100,000 Homes.

This is a program started by the organization with which I do homeless outreach. It's called the 100,000 Homes Campaign. They're hoping to house 100,000 people who are living on the streets by 2013, using the outreach model create by my program. Pretty stinkin' amazing.

A Post.

So it’s been a long time. Here we go…

(A) A few months ago when I was at the conference referenced in the post below, someone asked me about my blog. My response was “I used to write a lot, but since Barack Obama was elected, I’m not as angry. I have nothing to say.”

(B) Barack Obama…I am undeterred. I still love him without condition. There are many things I wish were different. I wish that Guantanamo was actually closed. I wish that the war would actually be over by 2011. I wish that there were more jobs, and less debt. I wish that I didn’t see so many new people on the street each week. But I am confident, for the first time in my adult life, that my president is doing all that he can in the best interest of the country. And yes, there are daily things that go horribly wrong. Slow response to the flooding in Nashville. Massive oil spill days after the approval of off-shore drilling. The State (and state) of Arizona. But if we actually pay attention, we will see that things are changing, however slowly. You just have to pay attention.

(C) Attention….I got an iPhone back in October before I started my new job. I needed constant map access so I don’t get lost and murdered. : | I love her (my iPhone). Her name is Imogen. But one of the things that Imogen has brought into my life is a constant stream of media. Book reviews, restaurant reviews, movie reviews, blog and FB comments—all brought to me by way of app. With this flood of information, I’ve begun to notice that we, the young Internet users of America, are a hypercritical, snarky bunch. All books are dull. All restaurants are slow and bad. All movies are lame and unrealistic. All posts are stupid or fake or an opportunity for misplaced criticism of ones president/first lady/mayor/university/TV show/Ryan Seacrest. And so I wonder, how is it that we have so much time on our hands to read and comment in so many places with the sole intent of being nasty? Is it really so important to be the first commenter? I’m hoping that the revolution will include reading books. Positive, well-written books, with correct spelling and punctuation.

(D) Punctuation…I’ve got nothing to say about it. I just really like it. No, love it.

(E) Love…So in November, I took a new job. It was a job I’d had before, but part-time. I’m back homeless outreaching in Bklyn, full-time. I’m the clinician and supervisor for the overnight team. I love this job. Not always the actual job, but the potential of it. I often feel like I'm spinning my wheels, fighting against the currents of bureaucracy and staffing silliness. But the job has renewed my faith in good work, and good people, and has given me a bit of head space to think and plan and read and move forward. I struggle each day with my fatalistic tendencies, cultivated over many years of trying to not be disappointed by life. But there are times when I feel like I come out on the other side, and meet the day with hope. And compassion. And optimistic expectation. Ready to make a better world. And to do it all on about 4 hours sleep. Hardcore.

From FDR.

Tonight I went to see Michael Moore's newest liberal propaganda piece. I heart liberal propaganda...for real. Toward the end of the film, he talks about the success of the labor movement during the Great Depression, and the supportive response of President Roosevelt. In his last State of the Union Address, he spoke about the American government's responsibility to support its citizens in their pursuit of happiness and the right to equality in all aspects of their lives. It is a simple statement, but something that is sadly so, so far removed from where we currently reside. But we have Hope for tomorrow. Read on....

Excerpt from President Roosevelt's January 11, 1944 message to the Congress of the United States on the State of the Union:

It is our duty now to begin to lay the plans and determine the strategy for the winning of a lasting peace and the establishment of an American standard of living higher than ever before known. We cannot be content, no matter how high that general standard of living may be, if some fraction of our people—whether it be one-third or one-fifth or one-tenth—is ill-fed, ill-clothed, ill-housed, and insecure.

This Republic had its beginning, and grew to its present strength, under the protection of certain inalienable political rights—among them the right of free speech, free press, free worship, trial by jury, freedom from unreasonable searches and seizures. They were our rights to life and liberty.

As our nation has grown in size and stature, however—as our industrial economy expanded—these political rights proved inadequate to assure us equality in the pursuit of happiness.

We have come to a clear realization of the fact that true individual freedom cannot exist without economic security and independence. “Necessitous men are not free men.” People who are hungry and out of a job are the stuff of which dictatorships are made.

In our day these economic truths have become accepted as self-evident. We have accepted, so to speak, a second Bill of Rights under which a new basis of security and prosperity can be established for all—regardless of station, race, or creed.

Among these are:

The right to a useful and remunerative job in the industries or shops or farms or mines of the nation;

The right to earn enough to provide adequate food and clothing and recreation;

The right of every farmer to raise and sell his products at a return which will give him and his family a decent living;

The right of every businessman, large and small, to trade in an atmosphere of freedom from unfair competition and domination by monopolies at home or abroad;

The right of every family to a decent home;

The right to adequate medical care and the opportunity to achieve and enjoy good health;

The right to adequate protection from the economic fears of old age, sickness, accident, and unemployment;

The right to a good education.

