Posts filed under 'Poverty'
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
April 26th, 2007
Last night was one of those times that made me proud to work for Edmonton’s Hope Mission. We held our Annual Spring Banquet, a fundraiser of sorts–the preparation for which has been shredding my days, exhibited by my lack of posting. Anyway, all the convention and propriety of your average Banquet was present. All the good-natured banter of a well run better-than-average banquet was also present. But what brought it all to life was the subsequent graduation ceremony.
A Hope Mission graduation is, as you might expect, of a different order. Of course there were the presentations, the certificates, the pins, and a kind of procession. However, the graduates themselves were a curious mix of ages and backgrounds–from desperate to privileged–and their achievements were of a different sort. There were six month grads, one year, and two year grads. The time they had been clean…clean of crack, crystal, alcohol, gambling…
Some of the guys ventured to talk about their recovery process. The phrase, "grace of God," was a sincere refrain. All attributed their success so far to a mixture of faith, earnest desire, a stable place, a structure, and most of all, connections with Chaplains, or councilors, or intake workers.
One moving moment was when one of our Chaplains read a letter he had received from a son of one of the one-year grads. The letter spoke of dark times, estranged times, but now, of hopeful times. The son praised his father for making it this far–for crawling "out of a hole so big." The father sat on the stage in buoyant silence. The letter ended, "I love you dad." The audience stood and applauded.
But for me the highlight was Andrew. Andrew, six-foot-four, 40 or 50–hard to tell, snappy black suit, head shaved clean as a whip, comfortable in his kit, comfortable behind a mike and with a perpetual smile. He talked about how he never really had a problem with booze, never got into it, ’cause it interfered with his drug habit. He talked about a long stretch of spending thousands a week, then, finally becoming the guy who hung around food courts looking for scraps. By then, as Andrew put it, he was a "picturesque 145 pounds." Slumping about the downtown malls, lurching about the streets, months away from a bath and even farther from clean clothes. He was the guy you avoided.
Mercy still operates. Andrew made it through our six-month "Break Out" addictions program. That was over four years ago. And for the past two years he’s been working at our men’s shelter as an intake worker. That, and running five or more AA or NA meetings a week. Grace flows in.
Technorati Tags: Hope Mission, Addiction Programs, Graduation, AA, NA, Grace, Homelessness, Spirituality
February 19th, 2007
At 6:30 in the morning it’s still dark, although the sky is beginning to tell rumours otherwise. It was colder this morning than I anticipated. So I stopped under a light by a brick building to fish out my warmer toque and gloves. I’m never prepared for much, but when it comes to walking, I’m prepared.
Last night’s dusting of snow hid the frozen puddles and I slipped three times on my way to 105 Street Starbucks. I caught myself each time and warned myself I may not be so lucky next time. It worked.
One-o-five Street was closed so I walked to 109th. It was closed as well…until 8 AM. That’s because it’s Family Day here in Alberta. A gift from former pro football player, former Premier, Don Getty.
I think Don–and no doubt the whole successive lot of our Premier’s–is he’d still have a hard time with recognizing the changing face of family. You see in 1989, Don Getty introduced Family Day as an unique Alberta statutory holiday to recognize the family values of the pioneers who built our province. And while back in 1989 we were more inclined than today, to celebrate the values of home and family, as one observer put it, "with gopher shoots, line dancing marathons and anti-gay marriage parades," most will still feel squeamish about today’s front page picture, presented as "family."
Lance Anderson, left, and Blair Croft with their five-year-old son, Tyree.
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The hurdles this couple faced, all in the name of child-welfare, over adopting this child through provincial channels were legion. Even though Blair Croft worked in the province’s child-care sector for over a decade.
Having some experience in dealing with child social services, I know that there are thousands of kids who will spend their childhood in government care–in foster homes and group homes. This was, and in some arenas still is, viewed as preferable to having a gay couple adopt a child from within the "system."
There is still a big need for attitudinal change, but it is encouraging to know there’s hope, even here in Alberta "where the family comes first."
Technorati Tags: Gay couples and adoption, Alberta Family Day, Child Welfare, Foster homes, Group homes, Politics, Poverty
January 11th, 2007
As you may know from a previous post, a special memorial service was held this past Sunday at Hope Mission, (my work place) for all the people who had died on or around Edmonton streets. Cheryl’s brother Jason, was one of them.
Here is the eulogy and announcement made by Cheryl:
My name is Cheryl Kaye Tardif and I am the sister of Jason Kaye, Edmonton’s third homicide last January. Jason was a young man, only 28 when he died, who struggled with alcohol and depression. We tried to be there for him and never gave up hope that he’d turn his life around. Until he was murdered and left to die alone.
As a teen, Jason was a red-headed computer genius, who had so much potential. As an adult, he was always the jokester and would give his shirt off his back to help a friend. Since his death, we have heard so many heartening stories from some of his wonderful friends, and this comforts us to know that he was not alone, even though he had cut himself off from family.
