Monday, November 23, 2015

Rosie's Place and The Pine Street Inn

John Rogan
Prof. Kurkjian - Investigative Journalism                                                               
Rosie’s Place and The Pine Street Inn
The economic crisis that started in 2008 affected every aspect of the world economy.  Top banking firms down to individual employees felt some sort of economic hardship as losses trickled down.  One of the hardest hit markets was the housing market. Poorly approved mortgages along with the economic crisis resulted in homeowners defaulting on mortgages and devaluing their existing property. Many families were left with no work, nowhere to live, having to move from eviction to eviction. This damage is still being felt to this day. I wanted to take a closer look at how the remnants of the economic crisis were being felt in the Boston area by looking at two of the area’s busiest homeless shelters.
Rosie’s Place is a woman’s homeless shelter in Boston’s South End. Outside No loitering signs hang on the lawn’s short chain link fence, as women with all their possessions in trash bags continually move so as not to loiter. A bus stop is out front and transports many of the guests; most carry everything they have with them along with their children. Children are registered to the mother and once inside must stay with their mother’s the entire time. Many of the guests are older minority women.  Lunch is open from 11:30-1 and is served from 12-12:30. Dinner is open from 4:30-7:30 and served from 6-6:30; beds are given for a night in a lottery system. The entranceway to Rosie’s Place is similar to that of a nurse’s station at a nice retirement home. A whiteboard stands next to the front desk listing activities, the weather and services for the day like acupuncture, legal counseling, self-defense, collage making, cooking, alcoholics anonymous, substance abuse counseling and career counseling. Employment opportunities are organized on a wall that leads into the dining room. The dining room closely resembles the kind of dining room one would find in a retirement home. Off the hallway leading to the dining room is a shower room and lockers. Posters and public service announcements line the walls offering services and classes.  Walking through the shelter and  feeling the energy of the people eating, as the cook made a last call for seconds and one woman retorted “I haven’t even got firsts”, gives one the sense of this place really being a place of hope. It seems brighter inside than outside and the women’s faces seem less weighed down with thought as the ones smoking cigarettes and trying not to loiter out front, before getting on the bus to go find somewhere to sleep. I did come at the end of lunch so people who are accustomed to being hungry had just been fed which could have accounted for the light, almost playful attitude of the women in the shelter
The mission of Rosie’s Place is: “to help out guests to maintain their dignity, seek opportunity, and find security in their lives.” The helpful staff and the way tired, homeless women respond to them gives one the feeling of a place where people interacting and affecting each other, most likely hundreds of times a day in little ways, genuinely provides help and relief to those who desperately need it. A goal I found in common with the other homeless shelter I visited was many of the workers were trying to get the guests out of the shelter and into a job and some sort of living situation.  The goal of helping people get back on track is one of the most redeeming values I found in either of the homeless shelters I visited. No matter what the problem economic hardship, mental illness, or drug addiction both places serve as a place where someone who has fallen on hard times can make a successful comeback, if they put effort into it.
The Pine Street Inn is located down the street about five blocks and directly faces I-93. Its location is in the South End, but the fact that it is on I-93, I-90 and not far from South Station makes it an accessible shelter for the homeless all over Boston. The Pine Street Inn is huge. I had more associations with a large hospital than a homeless shelter. Unlike Rosie’s place the entrance has a desk and a guard. The kitchen, beds, and common areas are secure and open only to guests and security. I asked the guard I f I could go in and look around and she politely told me no and to go talk to the woman at the desk. I was questioning the need for a guard at a homeless shelter when a man (weak or intoxicated) began to slump against the wall as he was walking down the hallway. The guard caught the man before he fell and said “ok, buddy, why don’t we find you a seat.” The woman at the front desk after looking over for half an instant asked if there was anything I needed help with. I said I was interested in volunteer work and was writing a paper for Boston College. The woman at the desk quickly called somebody and asked me to wait. There waiting room was similar to most waiting rooms in hospitals or an ER. Large heating ducts overhead pumped warm air everywhere into the building.