All of these rights spell security. And after this war is won we must be prepared to move forward, in the implementation of these rights, to new goals of human happiness and well-being.

America’s own rightful place in the world depends in large part upon how fully these and similar rights have been carried into practice for our citizens.

On Vocation.

At CCfB, we have begun a monthly series called "On Vocation," when members of our congregation are given the opportunity to speak about the correlations between occupation, and calling and faith. This is mine....

From my earliest memories up until a series of unfortunate grades my junior year of college, I always saw myself being a school teacher. First elementary school and then, as the sarcasm and cynicism took hold, a high school English teacher. But as I finished my BA in 2001, I began to rethink and embarked on a period of corporate work as a book copy editor. So when I moved to NYC in 2002, it was to do this. And certainly my year at the college newspaper and some time textbook editing were enough to get me a stellar job during a recession when most publishers were laying off the majority of their workforce. Of course. So after about 6 months in the City and about 15 temp jobs, I began volunteering on the days I wasn’t working and to rethink my rethinking. My volunteer job was with the GMHC, where I still volunteer today, and I was one of the people in charge of intake there. I would gather each new client’s information and discuss with the person what services were available to them, and then bring this to the social worker in charge, who would assign them appropriately. This social worker and some friends I had made at Manhattan Church were my advisors as I decided to embark on a new career.

Even as a child I had a strong sense of justice and a powerfully empathic heart. This led to a wicked combination of tattling and friendship with the weird kids, which made me very popular. This has followed me and probably led me to some strange life decisions, and to what can some days be called a successful career.

Since I’ve started officially social working, I have worked with a day program and a food program for people living with AIDS; with a home visiting program for the elderly; in a public hospital as a social worker for people with HIV and in supportive housing for people with mental illness; as an outreach worker for people living on the street and as an administrator for a program for people with mental illness who are attempting to move their lives forward. In these jobs, I have been a party planner, a surrogate grandchild, an advocate, a good, impartial friend; I have put on talent shows and fashion shows and planned memorial services. I have purchased cigarettes, coffee, sandwiches, donuts, shoes, soap, medications and once a big TV. All these things in an effort to better someone’s life situation, to bring them stability and joy and safety and understanding. To fulfill the basic human need of love and belonging.

The job is obviously challenging. In my profession, it is a sign of burn-out if you begin to find the work mundane. I have found, as I have been doing this for about 5 years now, that I reach a point every so often when the weight I bear for others becomes too much for me to bear myself. I am learning to carry less and am finding ways to cope with the frequent times when my work seems futile, and my valleys are becoming less frequent and not as deep. And faith is one of the things I’ve learned to turn to.

In preparing for this I was trying to find scriptures to go with what I was saying here. I searched ‘refuge’ and ‘justice’ and ‘poor’ in the online Bible. And then I went to my own, real-time Bible and looked at the things I have marked and underlined in it. And some of those were the scriptures read today. I have always had great difficulty separating religion from life experience. I was reading an editorial about the career of Senator Ted Kennedy this week and it said that he had an “insistence that politics be grasped and administered through the prism of human needs.” At this point in my life, I feel the same way about work and faith. In seeing each person as a child of God, the person is no longer just a client, a number or a statistic. They are a human being in need of, and deserving of, dignity and compassion.

In my work, there’s a very thin line between brilliant success and utter failure. Dealings in the human condition sadly complicate things. A person knows that they are better off living inside, but finds themself afraid and claustrophobic when they are finally moved off the streets. And it becomes easier for them to live in the park during the summers. Great strides might be made toward health and stability for a person with mental illness, but regardless of resolve, the mysterious nature of brain chemistry may still land them in the hospital every 6 months. And so compassion is our highest goal. Seeing the face of God in every man, woman and child, and knowing that they are worthwhile regardless of the hate they may spew or the seeming wickedness of their behavior, and being an example of love in their lives. That is all we can do some days. And I believe that this is enough. For “what does the Lord require of us? To do justice and to love mercy and to walk humbly with our God.”

A Deep Breath.

I spend alot of time listening to other people's stories. And then another significant measure watching and reading other people's stories. The majority of these stories are sad, and frustrating, and frightening, at many turns, deeply disturbing. And so I find myself a bit weighed down most of the time. Sometimes very, very weighed down. So I watch less crime drama, and stop reading about war. I look for jobs working with refugees, with orphans, with prisoners, with veterans, in hospitals, in hopes of proactivity lessening my burden. I go back to work, and offer advice rather than listening as I should. I look for something outside myself--relationships, activities, uninvolved work, religion-- or something more deeply inside myself--meditation, focus, hope--to offer support. But I am too practical and cannot shake my feelings of responsibility to my fellow man, or my guilt at not giving enough, or at allowing my heart to get in the way.

