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.

Law School, Schmaw School: I could totally be a lawyer

I could totally be a lawyer. Anybody who watches TV knows that an objection can be prejudicial, grossly prejudicial, argumentative, badgering the witness, and leading the witness. It's only after years of dedicated viewing that you know the finer points of lawyering:

"He's doing an end run around Miranda!"

"So were you lying then or are you lying now?"

"How does that get justice for the victims?"

"Sidebar, your Honor?"

"Goes to credibility!"

"I don't want this to turn into a battle of the experts."

"If what he says checks out, I'll take the death penalty off the table."

"Have you been offered a deal for this testimony?"

"Permission to treat as hostile, your Honor?"

"Objection, is there a question here?"

"Seems to me, [Witness], you had as much motive as anybody to see [Dead Person] dead!"

"Redirect, your Honor?"

"Isn't that what you said in your sworn statement to the grand jury?"

"Isn't that what you told the police?"

"Did you murder [Dead Person]?"

"And do you see that person in the courtroom today?"

"Withdrawn!"

"I'll rephrase."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, don't you let 'em."

Then after a few years of doing that I would be promoted to judgery. Judges say different things, like:

"Sustained. Answer the question, son."

"So ordered."

"Approach."

"Order, order! I will have order!"

"I seem to remember there was a plea bargain on the table."

"Careful, counselor."

"I'll allow it. But tread lightly, Mr. [Lawyer]."

"You can't change course mid-stream."

"I'm not granting a mistrial!"

"I'm going to give you some latitude here."

"Bailiff, remove that man!"

"Control your client, Mr. [Lawyer]."

"The jury will disregard that last remark."

"IN MY CHAMBERS!"

"I have no choice but to declare an immediate mistrial."

"You are free to go, Mr. [Bad Guy], with the court's apologies."

Really the only thing I can't do is court reporter. They type fast.

Halloween is so goddam fun.

Halloween is so goddam fun. It just is. I get inspired.

Every year my friend Alison and I do a joint costume, which is obviously adorable. Last year, we were "duelling pianos," complete with little plastic swords from CVS. The year before, we were "Twin Peaks," which in my opinion is still the gold standard of joint Halloween costumes. "The Blind Leading the Blind" was our debut effort. Every year, we have to wait for inspiration to strike. You can't force it. And then, suddenly, there it is! BAM! You're driving down H Street and you see an undersold condo and you think, "I could be an undersold condo!" And then you think, "And Alison could be the stadium and we could be Southwest DC! And we could do the whole thing in like 2 hours with posterboard and Sharpies! I should teach a class on this shit!"

Unfortunately, I had trouble articulating my vision to my partner. She thought I was trying to make some sort of political statement about gentrification. I stand by the undersold condo costume, but the key to a successful joint costume is leveraging the jointness, and the idea en totem was not quite there yet. Besides, if Alison saw a political statement, other people might too. We took enough crap for "The Blind Leading the Blind."

The last 3 years have been my ideas, so when Alison said, with gleaming eyes, "I wanna be bacon," I immediately acquiesced. Alison warned that no one would have to "figure out" our costume this year. I assured her that I was 100 percent on board. 2 strips of bacon walking down the street is beautiful in its simplicity. Achieving said effect is not. I don't want to give too much away here, but I will say that preparation required a late-night trip to Joann's Fabric in Greenbelt, 18 yards of felt, 8 long wooden dowels, 2 bags of white acrylic fabric, and a troll-like woman named Daria.

Halloween! They should just call it "Ellie-ween." An entire holiday based on dressing up, candy, and parties? And being the center of attention is the goal? Come on. It is The Only Child's time to shine.

Never give up; never, never, never give up.

One of my favorite quotes is "Never give up; never, never, never give up." For me, this quote sums up a few things about Churchill. The most impressive thing about him, to me, was not just that he was right, but that he never doubted for a second that he WAS right. First and foremost, he never gave up on himself. While everyone around him was (somewhat understandably), reluctant to rock the boat, he was saying (in so many words), "We have to stand up to this guy. It's going to suck, but we gotta do it, and you know I'm right." Deep down, the rest of England knew he was right. But England had just been through World War I, and all Europeans know something about war that most Americans do not: How much it sucks. War meant risk of death, of course, but it also meant food shortages, dismal news reports, having to volunteer as a nurse in a grungy hospital, or hide out in trenches filled with poo, and watching your country's important stuff get blown up. I mean, seriously. I don't blame people for wishful thinking. Winston was saying from the beginning, "We're going to have to fight and there's really no way around it," but nobody wanted to listen and they didn't really get it until they were all hiding out in tube stations because now Germany was coming after THEM. So Winston was right. He must have felt vindicated, but he also knew it would happen eventually. I would love to be that sure of anything, just once. 

Of course, getting everybody on board was just the beginning -- now he had to keep them from jumping ship, like the French did. So now he's saying "Now that we're in this, we have to win, or die trying, and nobody can give up or the whole thing will fall apart." He was also saying, "Never doubt that we ARE going to win. The Americans ARE going to help us." And because he had been right before, people were willing to bet he was right this time. He kept everybody going. Considering how hard it is just to a group of friends to agree on a time and place to meet for diner, leadership on that level is just really damn cool.  

This quote is inspiring because Churchill himself never gave up on his own belief, which was that appeasement wasn't going to work and England had to fight. He never gave up on himself. And, perhaps most amazingly, he never gave up on everybody else.

The Only Child's Manifesto

Being an only child has an upside.

