Privacy of the Poor

“Anguish...anguish is the only way I can describe it.” That was my answer to the Ramsey County dispatch on a hot summer night in describing the sounds emanating from the nearby building. It was one of those calls I teetered with - do I call or not? On the one hand, it could be someone who had been physically hurt...a woman? a child?...I couldn’t distinguish which. Could it be a child alone? In fear? Could it be a woman trying to stifle the wails caused by a lovers’ argument?
Like so many old buildings these small apartments had no air conditioning. Windows open directly onto the street, inviting the immediate world to share in whatever life is dealing to the inhabitants at the moment. At that moment, I thought how unfair and humiliating life had to be for those who didn’t enjoy the privacy and emotional safety of a private home, set back from the sidewalk with trees, grass and shrubs to filter and separate street noise and life from within what should be personal space.
True, sound can carry from any house if loud or piercing enough. But for apartments stacked on top of each other, often crammed with too many people or excessive energy, no air conditioning to muffle sounds or cool the interior, sounds of personal conversation, sex, sobbing, and family arguments waft or even leap into public domain. On this night, the sounds stopped and I called back to dispatch to cancel the call; dispatch indicated it was my decision on whether to cancel or not. What does ‘stopped’ mean? That someone died, fell asleep? I opted to cancel, being of the mind that someone had been emotionally hurting, not physically harmed; and though I was unable to offer comfort to the unknown person, neither would I encourage the intrusion of police banging at the secured door and possible embarrassment to the tenant. Privacy works the other way, also.
I recall last year, dozens of mourners gathered on the corner opposite me, grieving for a young man killed in our intersection. For many nights the families within an apartment building were separated by only a thin wall from the angry talk, drinking, grieving, mournful murmuring, shouting, and the occasional smashed bottle. All this was taking place just inches on the outer side of their window. Some who were within had already lived through their own hell of death, shooting, and the unknown. As unwilling prisoners in their own apartment, were they now reliving nightmares?
I’ve recently come across several articles referring to ‘privacy of the poor’ in terms of data privacy. Important, yes. However, it’s the daily humiliations that erode our spirits. What can we do?

sh 11/2012 (published in Dayton's Bluff District Forum)
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AFTER VISITING FRIENDS - Book review for LibraryThing.com/ early book reviews

Michael Hainey’s appreciation of a good story becomes apparent from the very first chapter - and I was hooked. He set the foundation of trust and spirit of understanding on which his search for the truth of his father’s death would be built. He searched and questioned with a deep if not completely clear understanding of the human mind and heart. Relationships have often been likened to quilts and tapestries. Considering the generations and cultures in the makeup of Michael’s family, I will glom onto the quilt concept; the quilt that rashly combines silks and denims; fragile, thin cottons and aged sateens that occasionally catch the light and reveal an original radiance. Stitches of aging thread that provide varying degrees of tension between the equally aging pieces.

Michael makes the reader privvy to the grandson/grandmother/mother relationships; the shared stories and observations of family quirks; factual comments casually dropped by the grandmother; the wariness tempered by respectful tenderness in the mother/son relationship. How does one sift out the facts and truth in a history that that has been somewhat distorted by people protecting their own?  Does the truth even hold the same power after being buried for decades? When we find the truth, we may have simply uncovered new truths...with the real truth revealed in the tensions we were afraid to face. Michael’s father had his demons. He was a man with a passion for his job, and an inner torment he could face only in living a facade. In the end, perhaps the real hero is the person who knew of the demons and kept them at bay from the children.

I couldn’t put this book down until I was done...and even then it haunted me.

sh 2/2013