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

The Rhythm From My Porch

The Rhythm from my porch

Tire low of air, flap, flap, flap…does the driver realize he’s almost on the rim?

A ball game played in my neighbor’s yard…I’m half asleep on the porch, listening to a metal clang…the bat? A metal plate used as a base? The rhythm plays like music in its own way. I recognize Mario’s echoing laughter, and I smile…laughter with a real, a full joy in it. I hear Jose’s voice…a rather humorous lilt in how he makes his pronouncements…

 A group of wrens, massed around a ‘puddle’ of seeds fallen from a tree; they move almost as one, from the driveway apron to the drive, and then to the lilac bushes, flowers shed so long ago. As if prompted by the influx of wrens, a cardinal bursts from the bushes to a neighboring tree...one rhythmic note  affecting the other.

“F….him, I said, mother f’er….”, I heard the words, followed by laughter, words I can’t understand – is it a dialect, is it lazy speech, is it just that I don’t want to hear it…my cold eyes hold no power if the speakers don’t make eye contact with me. The raw, unwelcomed cursing is oddly rhythmic…its own music…is it?

Slap, slap, slap; rap, rap, rap; basketballs and rap music, both hitting the sidewalk. Rhythmic, too, are the glances….”Don’t look, Sage’ my 12 year old neighbor whispers to me. He’s Blood; don’t look.’ This, too, is a warning oft repeated to me. He’s Crypt, he’s Blood, He’s an 18…don’t do it, Sage.

You’re gay; am not; sure you are; laughter; some tension; the message not spoken now reveals who has been ripping on who today. You are, so I’m not. A day’s rhythm is coming to its end on the porch.  Kids are gathering, feeling safe to say what they wouldn’t on the street. We talk about ‘gay’. “You’ve met my son; he’s gay. You like him. You respect him. What’s different?

Karen boys bike by; chattering in a language we don’t understand. Marco mocks the unknown under his breath. Hey, I tell him, how was it when you came here and didn’t speak English? Did people mock your Spanish? How did you feel? The form of our conversation takes up a familiar rhythm, we’ve had it before about Hmong language and culture. It’s a rhythm that becomes, sadly, almost comfortable.

Weed wackers, lawn mowers, people calling to each other. Motors revving, missing mufflers, roaring motorcycles; planes in a no-fly zone, dismiss any shred of conversation.  Wait.

A scooter’s whirrrrrr; a Rainbow shopping cart, rumbles down the hill, child propelling child; in the background a car horn out of control, but in perfect rhythm.

And then, one Saturday morning, the world regains briefly, the rhythm of only birds, the sipping of early morning coffee, and the quiet turning of a book’s pages. I’m alone with my own rhythm.

9/2011