I wish, oh how I wish, I was able to fully believe in something. At times I find myself envying some of my patients, because they can say with utmost certainty (however delusional it may be) to God speaks to them, and knows them, and has a purpose for them and for their suffering. But I cannot see this most of the time. This week I have watched a television show about child soldiers, read a story about the irreparable harm done to prisoners put in solitary confinement or by the social isolation of homelessness, and listened to scores of stories about desperation, and destitution, and deprivation. And I sleep less, and work more, and make an attempt at prayer, and contemplate another tattoo, or a drum, or an angsty pair of shoes. And I think about the possibility of God actually working that way. Of having a purpose for every person and every horrible occurrence, at hope coming from despair, and joy from sadness. I take a deep breath and I step off to begin a new day. And I hope that belief can come from wanting. That peace can come from belief.

Giving Thanks (2).

As is the tradition of most families on Thanksgiving, I have more than once this week gone around the table and told what I am thankful for this year. My answers, for the past few years at least, are always the same.

(1) Work...Despite the fact that my job is at times so, so difficult and so, so frustrating, I know that I am one of very few people in the world who is doing something that they truly love, and who gets to daily follow their calling in life. On good days, I know that I am doing something that will change the world at least a little bit, so I will press on through the bad days, and be grateful for the opportunity to do it.

(2) The greatest thing in the whole wide world, my friends. The people I have collected in my journey over the years are amazing, brilliant, quirky, kind, hilarious people. They are people I have known since childhood, and with whom my relationship has at times waxed and waned, but who I know will always be a part of my life. And they are people who I've known for only a short time, but with whom I experience a sort of love at first sight, knowing the first time I meet them that we will indeed be wonderful friends. And people everywhere in between. It is one of the things unique to living in New York City, the power of friendships that are formed here. We all come here on our own unique exploratory expeditions, knowing maybe two people from our pre-New York lives, and we begin to build a life. These are the people with whom we spend holidays and birthdays, days good and bad and ugly, and all of the important moments of our lives. All but one of the people I spent Thanksgiving with yesterday were people who I didn't really know at all this time last year, but I can certainly say that it was one of the best, most love-filled holidays I have ever had.

(3) The opportunity to live in New York City. The extraordinary place that makes it all possible.

Day One.

I awoke this morning in disbelief of the events of last night. The first thing I did was check the news to make sure that nothing had happened in the middle of the night (or really the wee-small hours of the morning) to make the news media take it back. Last night was maybe the greatest day of my life.

I spent the evening with friends in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and it was decided that those of us from red states (representing Tennessee, Ohio, New Mexico, and Texas) would have to touch a worm from the compost bin if our states didn't go blue. The section of Pennsylvania where I worked turned blue, justifying my blisters and papercuts. Ohio and New Mexico went blue quickly, and my other potential worm toucher and I waited with baited breath. But before they could even declare defeat in our states, something happened. As we flipped channels, ending a period of mocking for Fox News, we were greeted by the caption, "OBAMA DECLARED PRESIDENT-ELECT." Confused and perplexed, we yelled and screamed and flipped through the channels, checked in the Internet and got quiet for one small moment when we collectively realized what this meant. It was then that we heard that cheers from the streets, and joined in. We ran up to the roof, and joined in the revelry...with people running up and down the street, hanging out of windows, jumping up and down on rooftops, horns honking. This was like nothing any of us had ever experienced. We called our friends and family around the country to share our joys. We texted and updated statuses, opened the champagne, still making declarations of disbelief.

We ran back down to watch the speeches, still hearing the woots from the street. Mocked our foe a bit. And waited from Senator Obama to come on. We watched Fox News again, seeing if anyone would throw up. And then we listened to the speech of the president-elect. Our president. Loving those words...Our president.

We decided that we're going to the inauguration, as the music will actually be good this year. And we're too close to not be there for this amazing day. And then we remember that we all had to work tomorrow.

I came to work this morning, hoping for the party to continue on my train ride in. To see someone whose smile was as wide as mine. But everyone was sleepy and unemotional. But at my job it was different. Every conversation has a new optimism. Every mention of the word hope has more meaning. Today is truly a new day, as difficult as any here, but with underlying promise, and a sense of peace that was not here yesterday. Nothing has really changed, but there is something in the air. To quote Mr. Obama "While we breathe, we will hope."

No Poverty in Politics.

My viewing and reading of political discourse is pretty constant these days. I am beyond jazzed about the prospect of Barack Obama being our next president. I am even more excited that there are no more debates to sit through. I have grown tired of yelling at my TV. One of my friend's mentioned in her debate blog her dismay that the poor were never mentioned in the debates, overtaken by our concern for the middle class, in which the majority of us reside. I went yesterday to Pennsylvania to do canvassing for Senator Obama's campaign and sat in on informational conference calls and read stacks of policy material/propaganda. During our canvassing debriefing, we were told to go back again and again to the message that "Barack Obama will never betray the middle class," with no mention of what must be done for the poor.

