OUR STORIES | Losing a home, finding help in St. Paul

By Sage Holben, Community Voices

June 13, 2014

“Time for breakfast, fellas,” is the typical 6:30 lights on/wake-up at Union Gospel Mission, home of Bethel Hotel and many services for men who are homeless.
Bethel Hotel at the Union Gospel Mission (UGM) has been Alan Grafing’s home for eight months. A friend recommended UGM when Alan lost his apartment. Like so many, the spiral quickly went from losing his job to losing his apartment. For $6 a night, he reserves a "paid bed" in a room with 33 other men. This is an alternative to a free bed, which dictates an "in-bed" curfew of 9:30 p.m., among other specific requirements, or a private room at a cost of roughly $180 to $200. For a weekly fee, a shelter resident can rent a locker. Some men use their cars to hold their possessions while others may carry their possessions with them throughout the day.

Life for Alan was once as normal as anyone’s: one of two brothers with two sisters, mother, and his father in the Navy. One sister is now in Colorado and the other in Wisconsin; his brother and parents have all died of cancer. Alan is an Army paratrooper vet and has been divorced for five years. He had been working in Mankato and caring for his ill mother. After his mother died, he moved to the Twin Cities so he wouldn’t have to commute to see his son. He found a job in the Twin Cities, but was let go after two months.
A year later he lost his apartment after trying to hang on while job-hunting, the futility eating through his 401K and unemployment. He went to court, attempting to keep his apartment. His apartment management stored his belongings as long as possible as Alan could not afford storage; since then the property manager has been kind enough to continue storing photos and other very personal items until Alan gets on his feet. The heartache of losing family heirlooms and keepsakes reflects in Alan’s face.
“Aid policies need to be in place so people are not forced into foreclosure or into losing an apartment [in harsh financial situations]," he said. "I applied for assistance to keep my apartment, but not in time. The court gave me a week to get the money needed, with the expectation that I knew people - friends or relatives- with money. A court-related call to the landlord could have helped; I was short of help by one week...just one week.
“My son (eight years old) worries about me. A child should not have to worry about a parent. We visit on the weekend, keep in touch. I had been calling every three days, lately every day. It’s God who did the work. God’s grace is what made it happen – so quickly. Two months ago God pushed me to the VA. I walked into my first appointment knowing something had to change. I was told by an intake worker that I hadn’t been homeless long enough – a year. He called two days later, after having made some calls…told me I’d have a voucher from the Metropolitan Council for an apartment. Getting connected to HUD-VASH was a God-send. One application did so much. The presence of God has kept me on a [positive] path.”
Alan summarizes his experience: “My son will always come first. With my own apartment again, he can have daddy cook for him. I’ve learned that rent will always be paid first. I want my child to be happy…Legos…I put the Legos together, he played with them – we both had fun…but the rent needs to be paid first; and I want to cook for my son. I have learned frugality in purchasing food, things for my son. I’ve learned the difference between needs and wants. If it wasn’t for my son, I would have had a different path and it scared me to think what could have been.”
Alan summarized his experience with Union Gospel Mission saying, “It’s a natural fit for me; I’m a spiritual person, and UGM has a lot of programs that can help.” If a person has a free bed rather than a paid room, a few of the programs UGM offers are required. Others are very helpful, but optional:

• Gateway: Helps men recently out of prison, including help finding transitional housing;
• Up and Out: Helps men earn their GED;
• Anger Management;
• Budgeting classes.

“A social worker, employed by UGM is present and available every day,” notes Alan, “as well as two or three interns and they are easy to access. A podiatry group offers foot care help monthly, for any foot related problems including foot massages. Health and dental care are offered on the premises, by East Side Clinic, Dr. Como, and dental students. They give the best of dental care. UGM helps men to get their lives back on track, with God in it.”
Alan, with other men from the Mission and Dorothy Day, enjoys the fellowship and computer access they find at Metropolitan State University and the co-existing Dayton’s Bluff branch of the Saint Paul Public Library. Other options for shelter residents, who have to be physically out of the shelter for most of the day, are the downtown Passport, which is for those 50 years plus; the Union Depot, which has Wi-Fi; riding the city bus to Minneapolis for the Central Library, the Veterans Administration, “and, unfortunately, downtown Saint Paul where drugs are easily available.”
Internet access and fellowship are very important – recreation often consists of watching movies on phones. UGM has no computers; people must have their own laptops and then sign a waiver in order to access the internet. Basketball and football are the usual TV fare in the common room at Bethel.
When asked how he sees people getting out of homelessness, Alan considered: “Start by recognizing ‘need’ versus ‘want.’" A person needs reliable transportation and a steady job. The city bus is the most common transportation for shelter residents. Alan, like some, has a car, though it needs work to be reliable. Housing and transportation are two critical elements in getting a job and stabilizing one’s life. Frafing noted that [homeless] people who have cars are working more than those who don’t.
Alan had promised his son that he would be out of shelter in eight months. He would have realized his priorities much sooner, he mused, if he had been in touch with the VA sooner. Knowing what resources are out there, knowing what organizations are available to help, are key. Once he connected to the VA things really moved along.
“Being homeless is life-altering, life-changing. Some people lose their sense of pride somewhere, or don’t care. Not all who are homeless are lazy. A couple of bad breaks and we’re forced out of our homes. Some of us are good workers.”
Note: Since this writing, Alan has found full-time employment and is looking forward to finding an apartment where he can cook for his son.

