I am Seinfeld

Whenever I encounter something funny, and I want to share it, and it involves people who have no voice to respond, who may have the ability but lack the means to match wits with me online, I feel very conflicted. I love comedy, I love to write, I love blogs, and I love making other people laugh; the stuff that happens to me in real life is so much better than what happens to me in real life that I just go with it without acknowledging the fact that I am being a bully. As we all know, bullies are the biggest wimps. John, the man I write about here, can't post a blog of his own to tell me what he thinks about my piece and where to go and how -- nor would he want to, probably, or care about any of it. But in my experience, somebody like John would eviscerate me in a face-to-face battle of words. In his world, I'm the wimp. In this world, he is, whether we like it or not.

As you'll see, John and I shared a good laugh, and frankly he and his friends had a good laugh at my expense. The difference is there were 4 of them and potentially hundreds of you, most of whom will get that my intent is to write about a homeless person as a person, not as caricature or a representative of "a people" or some Hollywood stock character. (I usually have about 8 readers, but still.)

It disturbs me that somebody will read this, or something else I write, who have never met a homeless person in their life. Some may have met them as volunteers, which is great, or prosyletized to them on street corners, which I would love to hear their take on, but what does it mean to know someone? Remember the guys who used youtube to post those horrible attacks on homeless people? How about all the people who laughed at them? Every time I make a “homeless joke” I am putting myself slightly closer to them on the spectrum of humanity, and I have to weigh that against the kick I get out of the joke.

In college one of my friends wanted to spend a night in a homeless shelter and write about it for the school paper. One of our grizzled old professors heard us talking about it in class and said something I'll never forget.

"What do you think it's going to be like?" he said. "It's not going to be some idyllic experience. Most homeless people are dirty, smelly, angry." He shook his head and told my classmate to spend a few nights a week volunteering in a soup kitchen and then write something about that experience.

The kid kept talking about his big “night-in-a-shelter” story, but he never did it. At least, not while we were in college.

Some of my students are homeless, but the reality is, I get paid to spend time with them. Their condition, however unfortunate it may be, is in some sense the reason for my job, the source of my livelihood. Getting to know them is my job. But that doesn’t mean I can “speak for” the homeless or take lightly my portrayal of them. Sure, I’m a better person than those Bum Fight guys, but so is everyone who never killed a kitten.

In my experience, in teacher-student relationships, homelessness is treated as a shameful secret. A surprising number of my teenage students -- whether they were "put out" or they ran away -- do not have homes to go to. They sleep on relatives' couches or with boyfriends and girlfriends, or they “get locked up.” I have known 4 single mothers -- 3 Latina, 1 black – who said they couldn’t do their homework because it was too noisy in the shelter. All the statistics will tell you, these women and children are the real “face” of homelessness. Most homeless people aren't men, they don’t sleep in doorways, and they don’t panhandle.

The ones we see on the street are a minority. Thank God.

I have worked with plenty of single men who lived in shelters and scraped together food from various programs. One of them walked from Anacostia to downtown DC for tutoring until I found out and gave the man some tokens. People like him (we’ll call him “C”) are what keep me going, through the dozens students who leave no impression, or make a bad one leave a bad one. C and guys like him want to get a job and a room to rent, but they just can’t. For me the most powerful thing to deal with is self-esteem so low the stuff we learned in school doesn’t begin to describe it. I don't tell them that when I feel worthless, when I can’t get out of bed in the morning, I rely on family, friends, drugs and therapists to keep my life together. I can suggest some resources, but I can’t insult him by comparing my situation with his.

C blames himself for his joblessness, and he really does thank God for every scrap of joy He tosses from the table. C doesn’t think he deserves any better, which is common in abuse victims.

C’s story makes me sad because, in a certain sense, I gave up on him. After doing well for an entire semester of college (!), he wasted my time and resources, to the point that I finally blew up at him. It was the first time I really “broke up” with one of my mentees, and because it was the first time, I handled it pretty badly. I don’t flatter myself into thinking I had a big impact on C’s state of mind, but I’m sure he views me as another person who gave up on him along the way.