Scotty Wait came to meet me in less than five minutes. Scotty is head of volunteer services. I asked what would be the kind of work one would do to help the residents if I volunteered. She took me on a tour of the kitchen, again huge, over fifty different volunteers toiled away at separate parts of the kitchen, while full trucks stocked with donated food came and went from the loading docks. I never got a chance to see the guest’s kitchen or sleeping area because of the tight, hospital-like security. The incident in the lobby enlightened me as to why they might need such good security at a homeless shelter. On hearing I was from Boston College she told me about the Pulse-4Boston community service actions many Boston College students participate in which I had not known about. Scotty brought me back out to the lobby, and conveyed how this was a very busy time of year and any help could be used. I thanked her for the quick tour of the kitchen and the information she gave me before going back to her office.
 I walked around the building, finding many locked doors. There is a separate entrance for admitting women, I found, as well as a private garden called Estelle’s Garden where many homeless women sat and watched the afternoon. The area around Pine Street Inn is notably grimmer than the rest of Boston. Many of the homeless walk the streets waiting to get in. I counted more than five hypodermic needles on the ground from my walk back to my car. The proximity of the highway begins to make sense as any apartment building even somewhat close has barred doors and windows. The vast underground living area under the highway Ric Kahn spoke about begins to make sense.    On sidewalks was the common unsettling sight of broken car window glass, and one especially in a fresh pile that looked like it could have been smashed last night.
A representative from The Pine Street Inn, Barbara V. Trevisan, was able to answer some questions I had about working at the shelter and mostly how services and the overall running of the shelter has changed since 2008. When asked how the running the shelter has changed since 2008 Barbara responded:We are more focused on strategies to get people out of shelter and into housing with support services – this is a more cost effective – and humane way – for people to live. We have found that an average of close to $10,000 per year, per person, is saved in healthcare, emergency room and public safety costs when people are housed.” A strategy I heard also at Rosie’s Place. Its goal is to get people into some sort of housing through services, whether that is subsidized housing or a career plan to pay for a place to live. These shelters are not just stopovers where people spend the night then are flung back out onto the streets. Teams of volunteers and social workers try to make it into more of a program to turn one’s life around, receive treatment, get a job, and find a place to live. When asked how many people find themselves homeless, Barbara responded:Job loss, no support system or safety net, mental illness, addiction, loss of connection with family.” Most people in these shelters just need a jump start to get them out of a recent bad life event like addiction or home eviction. When asked have you had to expand resources since the financial crisis of 2008 she responded: “We have been working on strategies to get people into housing and out of the shelter – this has led to a 35% reduction in individual homelessness over the last several years, which may sound counterintuitive.” Asked if it was the same as before 2008, she responded: “We are very fortunate to have a group of supporters who have realized how important an organization like Pine Street is to the community – who have continued to support us throughout this time.  The funding we receive from city/state/federal governments is much more focused on housing as the solution to homelessness.” This answer I believe shows the real change since 2008. Their strategy has really changed, most likely due to the spike in economic problems in 2008 and the economic stimulus packages local state and federal governments have been providing since the crisis. The hardest hit area was the housing market and “the more focused” funding from city state and federal services ushered in a new strategy of getting people off the streets and into subsidized housing. When asked if the amount of personal care has changed since 2008, she responded: “Case managers are assigned to work with guests to connect them with services like healthcare and job training and housing. They are much more focused on long-term solutions than in the past.” Again a sustained effort by workers at these shelters to give a long term solution to the housing crisis, guests are coached and pushed to turn their lives around; not just given a bed and a meal for the night. When asked how the shelter deals with the physically and psychologically ill and how that care has changed since 2008, she responded: “If someone is in need of medical care, depending on the situation, we have a clinic on site that is run by Healthcare for the Homeless. If they are more acutely ill, we may send them to Boston Medical Center for care.” It seemed like this time of year was particularly busy for the shelters so I asked how many people stay here around this time of year, Barbara responded: “On any given day, we have about 1600 people that we work with – about 730 in our shelters, 760 who now live in Pine Street’s permanent housing and the balance through our street outreach or in our job training programs. A majority of guest stay for a relatively short period of time (a few days to a couple of weeks)” I asked if she found it hard working here, she gave an answer that really sums up the attitude of many of the workers and volunteers at these Shelters, she responded: “No, [I] actually find it inspiring that people can still have hope even though they are facing major challenges in their lives.”