© 2014 Sage Holben (As printed in Twin Cities Daily Planet)

SPOKEN THOUGHTS

She spoke in a voice low and wispy, as if to take up no more space than her body already claimed.

‘When I speak, you come!  Immediately!’ so spoke the father.

Speak with clarity and get to the point.

If we don’t speak for the voiceless or the vulnerable, who will?

“I can’t speak for her”, and then he went ahead and did so.

She spoke words of wisdom

With the language of eyes and laughter, two need not speak the same oral language to enjoy each other’s company.

The dead speak their secrets as the family unearths the papers and collections left behind.

The silent, living victims are left in turmoil over the pleasant lies spoken of the dead.

The kids in my neighborhood, having a different awareness than I do about law, gangs, and relationships, often speak in code to me with their eyes and facial expressions: don’t do it; don’t say what you’re thinking; I’m hurting, please defend me.

Speak now, says the Holy Spirit...be bold...speak in faith.

Speak up, I can’t hear you. I speak up and you don’t listen.

Speak truth to power.

Words, music, art, nature, facial and body movements, our environment, rhythm...all speak to us. Are we listening? What do we hear?

sage holben 9/2012 (written for Allison McGhee's Brown Bag Readings

View From My Porch

Night’s Presence

1 am: a four-door car driving up the hill on Fourth, from Maria, across Bates and Maple; a full sized mattress, unfastened, on the roof of the car; a man sprawled, face down, across the top.

11:30 pm: a two-door red sports car stops midway on Bates between Fourth and Fifth. Four men exit, the youngest takes a basketball from the trunk and proceeds to circle in the street, bouncing the ball. The others fumble through the trunk, taking something small, unidentifiable to me, out and the four walk to 300 Bates, entering through the north side door. Lights are on, evident only when the door is open. After about fifteen minutes, another man, huge around the waist, walks from Third to the red car and drives it away, making a U-turn and heading toward Third.

Around 12:30, first week of July. A man, a woman and a child, about seven, walk south on Bates, up Fourth, the child pulling a luggage cart. The sound of the wheels convey a lonely, empty, nowhere feeling. A few minutes later, the man returns without the woman and child.

Almost anytime in the evening: a car pulls up on Bates. Headlights blink, wait a few seconds, blink again. A car drives up, driver to driver. hands go out, both cars drive away.

1 am: two men, loudly talking, riding bikes south on Bates. S____! says one man as he jumps off his bike. Broken chain? He drops the bike in the middle of the street and walks away.  From the window, I say, please, at least move it off the street. He obliges. The next day, several people checked it out for possibilities and left it before I pulled it over near the trash bin.

Slam! Around 11:30, the sound caught my attention. Curse words between a male and female. According to another neighbor who saw the incident, a man shoved a woman against the little library and her head hit the roof.

2 am: two women walking down the middle of the street; I could hear their conversation and their names used. Having turned the corner, one curses. Now knowing her name, I call gently from the upper window, “D___, please watch your language.” As if God had spoken, she looked around and answered, “Alright...Sorry!”

At two am, where would two women be going, walking with three very young children including a tiny baby?

After midnight, a neighbor discreetly (or so he thinks) places his scrapped carpeting into my trash bins.

A woman scurries like a rat into the drive, taking one of our recycling bins.

At 2:30 am, awakened by someone dragging scrap metal north on Bates.