Sure, I'm spoiled. My mother never had any money, but in her single-parent exhaustion she was more than happy to acquiesce to my demands. We alternated between spaghetti and shake-n-bake for dinner until my mom remarried when I was 9. When it was time to play, my mother delighted in whatever ideas I had, whatever games I came up with, and everything I had to say. Add to the usual danger of an only child never having to accommodate what anyone else wants to do my mother's overriding desire not to "crush my spirit." She didn't. My mom found it easier to pick up after me than to make me pick up after myself, so that's how we rolled. And I have had a hell of a time in adult life. I have spent my 20s struggling with the huge gap between my academic accomplishments and my total inability to take care of myself. I have been fortunate enough to have friends who would tell me I had to make concessions to the group or get lost. I have spent most of my life completely oblivious to my impact on other people. It's been an uphill battle that I am only starting to win.

But I do have spirit. If I wanted to wear one pink sock and one green sock to school, my mother thought that was great. As a result, I have a unique personal style, and while shopping my girlfriends sometimes say wistfully, "Oh, well, YOU could pull that off, but I never could." If I'm happy with how I look, screw it. (Again, this has had some downsides, as you might imagine.) I have no trouble going to a movie, a party, or a bar by myself. I often prefer hanging out by myself and even went on vacation alone once -- by choice. There is no such thing as lonely. There is freedom from the nuisance of everybody else. 

As a spoiled child, I do not like to hear that I can't do something. My refusal to take no for an answer is a big part of my personality and has significantly impacted my life. I am a closer. You need that person at the table sometimes. I founded a non-profit, and every new challenge just made me more determined to achieve what I set out to do. I spent my childhood reading on the couch while my mother yelled at me to clean the bathroom and then gave up. I have read a lot. I made perfect grades. I love to spell and learn and study. It is my natural state of being. 

My mother didn't do me any favors, but my upbringing made me who I am today. And, at the age of 30, I am finally able to do the laundry without crying. As the executive director of a non-profit, I am learning that people like it when you are "nice" to them. Rather than imposing my will on everybody else, my biggest challenge now is to meet everybody as equals and figure something out -- start to finish -- together. I will probably always be learning the lessons that you don't even realize your brothers and sisters taught you. As a result, I will be frustrated, overwhelmed, and me. 

The Reliant Lives to Fight Another Day

I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself, but it looks like my beloved Reliant is going to pass inspection in Virginia. As well it should. The Reliant is 22 years old and looks like hell, but it only has 77,000 miles on it, and therefore is a completely safe form of transportation given a few adjustments.

For example.  The windshield wipers don't work (as in, the motor that makes them go is broken), so I just periodically wax the window real good. Rain slides right off. The driver's side mirror is held in place by a hair thingy, so I just look over my shoulder a lot. When it's cold it takes 4 grown men to steer the car out of its parking space, so I let it warm up for a good 5 minutes on cold days and avoid making a left turn for as long as possible. The air-conditioner hasn't worked since 1996, so I leave the windows open in the summer. Eliminate the greenhouse effect, and keep moving, and you eliminate misery. I lost the key last year, and the Reliant is so old Plymouth (or whoever bought them) didn't have a replacement key to send me, so I had to get the ignition replaced. Now the door locks don't match the ignition key so even if it were necessary, you couldn't lock the car door. 

When my mom brought the 8-year-old Reliant home a few days after my 16th-birthday she was elated. The car had under 50,000 miles on it and my Grandpa approved of the motor. The car cost $5,000. I cried. It was boxy and stupid-looking. In the low-cost-of-living meets more-credit-is-good-credit Southern town where I grew up, 16-year-olds got brand new cars. The high school parking lot was full of brand-new Saturns, Jeep Wranglers, Corvettes (no, I am not kidding -- Misty and Kristy had matching ones), and the Reliant. Appropriately, I parked near the Career Center, alongside trucks with Confederate flags hanging in the rear windows. And, contrary to what my parents believed, other kids DID notice my stupid car. And made fun of it. In the Arkansas summers I used to wear my bikini to drive to work and change into my uniform at the movie theater. When I went to college I left that thing in the dust.

Then I got old. Now, a few days before my 30th birthday, I am terrified that the Reliant will not pass Virginia inspection. It's tough. The first place I took it to wanted to charge $2000 to bring it up to standard. My cousin in Michigan could fix it up for $600, but that doesn't much help me unless I plan to take a week off work and drive to his junkyard. Thankfully, my roommate knows a guy. Actually, two guys. Korean guys. And let me tell you, THANK GOD for immigrants from Third World countries. In the Third World, the average life span of an automobile is 47 years. A boy becomes a man when he learns how to fix the car. Doors are held on with duct tape. And people make adjustments. 

I can understand that people don't want that kind of thing on the roads in Arlington. But the fact is, those people understand neither the need to get by nor the joy of it. They don't understand the need to do without a working radio if it means the car can be counted on to get you to work. My insurance is next to nothing. Where I live, the parking lot is full of Mercedes, Infinities, Lexii, and Volkswagens. The Reliant doesn't fit in. So I park on the street. None of this is new to me. What's new is my adult sense of pride in my mother's ability to spot immortal cars (she drove an orange Pinto station wagon for 20 years; the only reason she stopped driving it was because it took leaded fuel), my car's ability to defy convention, and yes, my own resourcefulness. The Reliant may look like hell, but it runs. My mother may not like that the windshield wipers don't work, but I can see in the rain. And none of it may be ideal, but neither is life. Certainly not mine. For me, the real joy in life comes in rooting for the underdog, defying the odds, and making good things last. 

Besides, my roommate's guy is going to fix the wipers and some other stuff for not much more than my cousin was going to charge me, and pass the car to boot.  I'm happy with what I have. Now, a few days before my 30th birthday, with my old pal ready to chug along with me once more, I am feeling sightly concerned about my INTENSE desire to avoid change.