Both these establishments deal with a problem drastically affecting America on the ground level, in our neighborhoods, and our streets. This really cannot be said enough, but seeing volunteers answer five questions at once or cooks serving up hot food or someone simply saying “can I help you” to someone who looks emotionally and physically drained gives one the greatest gratitude for all the volunteers and social workers that make a service to humanity like this possible. The attitude is contagious, as people who have been hungry and in the cold for however long finally have someone who cares, and slowly you see a weight almost lifted off the people in the shelter, a great sense of relief, that transmits into something intangible, the result of so much donated money, inglorious work, and genuine human caring, something rare and hard to find for a lot of people today, hope.

Friday, October 9, 2015

Jake The Snake

                                                                    
                                                                     
                                                               Jake the Snake
                                                                       

                                                                            By John Rogan
           
       The television glowed blue. My mom was falling asleep on the couch. I went to the wicker basket and got a model race car and two action figures. The car would be racing down some street, weaving, Bazooka would be duking it out with G.I. Joe’s arch nemesis Cobra. But maybe Cobra would win this time. Cobra’s shrill voice was always screaming out in desperation and I am sure there were times when Cobra privately wept since all his plans were constantly thwarted by the handsome, muscular mercenaries on The G.I. Joe Squad. No more crying alone for Cobra. The car began to race down the street. My dad popped his head into the television room and asked for the checkbook, something for the food store. He eyed the TV suspiciously. The TV glowed blue a big stadium, a square, canvas ring, and announcers talking about strange characters and their intense conflicts with other stranger characters.  Cobra was prying Bazooka’s fingers off the side of the car. Bazooka clung and fought for dear life. They were going fast, Bazooka saw it coming but could not stop it, finally. Cobra could maybe rejoice with people, friends. Cobra could smile for a bit, be relieved that something he set out to do had been successfully attained by himself. No more shrill crying once the show ended. One last kick to the face and Bazooka would spiral off the top of the car into a skyscraper or the radiator. Then a hissing snake’s head came on the screen. “Damien”, I said to myself. A tuxedoed announcer speaking Southern twang asked Jake the Snake about his opponent in the upcoming match “You see people wonder why does he do the things he does, you know why does he do that? A lot of people want to know where is he going? To know where I’m going you must know where I’ve been, and believe me you do not have a clue where I’ve been. It’s as simple as this, Jesse, you know and I know it is much better to be the hunter than the hunted, and what I’m in the WCW for is very simple I don’t want a piece of the world. I want the whole world.” Jesse responds
“Jake Roberts I don’t mind telling ya in my estimation, my opinion, humble as it may be you are a rather sick individual with that snake especially.” Jake gives a short laugh.
“Thank You.”
“You actually take that as a compliment.”
“Sure I live the way I want to. I don’t live by your rules. I don’t live by their rules. I live by my own rules because they fit me the best. Doing what I do I have to go out there and create and, and be the man I want to be. I have the opportunity to do that. Not many people have enough guts to do that, but I do.” It was 1993 and my parent’s dreams were destroyed by their kids. My mom was not the lawyer she was, in fact she was not a lawyer at all, she was a stay at home Mom now. My Dad’s 30’s had given way to children, marriage and the irreversible life of a “working-stiff” There was all sorts of little conflicts. My mom upset, overburdened. My Dad angry, swearing, overwhelmed. I remember coming in from the backyard because the mosquitoes were biting my back with my shirt off. The girls accused me of cheating at capture the flag. It was not cheating I just thought of something they did not. An owl always cooed as the sun went down in my backyard, but I never saw it once. My living room dark, thickened with shadows after hot dogs for dinner. I was doing aerial bombardments like the Stealth fighters in the Gulf War on TV. All the intact personalities of my neighborhood: the cliquey girls, my two friends, the younger boys peeing their pants, the younger girls taking off their shirts like the boys. The older girls telling the younger girls to put their shirts back on. Me and my friend found a bunch of Band-Aids and gave it to his mom. One day we ate grass. The next day we played war. But we were all intact, everything was present, and the future was as far away as Kuwait.