I am obviously sympathetic to C, because of the way I was raised, the church I went to, my mother’s example, my personal experience with depression, but what really made me care about him were all those weeks that he walked across the river, 7 miles, to downtown, to be tutored in math. He didn’t tell me, either. The front desk guy did. One day it rained so hard Chris hung out with him for a couple of hours before heading home.

With everything I know about people, and American values, and Christian values, I simply do not think anybody could know Chris and still walk away saying things like, “Why do I have to pay for some homeless guy to sit on his ass?” I could be wrong.

I hope not.

****

Heckle of the Week:

Homeless Guy: "You look beautiful! You look like Seinfeld!"

I was walking through Union Station, after work, like always, half-hearing the same tired phrases, like always:

“Lookin’ GOOD.”

“Hey baby.”

“Can I go with you?”

“You look like Seinfeld.”

What?

The tone was as surprising as the words. It was neutral, conversational, even friendly. I burst out laughing and turned to get a look at the guy. He was laughing, too, as if he had surprised himself.

He had white hair, but he wasn’t elderly. His clothes were dingy, his face scruffy. A dirty blanket lay crumpled at his feet. He was with a group of other guys, some of whom I know live at Union Station, lined up by the escalators, where a steady wave of commuters brushed past.

"You look beautiful, you look like Seinfeld!"

Ha, ha, somebody did something unexpected! Heckling is stupid but a heckler said a smart thing! The fact that the heckler was an archetype made the story funnier. And the quote could be used as a punchline or stand alone.

Later, after telling the story to show everyone how clever I am, I felt conflicted about the whole entire thing. What am I really saying? “Hey guys, isn’t it funny that a homeless person said something smart?!” or “Don't black people say funny things?!” And I wasn't even being clever. It was just the old "See! There is more to homeless people than meets the eye!” story. I would think about how pathetic it was to need people to validate my cleverness. Then I would feel bad because once again, I had made it about me.

Then Elaine said, "What are you, the New York Times? So you offended 4 people, including yourself! So what?!"

I am Seinfeld.

All the commuters, including me, were carrying laptop bags, smart phones, Starbucks cups, and anxiety. But John saw Seinfeld in me. Good friends have told me I look like New York City, but John called it in 2 seconds!

Chances are he didn’t mean to say something uncannily astute. Chances are there is not a genius living in Union Station. Chances are John is a perceptive guy who made a joke. I laughed. His friends laughed. He laughed. We were all laughing for different reasons, and those reasons are interesting.

Something else is interesting, too. Does John associate beauty with Seinfeld? Does he think I do? He started out with a compliment, and followed it up with something that really wasn't. Seinfeld, like Woody Allen movies, New York City and, (evidently) me, is first and foremost, neurotic. Again, did John in 2 seconds pick up on the fact that I am even more neurotic than most young professionals -- "yuppies," to the politically incorrect? Because he hit the nail on the head.

Nobody likes to be called neurotic, but think about Manhattan -- intense, anxiety ridden, exciting, creative, cutting edge, expensive. Seinfeld is funny and original as well as neurotic. Besides, John softened the blow by first telling me I'm beautiful, which is also true.

I wonder if John watches much Seinfeld. I don't think it's overstepping to say that the reality depicted on Seinfeld Friends is about as different from his life as it could be. I wonder how many yuppies John actually knows, or that care to know him.

I wonder if John later realized he was falling back on a tired stereotype to get a laugh.

Planned Parenthood, the Sign Lady, and Me

For me the standard annual gynocological exam is a pain in the butt in more ways than one. My insurance only covers about 4 gynocologists, and they all seem to be in Virginia. I finally found a guy in Friendship Heights and went there for 2 years. When I called to make an appointment this year, I found out his practice had moved to Ashburn, Virginia. I’d have to rent a car and take a day off work!

I knew Planned Parenthood had a clinic a few blocks away because I went there once, back before Plan B was available over the counter (as my boy Jesus would say, before you throw that stone, you can shove it up your ass), so in a rare burst of optimism I called to see if they would take my insurance. They didn't, but they charged on a sliding scale, so I should be able to pay for it myself. I almost did a cartwheel.

On my way in I passed I lady waving a sign that said, “End Abortion,” on one side and “Close This Clinic” on the other. She said something that I barely heard. I just ignored her. Everyone knows you can't talk to these people. It's pointless and it's exactly what they are dying for you to do. I went through security and signed in.

