectives, I give her credit for taking time to bring attention to homelessness and hunger.
Naturally philanthropic appearances serve both celeb and charity, but in my opinion the young lady is sincere…and she wore the hat well.
(Pictures courtesy of David Bloom)
For my part, particularly as Development guy, even though we shared the spotlight with Alberta Harvest, I was thankful she chose Hope Mission to make her beneficent appearance and help bring added attention to what the Mission does.
Here’s what the Edmonton Journal had to say:
June 5th, 2007
When my father bought the Springside General Store in or around 1963, our family moved into the two-story living space at the back of the store.
The area upstairs, which was essentially a part of the attic walled off, contained a sitting space and two bedrooms. The bedrooms, with curtains for doors, had trouble containing a bed and a dresser, and the "anteroom" just managed a desk and some book cases.
My little sister and I soon found the rest of the attic. We pried loose a square of painted plywood beside the railing-less stairwell and getting down on hands and knees we squeezed into a crawl space that lead to the larger part of the attic on the other side of the wall.
Among the clutter, under a cover of dust and old newspapers were several cardboard boxes. Most were filled with "store stuff," record sheets in rubber bands, receipt books and rolled up soft cover ledgers. But one small box was full of letters. I anticipated reading the deep troubling, perhaps even frightening secrets of strangers to my pre-school sister. But lifting out the envelopes and pulling out the letters I discovered they were all in Chinese.
The consolation was imagining all the characters or symbols as coded messages in plots of espionage. It was around this time when I told my mother I was going to be a detective. I kept a few of the letters in my room for awhile until the game got old.
The store was one of the oldest in town. At the time I had no idea how much of a struggle it would have been for a Chinese immigrant to become its proprietor during this early history. Perhaps all those letters told the story. I would never know.
"Head Tax" receipt
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But we all know now that the early history of the Chinese people in Canada was tragic. After the CPR was built by exploited Chinese labour a head tax was imposed by the Canadian government to discourage any further immigration. The tax was subsequently raised in hopes that–not being able to bring family members over–the Chinese would emigrate back to China. The racist attitude was singularly evident in the fact that the Chinese were the only ethnic group that had to pay a Head Tax to enter Canada.
Still later, the Chinese Immigration Act of 1923, referred to now as the Chinese "Exclusion" Act, barred Chinese immigration out right.
Too little, too late; in June of 2006, Prime Minister Harper offered an apology and compensation only for the head tax once paid by Chinese immigrants. Survivors or their spouses will be paid approximately $20,000 in compensation. There was an estimated 20 Chinese Canadians who paid the tax still alive in 2006. The Canadian government collected over 1.2 billion dollars (calculated in 1980’s dollars, when the redress effort began in earnest) in "head tax."
Beneath the streets of Moose Jaw (file pic)
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It’s a credit to the Moose Jaw "tunnel tour" that it doesn’t shrink from telling this story and exposing the racist attitudes of our recent ancestors.
Prior to Prohibition, the vast basements under the hotels and a few early tunnels were the "sunless domain of Chinese immigrants who lived and toiled in steam laundries and gunny-sack factories." Here and places like this is where many travailed for meager wage, but still saved money for the "head tax" required for Canadian citizenship.
The story is told here in the "Passage to Fortune" tour. As the flyer says, "It’s an honest and moving presentation that pulls few punches in dealing with the racist attitudes in North America 100 years ago, and how Chinese Canadians rose above them to find happiness and prosperity."
Technorati Tags: Moose Jaw Tunnels, Chinese Head Tax, Springside General Store, Politics, Poverty
May 1st, 2007
The young man beside me is reading a book called, "Preaching to a Postmodern World," and without opening the book you know the author hasn’t grasped the concept of postmodernity. Unless of course if the author is a Dave Barry type. Maybe it’s a send-up. Because a postmodern world can’t be "preached to." At any rate, society still has a serious modernity hang-over. Evidenced by the modern author’s title. Unfortunately the last bastion of the Modern experiment is the church.
Brian was leaning on the wall outside Starbucks, blue hoodie covering most of his face. Brian is a First Nations man. He’s tall and slim. Not young, not old. His skin shows the scarring of a bad case of acne.
He sleeps outside. But when it’s cold he sleeps at the Spady Centre. I say, "But you have to be intoxicated to get in there." I say this because I know Brian doesn’t drink and doesn’t hang around the guys that do. He says, "I pretend," and does a little wobble for me.
Somehow I love the picture. We always have guys who are pixilated trying to act sober so they can get in the men’s shelter. And here’s Brian, "fully-facultied," staggering into the Spady.
I’ve known Brian for a while and have talked to him often. But he’s still in the habit of calling me sir. And he says God bless you when I leave. I return the blessing.
I tell Pamela, who I see in Starbucks occasionally, about Brian’s graciousness. She tells me a story about working in a liqour store in Yellowknife. How some of the guys who collected empties and panhandled for a day to make enough for a bottle would leave a tip–often leaving everything they had made.
Dan had a friend with him today, Jay. They were both still a bit high. Giddy and seemingly happy to be out panhandling. They wanted money for breakfast…they say. We banter. Then for a moment they get serious. They tell me they have dreams to be youth addiction counsellors. And refer to their state as reason enough. And at that moment, I believe they’re serious. I tell them to hang on to that because over the weekend I was reminded of the Alice in Wonderland quote.
"Alice laughed: "There’s no use trying," she said; "one can’t believe impossible things." "I daresay you haven’t had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Technorati Tags: Alice in Wonderland, Postmodernity, Homelessness, Christianity, Poverty
Previous Posts
Brian will never find a job. Well, he’ll never look for one in order to find one. He will spend his days begging and if he’s late to the shelter, he’ll spend his nights outside-like last night. In fact I know that when he’s dressed for it he prefers outside.
The Veranda collapsed under the weight of a winter snow, so I built a Front Porch.