Sleep, so often disturbed; wakeful times, so often perplexing.

sh 7/17/2012 (as published in Dayton's Bluff Forum)

United States Post Offices Services

I just read an article in Bloomberg Businessweek that the US Post Office, with its cutbacks in independent postal stations, is looking at small businesses, i.e. cafes, stores, to house USPS minimal service desks/postal boxes, etc. Of course, lockboxes are already situated in various mailing/package depots. The article states that it was only after the Civil War that independent buildings were created, as a result of a growing trust in government. Interesting.

mmm...I remember when I lived in Bloomingdale, Illinois in the 50s and 60s. Bloomingdale was a mere crossroads between Elgin and Chicago; our post office was located in the locally owned hardware store. I remember his face, but can't remember the name of the store owner. He or a woman handled the postal services.

I like the convenience this offers, especially in one of my favorite coffee shops; then I wonder about privacy issues with postal boxes....would a regular Postal employee deliver mail to the lockboxes?
Also, I remember, though I felt leery of walking into the dim hardware store filled with men gathered talking, there was a sense of community. A corner bar was the only gathering spot at that time, or on the steps of the grocery, enjoying a 10oz (8 oz?) Coke, frosty and cold, from the outside vending machine.

The article is: 'The Post Office's Back to the Future Rescue Plan' pp 38-40;Bloomberg Businessweek May 27, 2013.                                                                                                 

VIEW FROM MY PORCH

Car-less

“Your car frame rusted out and separated from the wheel”. The news was not good. I had taken my 1998 Metro LSI to Roy’s garage because something didn’t feel right with the passenger side front wheel. Too much rust, one too many potholes. Jim Goff had given me the car in 2008 and it’s been a trusty little thing, taking me to Chicago, Door County, Wisconsin, Negaunee, Michigan and Iowa to visit family and friends.

It’s carried neighborhood boys and bikes to bike shops and to pick up paint for bikes. Always loaded with at least three boxes of donated books, I’ve made runs to fill Little Free Libaries around Saint Paul. It’s transported some of the men I’ve met, who stay at Dorothy Day, to their doctors and has helped them move into their new apartments. It’s carried kids to events out of their neighborhood, carried bags of collected winter coats to Gospel Mission and reusables to the thrift stores.

It’s chased down stolen bikes; carried garden supplies, plants, bags and bins of mulch.

Linda Charpentier and I served soup from the little red Metro over the last couple years in the Dorothy Day Center parking lot. My car carried several of my political protest/peace rally signs - you never know when you’ll come across an opportunity to make your voice heard; and you want to be prepared!

I’ve often wondered what my life would be without a car. It’s one of those situations that I imagined intellectually, but experiencing it is completely different. Over time I suppose I would adapt. Never having had a new car, I’ve never taken for granted the priviliege of having a car readily available. I do admit to being car-dependent. I’ve had many little awakenings since being without a vehicle. The Red Cross called, but I couldn’t make my regular platelet donation because of transportation. At 9:30 one night, I couldn’t just run out to Rainbow for the missing recipe ingredient.

I’ve become more aware of Phoenix Market hours...and cost (a can of cat food at Target is 49 cents, at Rainbow it is 59 cents, and at Phoenix it is 99 cents. Little things do matter. If convenience of a nearby ‘corner market’ becomes a necessity, it’ll hurt my pocketbook in a big way and it also limits my fresh food/healthy food availability. Ali, I love that you’re in the neighborhood, but it would be like giving up my ‘brainiac books’ as someone once called my library, for pulp fiction, just because it’s all I could get!

I realized I could no longer keep my schedule - like being in Roseville and making it back in twenty minutes to a meeting in Dayton’s Bluff...let’s see, the bus leaves... I need to pick up super large pieces of cardboard to make templates for a community project, but I have to figure a way to get them home. I can’t run errands on my lunch hour or before work.. After work is more likely, but it’s not as if I can run to several places while someone else is driving and they have other things to do.

I now see outside of my intellectual sphere why payday stores do well, though I question their ethics. I had a difficult time getting to my credit union and then only after hours. ATM fees? the more convenient, the higher the fee. Fun stuff? I picked up my bag the other morning to treat myself to breakfast - oops, no car. I know, I know, I’ve just not yet made the transition that the bus is first on my mind.I recall from when my sons were young - how difficult it was to walk nine blocks between home and store with two grocery bags, a six year old who wanted to run a block ahead and a crying two year old who needed to be carried through the Wisconsin snow. Now I’m at an age where when my pride doesn’t like asking for help and I don’t want to be a drag on friends by asking for errand rides (my perception, not theirs).

