When a chicken is wounded and shows blood all the others will rush upon her with their beaks. I first read this in the writings of French mystic and philosopher Simone Weil when I was twenty-one. It rang so true that I never bothered to question the wisdom of this remark. Now, thirty-six years later, it rings still true. We are not much unlike chickens. We have not evolved that much really, maybe not at all. The weak, the poor, the inept and the disabled are all as it were meat for the hungry dogs. I don't think this is a universal application. We thank goodness do have compassion in our make-up. This makes me think of some instances from my childhood. First, I will mention my brother, three years older, and in my opinion a sociopath. He seemed to take delight when we were kids mocking anyone who seemed less strong or able than he. He especially loved making scathing remarks about people who were poor or fat. He was also a repulsive bully who spent several years beating the crap out of me. He was miserable. And hostile. I have never lived with such an angry violent person in my life, and in the long term I must say that I am glad we never became friends even though for many years I regretted this. Our mother, despite her faults, was compassionate. When a family with a severely disabled daughter moved into our neighbourhood she advised me immediately that I was to be kind to her. I never saw her much. She was badly hunched over. I must have been ten or eleven. I began talking to her one day when we both happened to be outside and I was taken aback at how friendly, warm and kind she was, of how mature she was for a child. I did not know this at the time but eventually guessed how much her suffering and disability had formed her into a lovely person, mature beyond her years. This was the beginning of my initiation working with people with disabilities. In one of my classes in grade eight, I cannot remember which subject, was a girl who lived on a farm. Her parents were Dutch. She was a bit awkward looking and by her clothes seemed to be poor. Everyone picked on her whenever the teacher left the room. Ruthlessly. I didn't really join in but watched rather from the sidelines, curious, and puzzled by the cruelty. Eventually she broke down weeping convulsively over her desk, concealing her face as best as she could. It was heart-rending. Her tormentors did have the good sense to back off from her. I was appalled. But of course I said nothing.
My brother's life and mine took radically different directions, as often is the case with siblings. He went on to become a successful and wealthy radio broadcaster. I struggled to survive, unable to finish college because of the cost and refusing to go further in debt, knowing that I would not be able to repay it. I worked at various labouring jobs until I found stable work at twenty-four as a home support worker, which I continued to do off and on for the next seventeen years. I was always broke, always just getting by. My brother and I never communicated. He never even thought of helping me financially and I never thought of asking him. He always shunned me except for a brief truce before and after the death of our mother. When she had cancer, knowing that I was an experienced giver of palliative care he met with me several times for advice and emotional support, For three years following her death I was invited for Christmas and Thanksgiving to the luxury home he shared with his wife and their infant daughter somewhere out in the Toolies. Once in his presence my sister-in-law invited me to come out and stay for a few days. I will never forget the look on my brother's face. That was the last time I was ever invited to his home.
Of course I have had plenty of time to reflect and ruminate on this. I believe he was motivated in equal parts by need, guilt and a sense of obligation towards me. There was never any love there. I was the poor son. An embarrassment to him. An object of scorn, reviling and hatred. We have not seen or heard of each other in almost fifteen years. Not even my father's death, which occurred almost three years before I heard about it, was enough to reunite us. When I was homeless for nine and a half months and on welfare for the next three years and struggling towards mental health recovery, but for a few visits at our father's, with whom I stayed part time for a while, I saw and heard nothing of my brother. Nor any of my other surviving relatives but for a step-cousin, like me an artist, like me poor, and like me a little bit crazy.
There is that song "Nobody loves you when you're down and out. But get back up on your feet again. And everybody's your long-lost friend...It's sad to say but without a doubt, no, nobody loves you when you're down and out." I am reminded of when homelessness had already been for the past two or three years a crisis in this city by 2004. Without any action or even concern expressed from Ottawa the newly elected BC Liberals passed legislation designed as a kind of passive genocide of the poor. Anyone who had been on welfare for two years running was suddenly kicked off assistance, one had to have exhausted all one's savings and personal assets and then endure the humiliation of an almost always fruitless frenetic and well-documented job search for three weeks and then endure a waiting period of several more weeks while becoming homeless and going hungry before given a cheque for an amount that wouldn't cover even the most basic requirements for food and shelter. Street homelessness grew almost four fold. Eventually the UN weighed in internationally criticizing our government's treatment of the poor and economically disenfranchised. No one budged. While chatting with a friendly American tourist couple visiting from Massachusetts my stomach almost heaved when the dear plump wifey said in a slightly sour tone that our poor were homeless because of their own bad choices. As well as being so utterly wrong, I was also affected by her remark because I was afraid that there might be some truth in it. Then, reflecting on my own experience of job loss, emotional paralysis, eviction, homelessness and couch-surfing I understood that it was only her ignorance and her likely political bias (a Tea Party bitch if ever there was one) speaking out of her sweet li'l ol' pie hole. I did lamely reply to her remark that while this may be true in some cases (and sadly I think it could be but usually for good reason) it was a lot more complicated than that. There was no time really to get into a conversation about it as we had just met each other on the bus and my stop was coming up. Being generally friendly and (I think) approachable to strangers I do very easily get into chats with complete strangers when I'm out and about. I occasionally regret this.