So I've been thinking about this alot. If you Google Obama on Poverty, you do get a comprehensive policy statement, but this is not something that has been talked about in any of the debates or on any of the mainstream media new programs. And I guess this is because the majority of American's place themselves in the fabled Middle Class. We are used to our concerns being heard, because we are the voters that can make or break you. We need to know what you will do to make our lives easier and to help sustain our way of life. Nothing is less popular than the times when one of the candidates have talked about the potential sacrifices we will be asked to make during the current economic crisis, or the tax hikes that may be necessary to fortify our infrastructure, or to work toward expanding healthcare or improving schools. But people who live in poverty are not used to being heard. They are used to being uniformly blamed for society's ills without consideration of how these supposed ills came to be.

It is as if these people do not matter. As though their voicelessness means that they do not deserve to be heard. It is imperative that we address these problems for the people afflicted. For most of us it is difficult to believe or understand that there are people living mere miles from our homes who do not have enough to eat, who are in constant danger of becoming homeless, who are more likely to die from treatable medical conditions because they receive inadequate medical care, if any. And I feel that this is inexcusable.

Now if you look at the policies of the nominees, there are things there that will affect the poor. Raising the minimum wage, extending and improving educational policies, striving for universal health care, job creation, etc. But these things are not presented as a war on poverty because we are more concerned for our own economic recovery than we are for providing relief for people who have never had anything. I have difficulty reconciling this. I, as with all things, would like for the nominees to just come out and acknowledge these injustices, and to say what they strive to do to repair them. But maybe that is too much to ask.

Train of Thought.

This morning I came into work, only have to leave very quickly to attend to a situation. My boss is out of town this week, so I am the boss. And I think I’m doing a very good job—making rash decisions, passing down illogical edicts, suspending people willy-nilly, eating tacos. But anyway, so I took a cab to said situation and got hopelessly, borderline-yelling-at-the-cab-driver lost, and then decided to take the much safer, better directed train back to my office. And then I started thinking.

If I were homeless, and going to do some train panhandling, what song would a I choose to sing if I were to choose to sing?

This led to a playlist in my head, and I decided on either a gospel-y showtune, or an old jazz standard. Then I began thinking about what it would take for me to become homeless. I’ve discussed before my theory about safety nets. And then I started thinking about burning metaphorical bridges, which is what we generally attribute the lack of safety net to. And then I realized… If you burn all your metaphorical bridges, then you’re either on an island, or you are an island. Which explains a lot really.

Catching Up...Again.

I'm becoming one of those people. I don't know what it is that is keeping me from the blog, but I'm trying. I promise. So catching up a bit.
***************************************************************************************************
A couple of weeks ago, I got to go to San Francisco to visit UT friends and go to the wedding of one of my dearest. San Francisco (which I've decided to pronounce with an accent) was lovely, though I didn't really see alot of it. I decided to not do anything much. My friends all live in interesting neighborhoods, so it was like sightseeing to walk out the front door. I will go back, since so many who I like so much live there. But really, the most important part...the wedding. When people have asked me about the wedding, all I can say is "It was lovely." Not too big, very personal, nice attire (final touches picked out by me the previous afternoon), wonderful cupcakes. And due to the legal providence of California Supreme Court, my friend and his partner were able to legally marry. It is days like this that make me ever more puzzled as to why people would be against the marriage of two wonderful people who want to start a life together.
***************************************************************************************************
Today, I contributed to the national employment crisis. I had to fire someone. Though I did not technically do the firing, I did the hiring. I observed the issues. I attempted to help with said issues. I discussed and contemplated with others. I got frustrated and decided that I could do nothing else. So in all I did the firing. It's pretty awful to know that you're putting someone out there during a time when there are no jobs be found. Social Work School does very little prepare you for anything administrative. And I know it's a bit ridiculous, but I feel like today I have contributed to poverty, and unemployment, and the housing crisis, and a million other social problems. But, hey, it just wasn't a good fit. But if you know anyone in the NYC area, who works in social services or would like to, who needs a job, send them my way.
***************************************************************************************************
The Olympics....I LOVE the Olympics. Especially the summer ones. Gymnastics, and fencing, and diving, and swimming. But I am, as are most people, bothered by the human rights record of the host country. I might have the same issue if the United States were hosting. And so up until the moment I turned it on, I was debating whether I could watch. But I gave in, and the Opening Ceremonies are amazing. But the commentary provided to the announcers is pretty propagandistic, and it is difficult, if not impossible, to forget the images of the families of children killed in an earthquake who were punished for wanting answers to why their schools were so unsafe, and destruction of the Tibetan state. And the abject poverty that is being hidden from the public eye, in the interest of an immense sporting event.

But then the Olympics offer people hope. And we're all about hope. The images of the man who carried the American flag into the stadium tonight, who is one of the Lost Boys of the Sudan. He tells a story about running to restaurant 5 miles away to watch the Olympics on a black and white television, and knowing that he wanted to be there. When I watch the Olympics, I rarely cheer for the Americans (unless they're the swimmers because half of them seem to have gone to UT). I generally cheer for the underdog...for countries without professional sports teams. As I've been watching tonight, there was a commercial for Visa (a problem in and of itself) that talks about the unifying nature of the Olympics, how for these few weeks, everyone is watching and cheering, inspired and hopeful. And so we say, "Go World!"