Assumed rights become a hard-earned privilege when one doesn’t have ease in access and availability (think fresh food and carrying several days worth for two very hungry, growing boys; think money exchange/bill paying centers (not everyone has computer access or a stable bank account to pay online; getting to and from community resources and agency appointments. Think recreation with the kids in tow. Think a clinic appointment taking three hours instead of a lunch hour, because taking a bus is involved and then walking several blocks on the bad foot the doctor will look at, tell you to stay off - once you walk back to the bus stop and then walk home, of course. This is just over my first week. I’m hoping I’ll have a car again by the time this is printed. But I do promise, even if/after I get a car again, I’ll be a bigger voice for people who lack these conveniences that so many of us take for granted as a right.

sage 5/7/2013

Happy Birthday, BonBon!

Wednesday evening was much like any other at Bates and Fourth in Dayton's Bluff...that means anything can happen. Bonni and I were on the porch, talking about the upcoming Neighborhood Night Out on Tuesday. She brought out her face-painting pencils and twisty balloons for animals. As she was practicing, I was working on the banner several of us started the previous day. Cesar stopped by and we learned that he knew how to make balloon figures. Also, he had done face-painting.
Soon a little girl, who had stopped on Tuesday, came again...she was fundraising for new school instruments. Carrying her keyboard under her arm, she would play a song for 25 cents. She had learned quite a bit in a matter of 24 hours!!
Soon, Cesar and Bonni had company in two other kids, all making balloon swords, sheathes, hats, and animals. Lara then stopped by with two young friends - they had heard of our screeching slingshot monkeys. They stayed and worked on the banner. Bonni and I had thought we were pretty much done; obviously not, since it now has several little drawings, speckles, and signatures...truly a community project.
I love that the kids come and visit. Their smiles and shy humor really lighten the day. I'm trying to get the projector for a Tuesday movie, which we'll do in the parking area for the night out.  (From 2009 posting: Porch....)

Library Thing Early Reviewers Book Review: In the Body of the World by Eve Ensler

I just received this early reviewer book this afternoon, was home with a bad headache and read Ensler's book in a matter of a few hours. It cast light on my own family relations beyond all else this book does. Contrary to its subject matter, it is not a depressing book.

Relationships, communicating with one’s body, facing life and death, defining love in its many forms, giving to the earth and its people more than one takes away. This is, in summary, what Eve Ensler expresses in her book, ‘In the Body of the World’. Ensler talks about her experience, her relationship, with cancer and chemo with wry wit, and candor.

In exploring and courageously sharing her raw and life changing experience of surgeries, ports, chemo, and all their emotional and physical side effects, Ensler emboldens others to find their own way, but encourages us to be bold enough to feel, to love, to name, to cry, and to believe that others are there for us. Ensler carries us through with beautiful metaphors and honesty about the facing and fearing death. At one point, her mother, also ill, tells Eve that “I dreamed they are came to take our hearts. They didn’t want mine. They wanted yours the most”...The next morning they move my mother to the cardiac unit because her heart has now become the problem. It is where we do not live that the dying comes.”

sh 4/201

Library Thing Early Reviewers Book Review: 'A Slave in the White House - Paul Jennings and the Madisons'

Though I would have appreciated better organization of the historic material and events, once I took the mindset of 'listening to an elder reminisce', I was able to enjoy 'A Slave in the White House'. The author has definitely done far-reaching research into material not before shared in the history of slavery. I am grateful for the truths and facts Elizabeth Dowling Taylor puts before the reader; some clear up myths, some opened my eyes to the deeper relationships between white and Black, and owner and slave, and a reminder of how much and how deeply whites' selfish desire slashed lives and families of those they chose to own.

I hope that history classes will teach the truth of our founding fathers and that we all question whether our leaders have the courage and the will to live what they preach; live by the laws they enact. I knew much of the background, but Taylor, through research, especially of James Madison's slave, Paul Jennings, added the personal. It's the personal that makes history come alive for me. Though much of the 'fill-in' bits of slavery and how whites justified owning other humans left me gagging, I appreciated that Taylor included the conflict between heart, soul, mind, and law, also.   (sh 4/2013, noted in LibraryThing.com, Walkonmyearth

Recognizing Neighborhood Rankism

View From My Porch

True or false? Most men and women will agree that sexism continues in one degree or another. True or false? Racism flourishes no matter how many letters to the editor, anti-racism workshops, or directly challenging another’s actions or words - how does one get inside another’s head or soul?