“Just let me be a part of the show and I will do my share. She was just such a kind little thing, you know, right there’ll probably be, you know, she’s going to live for the rest of her life, probably, and have seven kids and seven husbands, and whatever, wind up being a lady truck driver that cross dresses or something. She’ll always remember tonight, man, you know.” Things sped up. Kids went to different schools. People moved. Oklahoma city blew up. American Embassies blew up. Moms smelled cigarette smoke on their kids.  I heard rumors of a kid getting a blow job in a bathroom stall. The girl filled her thermos with vodka and by lunch she was falling down and the teachers were freaking out. My Dad had to make sure there was money for college, even though he spoke of the various enemies out to screw him in his office. My Mom went back to work booking vacations for a travel agency, not the Supreme Judicial court like before I was born, but hey kids or career.
“My mother was thirteen years old when I was born. Why? Because my Dad raped a little girl that was in a room asleep. My Dad was going out with my Mother’s mother, there you go, there’s some bones for Jake the Snake.” I got really into Marxism as soon as I could read. I was beginning to realize that I, my birth, was a well-organized plan, and I like all my contemporaries of my neighborhood were assembled by-products of our parent’s ability to hope for something better than their own life. There were all these people assembled and I had to stay on my feet with them. Endless competition. Incessant human interaction. Classroom after Classroom. Pressure. Stress. And the need to escape. “I used to tell myself I would never do drugs, never, it’s for losers, and we were Wrestling 26, 27 days a month, twice on Saturday, twice on Sunday, catching 8,9 planes a week. It’s basically a necessity just to continue. You took pills to go to sleep, you took pills because you had pain, you took cocaine to wake up so you could perform, you drank to go to sleep, you took sleeping pills. It’s a trap. Cocaine speeds me up so fast I can’t think about my past. Speeds me up so fast I don’t have to be responsible.” Kids were trying to go to college, but most kids I knew dropped out. All that coming down. Messed up parents just trying to do their best, but inevitably causing some major psychological snap. A support system not there. Day-in, Day-out with the absence. Systemized obligation taking the place of neighborhood afternoons. “My Dad was never there for me…I would do anything to gain my father’s love and I reached a point coming out of high school I was going to go to college, and I said Dad I’m going to go to college. He said good luck, huh, gee Dad thanks, you know, and right then something inside me said you know if you are ever going to get him to love you, you got to be better than he is at what he does, so I went out to the ring and I jumped in there and got the crap beat out of me.” When I was little I blamed my parents for all this awfulness, the school, the work, the absurd responsibilities, but it was not until later I realized they were just people like me entangled in this horror of mandated obligation looming over my own horizon. What people told me in a far off kind of way was adulthood. All the people suffering out there on the TV were just like me. I did not realize it, but it was coming fast. “Sometimes you don’t understand, see, it’s like when I was growing up I swore up and down I would never treat my kids like my father treated me, and twenty-four years later I look back and say, my God, you’ve done the exact stinking same thing.” Then when I got to be legally an adult I realized if everyone disdains responsibility and obligations then everyone must be in some way fake, because they told me they enjoyed their lives. Things lost the aspect of being genuine. Disillusion and alienation with the modern world constructed before me consumed me and I saw an interview with my old favorite wrestler Jake the Snake. It was good to see him still around. An old warrior. Most of his later interviews were drunk. His most recent interviews were about sobriety. But I always remember the old matches as the heel with the snake around his neck, shirtless, long hair in the mullet-like late 80’s early 90’s style “Me and Damien don’t forget. Now it’s my turn I’m going to make you beg! This time you’ll be the one that’s humble, this time you’ll be the one who’s humiliated and this time you will be the one who grovels for the money.” I guess I wonder as not being kids anymore what we fight over, what we are upset about. If the external goals I set out to accomplish have substance and if I set out the time, energy and sacrifice to accomplish these goals will this uneasy sense, weaving in and out of my days, leave me. Lots of people have good ideas and suggestions, but I know they stare down the barrel of the same uncertainty. I guess that’s when I feel alone, like other people are fake for just being part of the world. I feel fake if I am part of things, but at the same time incredibly scared of being alone or somehow left behind. “I wish he could be real more often. It would really help him and I think it would help us. It’s part of an act and part of it’s real. I mean his hurt is very real, I think.”