I, too, sing America.

This year, I decided that I was not going to celebrate the 4th of July. Someone had to work at my office today, so I decided it should be me, the anti-patriot. And my across-the-hall neighbor and I agreed it was the best way to express discontent. So I worked today. And I had no intention of doing anything particularly American (eating apple pie, singing Yankee Doodle Dandy, preempting something imaginary with a war). So I worked, went to visit my homeless friend, and went home. But as the day wore on, it became for me a more serious matter.

You see...the United States of America and I have lately not been getting along so well. My job often requires me to be the bearer of bad news, or to at least be in the room when said bad news is delivered. And that bad news generally comes from, or is due in part to the actions of, the US government. In the past two weeks I have told someone that though they do not make enough money to eat, the US government believes that they get too much money to be given any additional help; I have listened to people speak of losing dozens of friends to AIDS in the 1990s, simply because it wasn't thought important enough for the president to focus on; and have had to let a man know that the US Immigration service believes that despite the fact that he's been sleeping in a park next to the BQE for the last year, he really should have $400 to pay for the replacement Green Card that is required for him to have any hope of getting off the streets.

I do understand the irony of me writing all of my anti-American spiel on the Internet, when if it weren't for the that whole freedom of speech business I would be arrested for such things. But, for the love of all that is good and holy, I am tired. I am so tired of hearing of the supposed good that we're doing for people, when the people who need the most help are allowed to languish. I am tired of listening to the freedoms that we are fighting to give people in the Middle East when I know and see the blatant racism exercised by our government when an immigrant from an Arab country seeks assistance. I am over seeing the supposed freedoms of the market economy destroy scientific integrity in keeping life-saving medication from eradicating diseases that should have never been allowed to flourish so. I am simply tired.

I have spent the last few weeks writing pleading letters in my head to Barack Obama asking what he will do to help with each new issue I run into. I have written, again in my head, countless blog posts calling these things into question. And I have written one very angry and certainly awful poem. I don't know if I am right about these things, or if I am (as one of my co-workers called one of our co-workers) just some white yuppie kid with an education who wants to help for a moment before moving on to something else. But my heart is somewhat broken. And I don't know how to fix it, because I see no triumphant moment in sight. I try to keep hope, because I have to as it is tattooed as a command on my left wrist. But I'm not sure how much more my metaphorical heart can handle.

A Glimmer.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to write the communion meditation to follow a sermon at CCfB called Love and Concern. I was coming off an incredible night at work and so wrote about some of the people I work with/for.

I have come to believe that all you really need is to survive is a safety net. Most of the people that I find on the street are people who have no one. They lose one piece of their life's puzzle, pieces we all generally take for granted, and everything falls apart. I met a man a few months ago, who is homeless only because he lost his ID. Losing his ID lost him his job, lost him his housing, left him with nowhere to go, and sleeping at the bottom of some stairs in Queens. This man essentially does not exist. No one knows he's there, or that he is in such need, or that he slipped through the cracks so, so easily. He is an immigrant, has survived a war. Has no where, no one to go home to, and so has no home. He is left in limbo, knowing very well that no one should have to live like he is living. Another man I met recently has fallen victim to the same problem, but in a different world. He has lost his partner of 35 years to cancer. And now he too is homeless. He has enough money to get by, and a roof over his head, but the person that made it home is no longer there. He has no one to take care of him when he is sick, or to listen to him when he is sad, or angry, frightened, or excited.

I believe we have all encountered such people in our daily lives, or have maybe felt this ourselves. The moment you step off the plane, or park your moving truck, and know that you are just one in a city of millions. Or maybe in a child who has suddenly been moved to this country, without any knowledge of language or culture. Or in a young person growing up in poverty, feeling that there is no way out. Or someone suddenly single after they thought that part of their life was over. Or suddenly faced with an illness that threatens to take their life, or that of someone they love. And suddenly we are each left standing alone, wondering what to do next. Knowing that it should not be this way. Knowing that we should not go unprotected, uncared for.

But when we stop to catch our breath, we remember that are not unprotected. Though it is at times obscured by our panic, we are covered by the hand of God, given shelter in these times. Given community among God’s people to know that we are not alone. And we know that in the end, we are covered by grace, and will be given a place of rest.

I must confess to you, that sometimes when I write these seemingly inspired things, I do it really just hoping that it will be true. As evidenced by my previous post, I've been struggling a bit lately. I was discussing this last week with my logical voice in Queens, and he told me that I need to quit my job and go work in a bank. I have realized that I get to a point of overwhelm about every 6 months. Due to the ridiculous amount of work I've been doing lately, I lasted about 9 months this time. I get to the point where cannot escape all of the trauma and chaos I experience with people all the time, and where I cannot see an end to it. I begin to selfishly and whole-heartedly hope for the apocalypse, because really....could it be any worse? But then, this week, a glimmer of hope.