Now, consider ‘rankism’. Rankism, as described by Robert W. Fuller, the coiner of the term, is “using one’s real or perceived power to hold the balance of power in a relationship”. In the context of a neighborhood, a person might translate simple social position into power. It might be the person who has been a resident for the longest time; a  homeowner over a renter; a resident who participates in community activities over one who doesn’t;  a child whose toys are boxed, spendy, and off the shelf rather than makeshift or  built from scraps; a privileged youth  (whose free time consists of travel, leisure and organized/costly sports) assumes or is given the role of ’boss’ over other youths (most often youths of color), whose  free time is spent working to supplement the family income; the person with a college education over the one who didn’t finish high school; the person who ‘knows’ and uses governmental ‘connections’ over the neighbor who barely makes it through life’s system and tends to avoid anyone ‘official’. The list continues. Some of these examples can be labeled as classism; some, upon closer examination, as racism. Rankism encompasses virtually all other ‘-isms’ and can help introduce the other ‘-isms’ into conversation with less fire than perhaps  racism, which needs to be faced, but creates eerie quiet or spitting anger when brought up in most conversation.

Robert W. Fuller, author of Somebodies and Nobodies states: “Rankism is

what people who take themselves for ‘somebodies’ do to those they mistake

for ‘nobodies’." Whether directed at an individual or a group, rankism aims

to put targets in their place and keep them weak so they will do as they're told

and submit to being taken advantage of.”  

Not wanting to see a ‘problem’ where there isn’t any, yet seeing a system that rankled me, I talked with a colleague whose career and personal life are steeped in addressing and examining racism, classism, relationships, attitudes, and systems.

In the case of youths: my hope is that parents who recognize that their children are privileged, whether by color of skin,education, or economic status and the luxury of costly or fee-based extracurricular activities, or easily replacing a stolen bike instead of having to rebuild one from parts; that these parents will teach not only ‘tolerance’ (whatever that means) but also why their children are very fortunate to take for granted what others must eke out; why they have access to and can expect financial/time based activities. My hope is that parents - ALL parents - teach their children that when they do live a privileged life with its benefits, that the children share the gifts of privilege much as they might share their toys: if privilege assumes being ‘boss’, share that role; if it is the gift of a job that you neither need nor want, share the opportunity; if you have more off-the-shelf toys than you need, stash them away (or give away) and experience playing only with the cardboard box.  Last, do all this unconditionally and without the pride of being ‘tolerant’. Do it with the knowledge that life often offers some a bigger stage than it offer others....share that stage.

Do it without the arrogance of ‘tolerance’.

As often happens when I question behaviors in a ‘system’, I end up challenging my own beliefs and actions. I was reminded that the beauty and truth of a youth having to build his bike from parts, or making the cardboard box the all-purpose toy: playhouse/fort/sled/ dollhouse/airport, or finding jobs through his or her own inventiveness and resourcefulness does not make one ‘disadvantaged’. That youth may not be the most privileged as societally defined, but certainly is one apt to have learned resourcefulness and creativity and to find and name his or her own success because of recognizing what defines tolerance, entitlement, privilege, and being named ‘the other’. I look forward to knowing that person when he or she is an adult. As always, youth in our neighborhood open my eyes and teach with great depth.

sage holben 3/2013

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

Breaths of Life

I held my breath as I lay in the lake water...I learned to float.
I held my breath as I waited for the high school boy to call...we dated.
I held my breath as I waited to hear if I had passed my driving test...I did.
I held my breath as I waited for the pastor to pronounce us 'husband and wife'...he did, and we were, for fourteen years.
I held my breath as I waited to hear the extent of my 5 year old son's concussion...he would be ok.
I held my breath as we waited to hear whether our offer on our home purchase would be accepted...it was home for almost ten years.
I held my breath as I waited to hear the results of my six year old's EEG...seizures disappeared with short term medication.
I held my breath as I waited for my intoxicated husband to arrive home...he did, at 3am.
I held my breath as I waited through the night for the police to come and tell me he had hit someone on his drive home...they never did.
I held my breath as I waited for the judge to grant our divorce...he did.
I held my breath on a harried trip to visit my dying mother...she lived for three more years.
I held my breath as I cleaned maggots from a friend's retreat refrigerator, closed for two years...he thanked me.
I held my breath as the airy, delicate torte cooled for the evening dinner party...it was beautiful.
I held my breath as my car spun on black ice...it never touched another car or the bridge guard rails.
I held my breath for the mammogram....and for the next.
I held my breath for the biopsy results...and the doctor called...and it was good news.

sh 6/3/2012

Passing of Friends -

At the beginning of April a friend of mine died. She was buried on her 87th birthday. She had been having health problems and had only one lung, so her passing wasn't totally unexpected. That knowledge doesn't soften the hurt. I wrote to Vernelle often, almost every week, and called her every weekend. Today I was clearing out phone messages and came across her number. I called it, just because. The number you have called is not in service.....