I know that when I became homeless it was due to the logical outcome of pressures I did not know how to cope with. I had lived in a more or less "self-sustaining" Christian ministering community from 1988-1995. We lived by pooling all our resources and trusting God for the difference. Even though things got scary at times, it worked and we did quite well I think. The problem with this model is that I lost almost all ability to fend for myself once I was living independently again and there was no one in the church I was connected with to help support or grandfather me into being self-sufficient. I found a cheap apartment in a rough area of the East End of Vancouver while working as a home support worker. I was fully qualified in that I had received comprehensive on the job training and was prepared to deal with any difficult and challenging situation with people in need. Then came the obstacles: the hours were often limited. They offered dental insurance and other benefits to staff logging more than twenty hours a week. Curiously, whenever my weekly hours got near to twenty something would happen and I still wouldn't qualify. Even when I was going through the worst tooth aches of my life, no matter how much I would plea and remonstrate with my bosses they wouldn't do anything. Then they changed the categories of home support. Without certification, which I lacked, they would only permit us to house clean for clients thus reducing my potential case load and hours. Taking courses was out of the question because I had no money to spare for tuition and they were not about to help. Then I was asked not to wear jeans to work because it didn't look "professional". I wore jeans when I was interviewed for the position. And I could not afford to buy clothes, not even second hand, my situation had become so desperate. I also foolishly went off welfare (I was allowed to work so many hours before they would claw back so that had I left things alone I still would have survived okay, if just barely. However it was becoming difficult being under their scrutiny and being felt badly treated by them and this was so demoralizing that I felt I had to go off assistance just to feel okay again. Fortunately I was able to sell some of my paintings and this also helped. Eventually I quit my job. I was down to seven hours a week and this was not about to change so I left. I did not know where or how to look for other employment. The job market was changing fast and it was becoming leaner and meaner. I avoided job clubs because I didn't want to morph into an ass-kisser, nor feel pressured into accepting work that I did not like, was not qualified for or went against my values. This was a serious concern because I knew that whatever job I did take, it would end up shaping and forming me as a person and regardless of the paycheque I did not want to be turned into something I would end up loathing. I was also completely unaware of the kinds of supports that might be available. Employment Insurance was not an option because like many working Canadians I didn't qualify. And I had nothing to pony up for vocational training since already all the employers were starting to demand credentials in the name of remaining "competitive." And please don't get me started on how fussy employers were becoming about who they would hire.
At this time my mental health was already suffering and in 1997 I began what would be the first of a series of breakdowns. Soon, I was ill, unable to pay rent and without fixed address.
I did make bad choices. Many. I also didn't know better or was not able to make clear headed decisions under the pressure I was living with. I had no support and no network. My story I think is very typical of the many who fall through the cracks and end up now on the pavement. My situation only began to change for the better when: 1. I was given information about resources which led me to a kick-ass employment counsellor--Isabella, if you happen to be reading this post, thank you again from the bottom of my heart! 2. I also found subsidized housing--You too Judy, thank you so much!--and then after seeing my doctor was 3. referred to a psychiatrist who worked hard with me over the next four years, no medications or hospitalization, thank God--to help me in my recovery from post traumatic stress disorder. 4. In the meantime I felt well enough to look for work and enrolled in a training program and now I am working in a field that honours my gifts and potential and even though it doesn't pay well, thanks to BC Housing I can still live in dignity.
It is unfortunate that the poor-bashing mentality of our governments and many of the people who vote them into power have made it necessary for me and many others to endure unnecessary hardship such as what I have experienced. In conclusion, I would like to challenge every person reading this article to please reconsider your attitude towards the poor, and to please realize that this could also happen to you. If you want low taxes then we are going to have to live with the fall out of the many social problems and abusive treatment of vulnerable people that is going to be the result. And you will also be making yourselves more vulnerable. We have in our human nature a great capacity for compassion and empathy that has been eclipsed and in many ways disabled by competition and the social Darwinism that comes with global capitalism and neo-liberal economics. It is time to reclaim our humanity and our birthright of becoming better people.
No comments:
Post a Comment