On Sunday night, I got a call from a man living in the neighborhood of a client that I had been looking for for a couple of weeks. This man lives in the neighborhood and gets his coffee everyday from the Dunkin' Donuts where my client stands outside for most of his days. They had been speaking, and my client had mentioned that I had been trying to help him and asked that this man give me a call. So I get this call, and my world is rocked. Part of overwhelm is coloured by martyrdom..."I'm the only who cares. No one else is trying to do anything. These people will die...DIE...if I, and I alone, don't help them." But then, someone, whose job it is not to help people in this man's situation, calls and wants to help me help him. New York will never cease to amaze me.

***DISCLAIMER***I realize that some of you might be puzzled/bothered by the fact that I am really excited, rather than freaked out, at the prospect of a random man getting my phone number from a homeless person. Just know that this is neither the most dangerous, nor the craziest, thing that I have done in the course of my job. Fear not, all work takes place in well-lit public spaces with co-workers nearby.

Full.

I was reading the blog of a blog friend today, and he talks about being empty. No reserves of wit or wisdom. No ideas. Unable to make any movements. I read this and thought to myself, "Is this my problem?" But then no. I feel like my problem is the opposite. I am full. Fullness is sometimes good. A full heart. A full stomach. But not really this kind. This is more the kind of fullness that you get from...I don't know...a key lime pie eating competition. You like...no, love key lime pie. So you eat some, and then eat some more, and it's a contest, so you quickly eat some more. You're kind of gasping for breath now, but you've gotta keep going. It's for a trophy, and you love trophies almost as much as key lime pie. And it's over...you've won. But now you really don't want anymore key lime pie...ever, ever again. The analogy loses something along the way, but you get the idea. Fullness that starts with something you love, and ends up making you very, very ill...and maybe a little bit sad that you couldn't just say no.

I do the work I do because I love it. I started out in one area and loved that, but then saw a need in another area. So I started working there, but maintained ties to the first group of people I worked with. But then the job I had became something other than what it should've been, and I needed an outlet (or another job) to make me feel like I don't need to just scrap it all and start over. I got that job, and I loved that job, and that job was awesome. I felt like I was doing something great for people. And it gave me the experience I needed to be able to move on from my awful job. So I'm working, and working, and working. Directing a worthwhile program, providing support to a community that is very important to me, helping people move in off the street. And I love it. I feel like I am doing, or at least attempting to do, everything I possibly can. But then I go on like that for about 9 months. My brain fills up piece by piece. If you were to draw a picture of my brain right now and label all of the nouns (ie. people, places and things) that are occupying space in my head, I do believe that there would be not one vacant space at this point in time.

So last week, I was laid off from my second job. We had a reorganization about two months ago, and in doing that they did away with all of the part-time spots...one of which was mine. But they had no one to work my shifts, so I and my co-workers were kept on until we were no longer needed. Kind of like Survivor. Last Tuesday, I got a call saying that they had found someone to fill my spot and I would have two more weeks. You're thinking "Hooray! You get to sleep and maybe see your friends and meet new people." And that is what I had hoped to think. But the Friday before all of this, I made a significant break through with a client who has refused to work with anyone. We were on our way!!! And now, I'm going away. And suddenly the space this man had taken up in my head expands, and occupies what was taken up by an assortment of everyday things. And now I'm feeling a bit paralyzed. So I go to my more logic inner voices for help. But sadly the logical voices don't really reside in my head, but in Queens, and Hoboken, and Boerum Hill, and San Francisco. I call them and e-mail them to distract me, and to advise me, and to help me realize that it's not all on me. They offer a listening ear, a bit of advice, an amazing lot of help. I hope to maybe be bit less full soon. Hopefully, not empty. But existing in a place where there is room for newness, but also for the old to expand.

Between the Lines.

In Social Work school, we talk alot about boundaries. It's a very difficult thing to figure out. Social work (for me anyway) is like 1 part psychology, 1 part systems knowledge, 4 parts activism, and like 57 parts empathic heart. And each work setting comes with a different set of standards, and thus a different set of rules. I'm very strident about my boundaries, because I feel that it is the only way to do the work that I do. But every now and then, there is someone who steps through.

I've decided that work boundaries are kind of like a dotted line. Chunks of solid space with gaps in between (kind of like a border fence, or the ozone layer). It goes along for quite some time, impervious and stoic. But then all of a sudden there is a huge unfortified space. For me this comes in the form of very young people newly diagnosed with HIV; in patients who remind me of people I love; in people who I feel have been left behind too many times; in people who are essentially being told that in the eyes of people who matter, they do not exist. I find myself worrying all the time about where they might be, or how it is that we are going to overcome these obstacles, or how it is that I am going to keep them from slipping away again. I battle in my head with how far I am willing to go before I put up a wall and say "I'm sorry. This is as far as my vocation allows me to go. Bless you on your journey." And then I battle in my head to not feel guilty for stopping short. These are the times when I am thankful that I have a roommate. Otherwise, I might have bunkbeds full of homeless people sleeping in my living room. And Marcus just would not like that.