Sources:
2.      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5yTUrWXTY4k Mid-South Wrestling Promo
3.      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ryt6uc4Ojes Beyond The Mat 1999 wrestling documentary


Wednesday, March 4, 2015

I Don't Know where Ramona Is Now

                                       
                                     I Don’t Know Where Ramona Is Now
                                                           
                                                                                 By John Rogan
                                                           
            I’m 46.  I don’t know where Ramona is now. When I last seen her she was crying during nights. The halfway house give me pills. No junk. Not for two weeks now. Social worker all nice teeth say I’m doing great. I out halfway house and at meeting A.A. in Franklin Park. But I actually took the Red Line to Park Street. I get money off nice dude opening wallet on and walk to Downtown crossing. The leaves sway with the breeze the way me mom said goodnight.
Soft breath “Goodnight”
            Soft breath “Goodnight”
            The money fell out when Dad lost it. Dad all snapping at little things. Mom sitting on the long couch. Her knees swollen. Mom long time up in Boston General. A lot of money. Dad in an old folks place in Worcester. Both cancer. Long time ago now. Before Dad was sick we go and visit Mom. Little hospital gift shops. Dad all nervous quiet about finding a parking spot. The live-in nurse was from the Caribbean. I would be up late all night upset over nothing. Soft breath “Goodnight”
            Things packed up so fast with Mom, Dad, and brother. Last I seen Ramona was 3 years ago but she was always upset and crying. Brother don’t talk to me. Army man on Fort somewhere. Mom Dad gone before I knew what. My brother got the know-how from my Dad. Called me unreasonable with. It was gone before I got to know what. He charge me with coward. We don’t talk. He don’t send money like he used. He got big happy Army family I guess. Last I seen him when we sold the house. Last I seen my brother like black-and-white days. Smoke-inside days with big engines in cars. He was at a base during me and Ramona’s wedding. Scattered to country after mountain range. Called me fool over static phone. Fool. Very like him. I don’t see why he like getting told what to do. I told him so. He tell me I was irresponsible. Unreasonable with. I tell him on static phone meet my family. I meet yours. Like when Mom and Dad was still fighting alive. He don’t have it. Me and Ramona was good then. Long time ago. All the people go every which way. Brother in airplane over Antarctica could be. Mom worms. Dad worms. Ramona. I don’t know what Ramona is doing now.
            Slumped against Macy’s I get hot dog and Olde English 40 down. Burp and all the people walking every which way through Downtown Crossing. All their stories all their voices get soft. No mean, gnarling, stricken voices. Happy people all going their separate ways. To safe happy places. The voices so soft like music. They own private places. Sun-light bending soft since end of day. Trash kick around the curb in the wind. Mom soft breath “Goodnight”
            Last I heard Ramona moved down to Florida. I heard she had a family. I heard from someone else she was still in town. I heard she OD’d in Manchester, New Hampshire. I heard she was living in Everett. I heard she was sober. I heard a baby finally worked for her. I heard she would come find me if she could. I heard she was a programmer at Google in San Francisco. I heard she found a rich man. Junkies talk a lot a stuff. Three years ago was when I last spoke with her. Voices kicking up all mean and nasty now calm booze floating away.   I walked to South Station to take a dump. Washed my face in the sink with business-suit-guys going home. It was around 6 p.m. White blips came out of the big crowds taking trains. Each voice settling down a different tone to reflect all the different paths. I got money for a bus ticket. White blipping snarls were coming out of the guy’s eyes when he gave me the money. When I get like this and the voices start being seen I have to take my pills. I get scared and pee. Grim little faces screaming white light when I turn. A group of commuters with briefcases step away from me and go “ewwww.” Ramona left on a train. She was at Rosie’s Place with other beat-up women. The Social Worker called the police when I went to the office. Violation of parole again. The Social Worker got all outraged about telling me where she was. Ramona was in a program, I knew. I heard that program was in Wyoming.
            I went under the turnstiles in South Station and the dude just shake his head. He know me. Come out his glass box and yelling about MBTA cops. I already in car on way to Broadway. At Broadway I slink in with the crowd onto the back of a Green Line train to Fenway. The train breaks is like pressure building. I got money for Old Ray for I know what but I don’t want to tell myself.
 Years ago and young, I met Ramona some ugly Persian from Lawrence starts beating on her in Triple O’s on Columbus. Ramona gets right on this guy. He all bloody nose. She yelling in Spanish. I had to get her off and keep her away. My parents were still alive. Me and My brother still talked then. So I bought her a drink. She was emotional all over the place. Upset and then happy in one second all over the same thing. She had long wavy hair that puffed up in the heat. The Persian dude came back later all high and said some nasty stuff. I put the Persian guy out. I knew the bouncer Timmy and we broke the Persian’s left hand. I was fucked-up, but Timmy was yelling about what they did to thief’s hands in their country. So this is all young me and my brother still talking. Mom and Dad around. No cancer. Ramona a real handful. We were living together at the South Street Apartments in Jamaica Plain. Junkies everywhere. Ramona go hard at the stuff. Ramona went hard at everything. Everybody always telling her to calm down. Every morning that dirty smoke and her shaking with her rotting teeth. Last week underneath where Pine Street Junkies live under the highway they found dead junkie who sound like Ramona. I got call from Frank over at Pine Street Inn looking to ID the body. I come all the way form Somerville. Get in fight on bus. Get kicked off bus. Wonder if Ramona gone forever. Wonder if Ramona body stop moving where she be. Dead junkie is some Chinese girl.
I off at Fenway and I make for the Fens where Old Ray sleeps and string up some Money from Northeastern kids and Berklee and Symphony rich hippies. All peolpe,on sidewalks is  like light condensed in stars. People people but they energy come spilling out into the black that is space. A starry night to you look twinkly dotted and they black spots. A group of people to me have all that light for the stars filling in and running around that empty space. So you see nothing around people. I see their voice, their energy. Whatever it is that flows out of a person I see. All the kids at Symphony and Northeastern smiling and talking and the open space gets filled in. Light catches and snarls. I start to get scared. I can’t stop peeing. They won’t let me use the bathroom in Burger King. Need a key. The big manager yelling all mean. Everything floating out of him nasty and snarled jolting with the fluorescent lights. I pee all over the tile floor. I get real upset when he throw me out. I crying, peeing and hitting him. He calling police and  I running for the Fens.
We both go at it too hard back in South Street Apartments. My brother get mad. Ramona preganant and still going hard. Mom real sick and Dad starting to. Brother all mad said he doing everything. He know I see light from people. “A lot of changes,” I say to him one day all cotton- mouthy. Brother look at me grave and get more into the Army. I upset about Mama and smoked- out crack baby on way. Ramona light fly up against the wall and make like worms across my brain. Everyday with Ramona. Her big pretty hair and soft boobs yelling at me. Then I got too fucked up and Social Services come saying I’m been put in mental hospital, so I fight officer. Neighbors called. Ramona all bruised. Face swollen. Baby miscarriage. I started living at halfway house and getting checked on. Courts wouldn’t let me see Ramona no more.