VIEW FROM MY PORCH - "Look Beyond the Blue"

St. Paul Police Department, on Wednesday, March 7, graduated the 18th session of its Citizen Police Academy (CPA). I’m proud to say I am one of the new graduates. The academy, funded
by the Chief’s own budget, offers St. Paul residents, age 21 and older, an opportunity to receive a micro version of officer training. It’s interesting to learn of other participants’ experiences and expectations as the course evolves.The ultimate goal is that the participant will gain knowledge of an officer’s training; a better understanding of policies and procedures that govern the actions of St. Paul police officers; and for the department to gain a better perspective of issues important to residents and to open communication between the department and residents. Additionally, for residents who wish to serve on the SPP Citizen Internal Affairs Review Commission, CPA participation is a prerequisite. Many opportunities for volunteer involvement are available for youth and adults and do not require Citizen Police Academy training. A call to Don Luna at 651-266-5583 or e-mail at don.luna@ci.stpaul.mn.us will start the step to registering for a future CPA or for one of the many other opportunities.


A visit to the SPPD website will give a listing of class sessions (6:30-9:30 for 11 Wednesday evenings). Our instructors were officers and leaders in their fields. Classes included learning the why and how of carrying out actions; how policies are applied; how and when force is applied, defensive tactics; making the decision of when to shoot or not to shoot; patrol and criminal investigation procedures; dispelling the NCI crime lab myths and learning the realities; bike and horse patrol, ordinance disposal (includes bombs); community policing, SWAT, Internal Affairs, narcotics and gangs, and so much more! Classroom teaching always had ample time for questions and answers. 


Of course, ‘hands-on’ training was the most fun! Like kids of all ages, we like to be active and display what we learn! We spent time on the training room mats working our way through scenarios common to officers who have to make split second decisions when interacting with a person and the real threats involved. It’s not like TV, folks! We used laser guns to test our ‘shoot/don’t shoot’ reactions to scenarios based on real life events. I learned quite a bit about myself and how quickly I do or don’t react in shooting someone. We learned techniques in using the baton on someone threatening us, and physical  tactical maneuvers using only our body parts. I will have to admit, my favorite sessions were on the gun range, firing an M-16, and the taser session. I was tased with three different methods. (I love being in the library and saying “I was tased three times” as someone walks by. I wonder what they think as they give me a surprised look). A note to others: this is all volunteer and each person decides whether s/he wants to physically participate in an activity.   Truthfully, the most frightening part of this was being fingerprinted. I felt as if I were giving up a part of myself.  I got over the tasing, but not the fingerprinting.


The title of this piece is important to me. Throughout our sessions we were building relationships. We also were receiving and sharing some insight and getting to know the human side of people who sometimes appear as never smiling, iron-clad robots. I’ll never forget my feelings during the RNC as I walked the downtown streets and many times faced what appeared to be four or five Darth Vadars who appeared ready to lunge at me given the slightest threat. It’ll probably happen again in my lifetime. However, at our last class session was an officer who shared why he chose this profession. Like so many, though certainly, not all, he wears the blue because he wanted to make a positive difference in people’s lives. I am glad to say that I have met many, many St Paul police who make a positive difference and only two or three who have made a negative impression. This officer encouraged us to remember we are all human; have good days and bad days. We don’t know what’s happened in another’s life just before our paths cross, but we can keep a positive perspective if we, ‘look beyond the Blue’ and see the person.


Don Luna, I hope your phone doesn’t stop ringing with requests to participate in CPA! Call Don at 651-266-5583 to register for a Citizen Police Academy training.


 (By Sage Holben: originally written for Dayton's Bluff District Forum neighborhood newspaper, April 2012)

View From My Porch - March Issue of Dayton's Bluff Forum

Ramsey County Judges Meet with Dayton's Bluff Community Residents

(From Dayton's Bluff District Forum neighborhood newspaper)

“When a young mother bundles up her baby to come out to a meeting on a cold and dark winter evening, I know that she has something important to say.” – Judge Lezlie Ott Marek

“We know we’re your only route to justice.” So noted St. Paul City Attorney Kim Bingham when Dayton’s Bluff Community Council hosted an unprecedented event at its monthly community meeting on February 2. Ramsey County District Court Judges Robyn Millenacker and Lezlie Marek, St. Paul East Side FORCE Commander Jill McRae, and Attorney Bingham met with 16 residents of Dayton’s Bluff to talk about residents’ experiences as crime victims in their own neighborhoods. One panel member indicated that such a meeting was unusual and indicated that too often, those who make decisions really do
not know the community in which the people most affected live. It was a listening session of respect and support.