The Blogs I Would've Written.

Over the past couple of months, I've thought to write several possibly good blogs, but am working like 8 days a week, so yeah...I haven't gotten around to it. So without further ado the list of blogs I would've written had I not had so many jobs.

(1) A blog entitled, The Girlification of Casey B., titled after for some reason The Emancipation of Mimi, Mariah Carey's first album coming off of crazy. This was to be about the fact that I had stated in my 29th birthday blog that this would be the year that I would become outwardly edgy, but think that I have done all I can (tattoo--check; piercing--check; funky-ish haircut dyed slightly red--check; having begun and ended an undefinable relationship with a man my parents would soooo not approve of--check, check and check). So I decided this might be the year I allow myself to be slightly girly instead. I'll let you know how that goes.

(2) Eat, Pray, Love. A birthday gift from a dear friend, and the most recent book for me to have a love-hate-mostly-love relationship with. I'm seriously ashamed of how much I love this book. It's also part of #1, as it is by far the most female-centric, non-feminist book I've ever read.

(3) An exposition on the reorganization of a non-profit, because it wasn't making a profit...and the subsequent laying-off of myself and my other part-time colleagues. (This is the 2nd job. No need to panic.) And the oddity of working for the people who laid you off, so they'll be covered until they can find someone to replace you.

(4) A small discussion of the resignation of my governor. For some reason, the thing that bothered me the most about it all was the image of his wife standing stoically by his side while he humiliated her by telling the world that he spent tens of thousands of their dollars on other women. The government will recover, but I doubt that his family ever will.

(5) And my new favorite web site, Stuff White People Like. It's funny, 'cause it's true.

I've got a bunch of other stuff brewing. Hopefully, it won't all come out in list form. Peace out.

(Life).

I loved My So-Called Life. Absolutely loved it, but we only had one TV in my house (the horror) and so I never got to watch, until the 24-hour marathons my freshman year of college. I would watch with my across-the-hall dorm neighbor Rachel, and then go to my room and watch. And then wake up in the morning, and go back to watch with Rachel. It was glorious. Glorious. But was only on for a season. And I was way, waaaay too old (at the age of 19) to be watching a show about teenage angst.

So today, I am blissed out at the premiere of quarterlife (lower-case for hippness), brought to us by the creators of My So-Called Life. I heart angsty television. And though I'm no longer a 25 year-old aspiring artist, I love their lives. The lead character said early on in the show, speaking of my generation, (paraphrased) "We were geniuses when we were in elementary school, and now no one seems to remember that." I feel this way sometimes. I want to scream "Do you understand who you're talking to here? I got straight As in elementary school. I got 3rd place in the spelling bee three years in a row. I was the Knowledge Master/Quiz Bowl Champion. And I was in the Top 10% of my high school class, BTW. Listen to me!" I ask myself, "When did my life become mediocre?"

I've mostly exited my angsty, artsy phase. But I like to remember it sometimes...and think what it might have been like if I hadn't somewhat sold out to the idea of health insurance and sustained dependable income.

F- You Valentine's Day!

Okay, so my dislike for this holiday is probably not quite that strong, but I feel the need to restore some of my street cred after I spent much of my morning walking down 5th Avenue carrying a brightly colored balloon bouquet. But I felt I must lodge my complaint against the Valentine-Industrial complex.

Job Update.

So I'm in the middle of my third week at the new job, and it is brilliant. Everyone is nice to me. No one has mocked me for my quietness, my ideals or my shoes. I feel respected and valued and all that stuff you should feel at work. The neighborhood is great...my bank is three blocks away, there's a Starbucks directly across the street, and there are all sorts of fun/healthy restaurants nearby. The learning curve for the job is pretty steep, so I'm not doing alot of client work yet, but will be soon. Today I met the man who was my predecessor. And he turns out to be someone I saw speak at a seminar I went to a couple of years ago. Really that seminar and this man's words changed the way I thought about my work, and increased my convictions that the system I was working within was in many ways furthering the problems of many of my clients. I am very honored to be filling this man's shoes, as much as that is possible.

But sadly there is a downside to the new job. My commute is so short that I'm a bit behind on my reading. And it takes me two commutes to listen to an episode of This American Life. If only I could find a way to spend more time on the train...

Did I Forget to Mention...

That I Got A New Job?!?!?!?! Wooooo...WooHoo! Oow! Woot!

As of January 11th, I will no longer be at my crappy, crappy job. I am the new assistant director of a program downtown, which will take like 3 hours a day off my commute, and will save what is left of my vocational sanity. Woot!

The Good Fight.