Old Ray up on his shoulder. He got free syringes. He say good to see me again. We in long grass that snake along the dirty little water in the Fens. Grass up over my head. All people switching around. I ask Ray and he say he heard Ramona in Colorado. She could be in town he say too. With the grass over my head the light is making patterns on the sky. Sun down but sky bright. Shadows when I start to cook. Pulling the plunger out I see light. The light like when my mom and dad pulled up in a station wagon with my brother for elementary-school play. All us together. Smiling with no force pulling us apart. I said hi to my brother and he liked me and it was that simple. Mom wondered where I was, dying in her hospital bed. I wonder water sizzling evaporating on the spoon with brown. If each action. Each choice. Made people go where they went. Away. Like I do shot now and everything is one way.  I throw shot away and everything is another way. All the people come smiling in on me again. Inviting me to parties. Throwing me birthdays. I hate the pills for voice’s lights. Ramona in a shelter in Rhode Island someone said. Ramona back home in the DR, someone else. With all the sliding lights and voices crashing into one another it’s works into a frenzy in the soft night sky. Low clouds holding the last sets of sun. The city’s energy bouncing off the sidewalks and up into clouds. I find my vein. I look one last time at Ramona’s soft face, red lips holding fury, hair all big and curly when it’s hot. My brother dropping Bombs from space on Arab people. Mom and Dad floating somewhere watching all this. Pull back on the plunger and see a drop of my blood. I do not know where Ramona is now. Pulled apart. Things made sense at the time. Why we went this way and they that way. Pushing down the wall hit me. Tall grass turned to seaweed. Everyone stayed where they were. Me and Ramona curled up on a sofa together and fell asleep. Ramona like Mom. Me all tired-eyed right before sleep. Soft breath “Goodnight”