Thanksgiving in a Shelter

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.  What a strange one it was.  Nevermind that on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing I'd be working most of the actual holiday, I had what is definitely one of the most memorable and delicious Thanksgiving meals I've had so far with a collection of friends and housemates whom I'd known for scarcely more than 3 months, if that.  Well, not "nevermind"; "thank you, Father, for your blessing; I am learning to be content whether well-fed or in want."  It was wonderful.  But it was just such a sharp contrast to my actual Thanksgiving day.

As days at work go, it was a very quiet one.  I got to the youth homeless shelter where I work around 2:30pm and all the residents gathered a 3:00pm for a Thanksgiving dinner complete with tablecloths, apple cider, and pie.  Only about 1/4 of the residents on my floor were there, most of the rest of them having been welcomed back, at least for a few hours, into their homes or their friends'.  Homes they had left or been told to leave because they argued or fought or were gay or got pregnant or went to jail or didn't want to deal with the instability or the abuse or the broken promises.  Homes where a big dinner had been cooked and where people would eat together and then go their separate ways, some back to their bedrooms and some back to a shelter.

It's confusing, to be honest: If you have a family whom you can celebrate Thanksgiving with, why can't you live with them too?  But it's not so simple.  I don't pretend to have the discernment my residents do to tell when Mom's stable enough for them to visit versus when going back will just bring them more rejection and harm.  So I see them dressing up, hair done, and tell them to have a happy Thanksgiving as they leave.

But others stay.  We play charades: "promise ring!" "ginger!" "story!" "Michael Jackson!"  And we watch Ms. Doubtfire.  We talk about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and how going once is enough.  We eat the cold cuts that have been delivered to our floor by the kitchen staff to stave off hunger when the Thanksgiving fullness has worn off.  We check on the residents who have chosen to stay in their rooms, alone.  We laugh and chat.

When new residents come to live with us, within their first few days we complete a basic assessment of their history and needs.  It takes the form of a one-on-one conversation with a staff member who asks a series of questions about their housing and homeless history, health and mental health history and status, education, employment status, childhood, abuse and trauma history, arrest history, family and non-family support system, and goals while living at the shelter.  Typically, it takes about an hour.  Around 8:30pm, I found one of the residents whose assessment was in need of completion, and she joined me in the office to conduct it.

Thanksgiving is a terrible day to complete this assessment.  It brings up all manner of painful memories and past traumas, many of them caused by loved ones with the analogues to whom most other people are spending their holiday.  But without this assessment conducted in a timely manner, residents are subject to discharge, and considering that this resident's was overdue, protocol suggested that it was better to be a little emotionally uncomfortable than to not have a bed to sleep in.

Perhaps that sounds harsh or cynical; I do not mean it to be.  To anyone who has not worked in a setting such as a shelter where these regulations are necessary, it seems cold: Answer all these questions that may take you back to places of deep pain, or be kicked back to the curb!  As I've learned, however, the structure is there for a reason, and that reason is to give the best support and services that we can muster to our residents who need them.  Maybe there is a better way to do it (or maybe not, as boundaries and clear expectations have some intrinsic value), but with as many residents as we care for, I don't know it.  So I did the assessment on Thanksgiving night.

We talked about a lot--or at least she did while I listened and tried to keep it moving along with the questions that glared from my computer screen: How her forsaking her family's religion led to a rift in her home that grew until she could no longer live there.  How she does not know where she would be without her school, where she has been well-supported and encouraged to flourish.  How she's been in some damaging romantic relationships.  How much she loved her childhood and how passionate she is about her creative careers aspirations.

And then the last question--of course the last question!  Why is it the last question?  "Have you ever been a victim of sexual abuse?"  And she tells me she has, and lowers her voice, and tells me the details of what happened.  I remind her that she doesn't have to tell me more than she is comfortable telling, and that as she has already requested, I'll make an appointment with her to see one of our social workers soon, as this is a very heavy burden to carry and I don't want her to do it alone.  But she continues: lays out why she used to call it "rape" but now figures maybe he was just "sexually aggressive" even though she said no, why it feels so much like karma, why she was afraid she would die, why...  I've done a lot of these assessments, heard a lot of stories, been present for a lot of retellings of trauma.  After we finish, and I lamely ask her to sign a paper giving us permission to speak to her emergency contact in case of emergency, she leaves and I sit there for a moment to collect myself.  Then I type a summary of what she told me into the little white box on my computer screen, since it seems so inhuman to be typing when someone is trying to tell you that kind of story.

It was by then 10:30pm and my shift was ending.  Feelings are powerful, as is giving them a precise name, but I can't say I knew what I was feeling.  I've long been a faithful student of the declaration that begins Psalm 34: "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise will always be on my lips."  That is, praise (and gratitude, I think, much like love) is a choice: "I will" is not conditional.  "All times" is not sometimes.  "Always" is not only when things are right.

But I know that on that night I did not feel particularly thankful.  There is, of course, the basal gratitude that I always feel at work: Thank you, Father, that I get to be working here, and that I get to be uncomfortable and sad.  But it was somehow too trite a response to say, "Thank you, Father, that I get to be going home, and that I get to be comfortable and happy."  There is just something wrenching about donning my coat and waving bye to my residents, wishing them a happy Thanksgiving for the final time as they play another round of Sorry! and I walk down the hallway of rooms inside which I knew that some other residents are sitting alone.  Again I remind myself to be content whether well-fed or in want because I know I am well-fed.  But mostly the whole scene feels wrong; I know there is not so simple a response as to say, "Thank you, Lord, that I am not in this situation."  So I left and went home and ate some cold pie and went to sleep and woke up warm.  And now, reflecting again, I wonder if it's the same, or better, to say instead, "There but by the grace of God I go."  I trust the Lord, and I will bless him at all times, but this mystery of the unevenness of grace (unmerited!) disturbs me.  Clinging to something (someOne), I remind myself: Our broken world will be redeemed, and I guess it's enough for now.

Now, knowing that I am very small and peripheral but also that I feel more that I can write and that being a body in the crowd means something, I go to rectify, in part, my regrets: #BlackoutBlackFriday

Regrets

I wish I'd gone back to Times Square last night--nevermind that it was late and I'd have gone alone, nevermind I'd already showered and put on my pajamas, nevermind that there will be more rallies and vigils, nevermind that I had to work an early shift today; nevermind that I was tired; nevermind.  If for no other reason than to let my presence serve as a witness to the sorrow of a world rent by killing and racism and pain, I wish I'd gone back.  I watched the news instead, and wore black in mourning (for the death!  for the protests!  for the doggedness of racism!  for the creation that groans!) today.  But I wish I'd gone back.
#BlackLivesMatter

Moments at work, 11/7/14 edition

N: "Ms. Jessica, did you grow up in the hood?"
me: "Mmm, why do you want to know?"
N: "... I think you did."