I received an e-mail a few days ago from the NYU School of Social Work asking for volunteers to speak on a panel of recent SW graduates for the 2nd year students at NYU. The presentation is to be entitled "I Wish I Knew Then What I am About to Tell You Now". I laughed hardily when I read this (as NYU and did not have the best experience with each other) and passed this on to a school friend (who also laughed hardily). On one of my bus rides this week, I spent alot of time (as it was long bus ride) thinking about what it is that I would say to these students, on the cusp on entering this field.

I have come to realize after doing this work fo a few years, that about every six months I hit a valley. It is what we in the biz call "Compassion Fatigue." Really, that's just the polite way of saying that I am so tired of being shat on from every direction (very graphic, I know). I am always hesitant to actually speak about the work that I do, because I feel there is a danger of making me look like a saint or a martyr. This is not what I want. I did not choose this work, I feel. It chose me. A friend of mine recently wrote to me (paraphrased and taken entirely out of context) "Casey, you've been through alot of shit in your life." I have, there's no way around that. And because of this, my head works in a different way than it otherwise would. I am ever-aware of the sadness and desperation around me and at times if feels like I am drowning in it. And I have used my work as a means to learn how to swim, or to at least tread water.

I wrote this a few weeks ago...

According to our friends at Wikipedia (who know everything) "[compassion fatigue] results from the taxing nature of showing compassion for someone whose suffering is continuous and unresolvable. One may still care for the person as required by policy, however, the natural human desire to help them is no longer there." I don't know if this actually describes what I'm feeling, but it's a bit of this. I'll give you an example, albeit an extreme example, of one of my days. A couple of weeks ago, I went to work at my full-time job and did that, openly discussed the perceived mental illness of a patient who I believe to have been manipulating me for weeks and others in the system for years, was told that the fact that I am reserved and not that social with my co-workers makes me a bad social worker, and then went home to take a nap before going to my second job. Then an hour later, I woke up and went to work. At work that night I picked up four people from the street and took them to shelters, some of these places among the most horrific I've ever seen. Then I went home and slept for a couple of hours, and as this was Saturday I went to work at my food coop. Instead of my office job, I ended up working at a soup kitchen which was drastically understaffed. After working two hours longer than I was scheduled to, I went to get on the train to go see friends in Hoboken to watch a football game that UT would then lose. As I was swiping my card to get on the train, a man asked me if I had a quarter. I did not and I said so honestly. He asked me if I had anything else, and I reached into my pocket where I had three pennies. I said "All I've got is three pennies." and I handed it to him. I do understand that three pennies is very little to give someone, and it really won't get you much of anything, but still it is something. But as I walked away, I heard the man throw my pennies on the ground and walk away to ask someone else for a quarter. I was furious. I may or may not have called him an asshole. I don't know if this is excusable or not, but that was my breaking point. I had spent roughly 24 of the previous 36 hours working with the homeless. I was terribly exhausted, as I had slept about 4 hours in that time. And I had more than once been told that what I was giving was not enough when I knew most assuredly that I could give no more.

And then the valley got a bit deeper and I lost it a little. I yelled at my boss (my version of yelling, which isn't really yelling as I don't yell). I heaved and sobbed, within an inch of quitting my job. And then I started, once again, looking for new work. As I am a part-time worker at my second job, I am weekly meeting new people. I am a fresh set of ears to listen to the struggles of this start-up and of many of the young people that work there, and have heard the things that I feel almost constantly in my day-to-day job.

"This shouldn't be so hard."
"Why are social workers so crazy?"
"I can't really survive on what they're paying me."
"I don't know how much longer I can do this. I really wanted to help, but I feel like I'm getting no where."

And so now, this is what I would say if I were to speak to the NYU School of Social Work Class of 2008.

(1) Know that this work will always be difficult, but there are days when it is amazing. Store those up for when things seem impossible. But know that it's okay to move on to a different kind of work. Social work has a million different facets. Try something new, but don't give up. If you feel compelled to struggle on, the profession needs you.

(2) I have no idea why social workers are so crazy. I hope and pray that I don't turn, but think it may have already happened.

(3) I have decided, in my advanced age (I turn 29 next month), that there are very few people in the world who are paid what they are actually worth. Some are paid far too much for the work they do, but most are paid far too little. Know that you are in good company. And keep looking for a second job (or wealthy spouse) with which to pay off your student loans.

(4) As said in #1, know that if you feel compelled to struggle on, we need you here. When we stop feeling the need to fight back for the good of our clients, that is when we need to find a different career all together. I've met many people along the way who have reach this point and kept on going, because this is their chosen career and they are looking for nothing but security. They are the people who create the social work battlefields. All of us dodging the bullets of negativity, and distrust, the arbitrary choosing who is friend and who is foe. And making us all feel like we're going crazy. Know that you are not alone here. And that once I am a supervisor there will be a day of reckoning [=)], and you can all come work for me. Or for some of my wonderful social service friends and mentors. There are a few us left fighting the good fight.