Several residents cited break-ins of cars and homes; another of shots fired through a window. One talked movingly of being home during a break-in and feeling powerless in working through the process afterward. Breakins being much more common than being attacked, I wonder if we accept it as TOO common. After I was attacked and beaten, I was able to fairly quickly work through the report, identification, and attend court proceedings. Assistant City Attorney Anthony Tedesco and the SPPD proved extremely
supportive and responsive in providing resource information, connecting me with reconciliation services,
and keeping me updated in court appearances of ‘my’ attacker. 

As Judge Millenacker stated, “The partnership between and among law enforcement, the courts and the community is vital to forging solutions…your voices were heard and will continue to be at the forefront of my mind, and those of my fellow judges, when we are determining the consequences for those engaging in criminal behavior.”

I consider myself more fortunate a victim than someone who is a victim of a home or car break-in. An attack is close up and personal – direct. The attack on me was a rash decision and not against my ‘secure space.’ I later was able to personally meet with at least one assailant and ask questions, getting an understanding of the person who committed the crime. For the other two, for a short while, whenever I
walked into Phoenix or Rainbow, or passed the bus stop, I wondered if the Black woman and man in front of me were the same who had beaten me. I felt safe, though; safe because I had a community’s support. I felt safe to face my fears and let them go; safe to walk past the attacker’s home.

I believe having answers and knowing that the police and court process were working together gave me this sense of safety. An unsolved vehicle or home break-in doesn’t offer this same sense of closure or safety. Through her directness in our dialogue, Commander McRae conveyed her understanding of our concerns. I personally believe that our voices were heard at this meeting and our experiences seen as those that affect lives, not simply numbers for statistics. It seems appropriate to close with a comment from Judge Marek: “Please know that we listened closely to your stories about how crime in your neighborhood is eroding the sense of safety and peace that every citizen has the right to expect where they live and work and raise their families. The stories made a strong impression on all of us and they will help us to better perform our jobs.”

sh 2/2012

Mr. Cellophane

Some days I am invisible to others....is it age? being short? fat? my personality? that the other person doesn't know my accomplishments?  I don't want to ever treat others as invisible.

Playing Santa - one very special Christmas

Christmas holiday is approaching too quickly. So much is keeping me busy, yet so little has any connection to Christmas. That can be a good thing - I'll be spending the holiday with my Sam, so I'm not putting up a tree or going to great lengths for Christmas decorations...lack of money this year doesn't allow for that any way. The weather forecasts that I've heard so far tell of a brown Christmas...that's ok, too, but not for the kids. I heard on the radio some days ago, perhaps it was Dick Gordon's 'The Story' on NPR, about Santa Claus experiences. It brought to mind on year when I played Santa in the Cherrypoint Mall, Sturgeon Bay Wisconsin.

I was unemployed and the season was looking dreary with a tight job market and no positive responses to my resumes. One of the volunteers from my previous job was the manager of the local mall. Bob called me and asked if I would want the paid job of his mall Santa. I don't remember if it was for one week or two, but it was a job and I was thinking of the fun that could evolve. The current Santa had been showing up under the influence of alcohol or wasn't dependable - I don't really remember. When I appeared for my first stint and donned the flimsy, velour suit, it was evident that I didn't need extra padding. As I pulled the beard and moustache over my face I had second thoughts. All the disinfectant spray in the world never removed the sense of disgusting residue from the netted backing of the beard around my mouth.

I took my place on Santa's 'throne' and waited for the first child who still believed in what Santa represented, or even Santa himself. I had rehearsed in my head how to answer children without really promising what they requested. Having worked with families who often existed day to day, I was not working under the assumption  that their Christmas dinner, decorations, or gifts would be plentiful. Also, that people who didn't lack money would be taking their kids to a 'real' Santa at one of the upscaled northern Door County businesses that catered to tourists.

An adult woman approached with three children. The youngest was a typical visit, the oldest talked with me and asked for some help for his younger brother, the middle child. Looking for help from the adult, I found that she was the foster mom to the three. She told me they were here visiting me/Santa to see if I could talk ith the youngster, 6 or 7 years old, and encourage him to positive behavior. The boy came and sat on my lap. I asked what had been happening and his older brother said that the boy on my lap had killed a pet while chasing it with a shovel. He then chased the youngest child with a shovel, trying ti hit him. Quite a request for Santa. I talked quietly with him and later talked with an acquaintance at the area Social Services. They were aware of the circumstances.