There were about 8 people ahead of me on the sign-in sheet.

I went to get lunch and gave Sign Lady the nod on the way back in. There was still a crowd of about 30 people in the waiting room. Half of them were women who looked to be about my age, all wearing skirts, button-up shirts, and flip flops strikingly similar to mine. The rest were men! I figured they were waiting for their girlfriends, but in the course of the afternoon, 4 men were called back for appointments. My guess is they were there for standard STD testing or something, but I really don’t know.

I saw a lot of patients come and go because my appointment was 1 hour and 45 minutes late. I am not a person who takes that kind of thing well, but this staff was busting their ass. There was a Nurse Practitioner to do the "doctoring"; a lady who ran the front desk, did intake, took medical histories, and handled payments; a woman in a suit who sat in the office doing something that she was very worried about; and 2 phlebotomist/assistant types. They were moving as fast as they could the entire time. Front Desk Lady apologized and kept me updated on where I was in line so often that I started to feel bad for her. She was an attractive black woman in her late thirties who was wearing gold hoops with her immaculately ironed pink scrubs. It was completely out of character, but I was totally fine with the delay. At least it wasn’t the whole day, and Front Desk Lady had kind of awed me into silence.

Finally, she took me back to the exam room (the phlebotomists whisked by, each with a patient), took my history, and gave me the gown. Less than 5 minutes later the NP came in. She did all the usual stuff and sent me to the phlebotomist, who did what she needed to do and dispatched me back to the Front Desk Lady, who raised her eyebrow at my insurance card and then made copies of like, everything, saying, "No news is good news. Give it 2 weeks. Have a nice day."

Well, okay. Pleasure doing business with you.... And thank you.

As I headed outside, I realized somebody else had been there all afternoon. The woman and her sign. She was an older woman, clearly retired (no doubt receiving Social Security and Medicaid), with perfectly coiffed gray hair, nice clothes and makeup. I did not have on nice clothes and makeup. She seemed like a nice lady, maybe a little loony out there by herself, a stylish grandmother with a picket sign. She also looked like somebody who could go to the doctor any time she wanted and have it be paid for. That may not be true. Perhaps she, like me and my peers and the dudes in the clinic, was thrilled to death l to wait an hour and 45 minutes to see a Nurse Practitioner.

I decided to ask her.

Yep, against all reason I spoke to the Crazy. I was pretty frazzled, so when I saw that “End Abortion/Close This Clinic” sign I just snapped. Also, I really wanted to know.
“Have you ever been inside a Planned Parenthood?”

She said, “No, I firmly believe that abortion is murder.”

Now, that clinic consisted of a waiting room, 2 exam rooms, a bathroom, and a phlebotomy “area” with a lot of stuff – organized stuff, but stuff – stored in there. Not to mention one nurse practitioner -- no MDs -- on duty. If they were doing abortions in there, I don’t know where they were doing them, who was doing them, or how any of them would have time (although I don’t doubt that Front Desk Lady could juggle that, too, if she had to).

To her credit, Sign Lady let me say an entire sentence before breaking in.

I said, “You know, they provide a lot of other services besides abortion.”

She replied, “Yes, but abortion is their main thing.”

I walked away while she put on a little show for all the passersby. I cried. I’m not kidding. I cried because the truth is, Sign Lady has actual power. She probably belongs to a huge church, listens to the vast network of conservative radio hosts, gives tons of money to Anti-Planned-Parenthood, Inc., pesters her senators and God knows what else. If she had ever been inside, she would know that this clinic’s “Main Thing” is provide basic services to people like me, while my insurance company flips me off on a daily basis. But she has no clue. She has all the power and absolutely no clue.

I went back to my office and donated $10 online to Planned Parenthood and wrote a check for $190 to CareFirst for my monthly premium. I was really angry. But I still just sat around watching TV all week, instead of -- I don't know -- getting out there with a sign of my own. If I don't do something, I'm just letting Sign Lady win. It could very easily happen. I don’t know what’s happening in Congress, but I do know that if that Front Desk Lady ever decides she wants to make more money with more help in a better work environment, we're screwed.

And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.