It was difficult for the police to track us down, since my last name is not the same and we’re the only family Jason had in Edmonton . But Jason had told his friends that his sister was an author who had written a book about whales. That’s how the police found me. Whale Song, a novel, was the only book of mine that my brother had ever read, and this April it will be re-released, bigger and better, with a special dedication to my brother. Whale Song is Jason’s book now. 
On behalf of my family, who live in various provinces and could not be here today, I would like to take this time to thank the Edmonton Police for their caring and persistence in this investigation, which is still open. Thank you to the media who has always dealt with us gently and honestly, to Jason’s friends―the Porch Monkeys―who made him happy, and to the organizations that tried to help him.
I would like to take this time to formally announce that I will be donating a portion of my royalties from my novel Whale Song to the three main organizations that helped my brother most: The Bissell Centre, the Mustard Seed Church and Hope Mission.
It is my hope that this money will be used to better the downtown area for all people, especially those less fortunate. It is my dream that there are some who want to be helped, whose life may be changed-may be saved, as we were unable to do for Jason. It is my vision that our streets be made safer, especially for those who walk them and live on them.
I’m doing this for myself, for my brother Jason and for all the ‘Jasons’ out there, because no one should go hungry, or be forgotten…or die alone in a cold, dark alley.
Thank you.
Cheryl’s Blog… (Now listed in Grow Mercy’s blogroll)
Technorati Tags: Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Whale Song, Hope Mission, Homelessness
January 10th, 2007
"Wouldn’t let a knight out on a dog like this." Funny how that old chestnut doesn’t work in print.
AM, Jasper and 101 Street Edmonton, Alberta
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Listened to wind whistle past our leaky bedroom window last night. Reports of snow accumulation had tempered over the past few days. Two days ago during the "Perfect Storm" warnings I thought myself clever for living on the third floor.
I’ve trudged to the Jasper and 101 St. Starbucks today. A little disoriented as a result. No regular table you see. But I considered the blizzard and since I need to be down at the Hope Mission Centre for a meeting this morning I got geographically sensible.
I didn’t see any "pickers" or panhandlers this morning, just a few toqued business men. And one bareheaded lady, skirt and high heels, tripping along 4th Street. I’m thinking she parked a-place-too-far from car to "coiffe-ateria." (forgive me) Wind whipped her and her short blond hair…but at least if she makes it indoors her hair will not have been horribly compressed by a wool cap. That would be ghastly. Frost burns are much prettier.
CBC did an obligatory cold weather/blizzard story the other night. One guy said in an interview that if it wasn’t for Hope Mission he’d be dead. Janelle, Hope Mission’s spokesperson, said to the camera that the blizzard will bring a few people up from the river valley. I was sunk into a warm couch listening to this, tempted to swear that Edmonton has the hardiest street people, not thinking about the chain of grim circumstance that might keep someone "living" in the river valley in weather like this. I have no concept. My brush with homelessness was a luxury.
A guy selling Voice, (street vending for street people), has just now taken his position on the corner of Jasper and 101 St. in front of the old Commerce bank. Can barely make him out through the still dim dawn and the sideways snow.
Then there are the bicycle couriers, one just walked in covered in snow, tugging at a face mask, brushing himself off. These are Vikings, the Norsemen of today. I had ambitions to be one once…bicycle courier that is. Fortunately I lived on an acreage at the time.
Technorati Tags: Blizzards, Homelessness, Bicycle couriers
November 22nd, 2006
Ever on the lookout, your middlingly-intrepid scribe has uncovered another amazing achievement in euphemism.
Now I’m not saying we don’t need access to the occasional euphemism–especially if you’re a parent–but like everything else in life, there are limits.
We are all familiar with euphemisms for death, sex, and all those fun ones for excrement (and sex). And of course these days the U.S. Department of Defence, once the Department of War, spawns a new military euphemism everyday…oh let me see: smart bombs, collateral damage, safe bunkers, hard targets, hit ratios, surgical strikes, preemptive strike, friendly fire…stop me if you’ve heard these before. Yup, war is essentially bloodless.
Well, to the academy of deflection, in the category of poverty, I mean, low-income status, add: "very low food security."
Central Park, New York, May 2003
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The U.S. government has proclaimed that Americans will never be hungry again. But they may experience "very low food security," or, "multiple indications of disrupted eating patterns and reduced food intake."
Hunger has hit the skids as an acceptable, and according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, a scientifically accurate term. You see the term hunger isn’t "conceptually and operationally sound." It is instead "a consequence of food insecurity."
So gone are the embarrassing yearly reports that used the word ’hunger’ to describe those who can least afford to put food on the table. Which the Committee on National Statistics puts at a startling 11 percent of American households. Canadian stats are around 6 percent (Fraser Institute).
Of course when it comes to poverty, numbers are flexible things. But then, one percent is too much. And anything that serves to hide a problem that real people are facing does us all a huge disservice.
Euphemism in this context does exactly that. It subtly eases the friction we need to feel over hungry people. It anesthetizes our perception and allows us to turn away.
And the last thing we need is more excuses and ways to become less human, less merciful. Sorry, I mean the last thing we need is more avenues to a sumptuary engagement of personhood.
Technorati Tags: Food Security, Euphemism, Hunger, USDA, Politics
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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.
Front Porch Pictures