'Are you a lady?' asked a little girl. She nodded yes when I confirmed her suspicions and asked if she was ok with that. Perhaps that was some of the Christmas magic. A few children later, a girl, about nine years of age said she and her family had just moved. Having learned never to assume anything and keeping the conversation open, I learned that they were living out of boxes in someone's basement. She was worried that Santa wouldn't find her.

I tried to play a little safe even in the decorations and tree area, having been told by several that they couldn't afford a tree that year. On boy, there with his grandmother, asked Santa to keep his Daddy safe. He was in the Iraq war. His mommy, he said, was in the hospital with cancer. 'Santa, could you pray for them?' I told him we could pray right then, which we did.

At one point during my Santa stint I was feeling particularly low....the number of Santas in tv shows who were degenerates, drunks, lonely old men who looked older than they actually were, taking jobs as department store Santas to be able to buy one more bottle of gin! Wow, except for the gender and alcohol, I felt like something from an old movie!  There was humor in the time that the mall janitor left early, locking my purse, car and house keys and street clothes in the closet where I changed. I called a friend who picked me up and drove me home...then waited while Santa climbed through a side window to get into the house. Fortunately, no one saw me; or, if they did, it remained their story to tell!

As to feeling depressed or too much like an out of work failure, my friend Randy Warner, brought me to grateful tears as he encouraged me that I was in a perfect place over the Christmas season - kids, people, of all ages came to share their hurts and secrets with Santa. And adults as well as children did come and talk; there is something so safe and emotionally freeing in talking to Santa - whoever is inside the red and white costume. Randy reminded me that as people let go of their hurts to Santa, I could take all of it and offer prayers, then and there, either with them or quietly, privately, and lift them all, and their very specific needs, in prayer. Who else would be given such gifts over such a precious season!? Hugs to you, Randy Warner!

PORCH LIFE
a few steps removed

Normally, when a newspaper reports a shooting, I read the article and can only imagine what the victim’s family is experiencing. The closest I had been to a violent death was in the mid-60s, the murder/suicide by an uncle by marriage and his two young children.

My experience on Wednesday, September 26 and on the following days determined that my observations would never again be far removed. Gunshots fired at 6:30 initiated the progression of a very long week at  the corner of Fourth and Bates. From the continuous activity at the De’Koda Mar’ta Galtney memorial, to attending De’Koda’s wake and funeral service, I was more emotionally involved than I could ever have imagined. Through those several days I was blessed to briefly talk with, and exchange hugs with De’Koda’s mom, sisters, and others who lost, in De’Koda’s passing, a brother, nephew, friend, son, father. In this point of reference, the only thing that matters is that a loved one passed from this life; only that hearts are breaking and people are hurting.

Over the week and a half, I observed and heard a gamut of emotions. Some neighbors contributed food and kind words to the mourners. What disturbed me was the extreme other end of the gamut - the anger. Not anger focused on losing someone, or toward the murderer, but the anger that lashed out wildly and the more pent up anger that whined as if trying to escape from a tiny hole. - anger that came from a few people keeping vigil at the memorial and from a few people who live in the many blocks in this lower Dayton’s Bluff area. Anger, a normal emotion and feeling we sometimes encounter as we work through grief and other difficult situations. How long and how tightly we carry it , though, can destroy us and others. Words spoken in anger can cause damage long after being spoken. Words meant to intimidate or carry threats can create distrust in friends and acquaintances. What is the source of this anger? Where might it take root?

Inner anger and grief nagged me for days before I could finally identify the reasons behind my own emotions. Yes, I grieved for De’Koda’s family and friends. My heart cried every night for the young men and women across the street from my porch. I grieved for the god-uncle who came early Sunday to find the memorial in ashes. Alone on the porch, late into the night and into early mornings, I prayed silently and I sang praise songs aloud. At other times, friends came silently onto the porch just to be with me. It helped to talk through what I was seeing and feeling. But it didn’t take away the ache or the anger. I felt so useless in what I could do. Even now, tears flow.

Much of this culminated on Sunday evening as Chanelle and her and De’Koda’s precious baby. Charitie, visited on my porch with two friends and me. Seeing Chanelle and then my friend hold little Charitee solidified the concept of ‘community’ and its sometimes delicate balance.

I know a few other people may find offense with my approach or framing of these past days. Some may revert to social judgments, condemnations and stereotypes of fatherless children, lives of crime, and related spiels. This isn’t the place. This is the time and place when we ask, ‘What does a community response to such a tragedy look like?’  and ‘Who is the community?’ I hope that this could be the start of a dialogue that builds stronger relationships within a community - within a city.


(note to self: expand on this)
sage holben/originally written for Dayton's Bluff Forum, 11/2011