This time tomorrow, it will be another decade, another birthday, another turning point. This year is no exception in that having a birthday at a time when others are celebrating makes for leaving out the details of one's personal reality, for better or otherwise. It's not about age, as this has been happening since adolescence or as long as can be remembered. It's just too much at once: a birthday and major holiday at the same time, not unique to anyone who is familiar with the same.
So the celebration is deliberately a quiet one, known only by those close. Forgotten almost as soon as it's mentioned to anyone who might overhear, unless one is a celebrity. Still no regrets there. There might have been another child, though not the same one, who has been a gift and a miracle. As fragile as ever, who brought on the reckoning of another childhood lost, though not so much as others. Knowing the latter neither compensates for or lessens the impact when it's your only family, one's only child, grandchild, nephew, cousin, with their own precious life that passes in minutes, hours, days, and weeks that will not be replaced.
To some, we are not unique, depersonalized and labelled from the moment help and protection is sought. Categorized, stigmatized, triaged, stereotyped, profiled: our social conditioning, the biases of our respective environments, or simply social pressure, sometimes called 'politics', for lack of a better term. No wonder so many times 'no good deed goes unpunished'. In a different environment it's nearly impossible to imagine what happens to others, much less the long-term impact, especially early in life. For those who survive the connections and progression becomes very clear over time, yet those considered elders without awareness or knowledge continue to repeat history.
There is always something to be grateful for, yet for those whose loved ones are unaccounted for or whose whereabouts or state of health is unknown there is no peace. Not everyone loves children, not even their own; for those who do life is never the same once the completely unexpected changes everything forever in the blink of an eye, the stroke of a pen, an uninformed statement, all at once. Over time, there are many tears unknown or ignored, the source unrecognized. There are premature deaths, literal and of the spirit; personalities become completely different from abrupt changes in environment and exposure. And we wonder what is wrong with the current generation or the one before, as if it had nothing to do with the decisions of those who never touched them 'in any direct way'.
Perception is not what we see, any more than what we're told. The evolution of a spirit is only as good as its environment and support system in many regards, though not all. No child deserves to have their childhood taken. Looking at others through different eyes and listening to the words of souls without knowing where they came from one cannot distinguish between who is actually the child, as the most wisdom often comes from who is thought to be the latter.
So as the fireworks go off and confetti descends, the choice is to remain silent, for now.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Domino Effect
I know you didn't notice, unless you were already a follower; I did it again, not remembering the entry day until after the fact, one day earlier than the last...
A big struggle this year has been distinguishing where personal responsibility leaves off and outside circumstances begin, on a very large scale. Call it a blessing or a curse, love it or hate it, when not in the tunnel vision of ‘survival mode’, I’ve been alternately criticized then praised for being able to see ‘the big picture’. To keep that perspective, and a sense of sanity, I seek out to read or listen to anything inspirational and uplifting, including stories of those who have overcome very difficult odds. Sometimes those who tell the stories are not those who have gone through them, though rather others who have become inspired by them as well, who can insert them into a text to make a point. Still, they are not the individuals who endured the same hardships, though they very likely and have had trials of their own.
The media often knowingly shapes our perceptions, though individuals can become extremely defensive of being ‘brainwashed’, for lack of a better term. It is the very thinking they are fed on a daily basis, the uncontrollable need to pick up the daily news or watch it on TV that shapes decisions and judgments. The ‘extremely wealthy’ in our society are largely not affected by what controls the masses; in many instances, the former are the ones who also create the media. Not only today is the gap between the ‘classes’ widening, what most don’t know is the divide between the ‘Haves’ who have consciences, and those who do not. The latter want others to stay poor, and their discontent cannot be satisfied by any dollar amount, thus the extreme rate of their incomes being spent on material trappings, clubs, perks, ‘favors’, and so called ‘self-improvement’ attempts that often abruptly become replaced by something else if any real self-reflection becomes ‘uncomfortable’.
Resources and those it can influence takes precedence over examining root causes that affect and harm many innocent lives the media sometimes tells us with a shred of integrity are in fact the casualties of self-interested decisions several degrees of separation away. Too often, however, we are pounded by the ‘popular wisdom’ that others should pick themselves up by their bootstraps, even if they don’t have boots, or lost them to a higher bidder.
Going to a job one sometimes hates, picking up the paper and coffee, allows us to become numb to how that job, paper, and coffee came into existence sometimes on the backs of innocent children, women, and the elderly. It’s shocking to many that there could even be a connection of these ‘elements’ to each other. The ‘other half’ of the ‘Haves’ will tell a different story. Our discontent and everyday mundane ‘routines’ become an illusion, a ‘shield’ that permits the madness to continue.
We didn’t create the paper (but we bought it and read it, and used it as conversation at the water cooler so as to get along and attempt to bond with the coworkers we are ‘forced’ to coexist with, who make decisions about others). We didn’t make the coffee (but we bought it, harvested from the backs of workers that include children, women with child, and their parents and grandparents in underdeveloped areas). The jobs we hate we cling to, knowing that without trading the hour for the dollar we are much closer to those who reach out with a cup on the train we cannot make eye contact with. The pay that’s never enough is squandered on the ‘necessities’ of newspapers and coffee, to have something to do during commutes so as not to make eye contact with anyone, lost in our thoughts of discontent, reading all that’s ‘wrong’ with the world, in the paper, that we paid for, that paid the ‘Haves’ without a conscience, that we complain are ‘robbing’ the ‘Have nots’, yet it has nothing to do with ‘us’…
A big struggle this year has been distinguishing where personal responsibility leaves off and outside circumstances begin, on a very large scale. Call it a blessing or a curse, love it or hate it, when not in the tunnel vision of ‘survival mode’, I’ve been alternately criticized then praised for being able to see ‘the big picture’. To keep that perspective, and a sense of sanity, I seek out to read or listen to anything inspirational and uplifting, including stories of those who have overcome very difficult odds. Sometimes those who tell the stories are not those who have gone through them, though rather others who have become inspired by them as well, who can insert them into a text to make a point. Still, they are not the individuals who endured the same hardships, though they very likely and have had trials of their own.
The media often knowingly shapes our perceptions, though individuals can become extremely defensive of being ‘brainwashed’, for lack of a better term. It is the very thinking they are fed on a daily basis, the uncontrollable need to pick up the daily news or watch it on TV that shapes decisions and judgments. The ‘extremely wealthy’ in our society are largely not affected by what controls the masses; in many instances, the former are the ones who also create the media. Not only today is the gap between the ‘classes’ widening, what most don’t know is the divide between the ‘Haves’ who have consciences, and those who do not. The latter want others to stay poor, and their discontent cannot be satisfied by any dollar amount, thus the extreme rate of their incomes being spent on material trappings, clubs, perks, ‘favors’, and so called ‘self-improvement’ attempts that often abruptly become replaced by something else if any real self-reflection becomes ‘uncomfortable’.
Resources and those it can influence takes precedence over examining root causes that affect and harm many innocent lives the media sometimes tells us with a shred of integrity are in fact the casualties of self-interested decisions several degrees of separation away. Too often, however, we are pounded by the ‘popular wisdom’ that others should pick themselves up by their bootstraps, even if they don’t have boots, or lost them to a higher bidder.
Going to a job one sometimes hates, picking up the paper and coffee, allows us to become numb to how that job, paper, and coffee came into existence sometimes on the backs of innocent children, women, and the elderly. It’s shocking to many that there could even be a connection of these ‘elements’ to each other. The ‘other half’ of the ‘Haves’ will tell a different story. Our discontent and everyday mundane ‘routines’ become an illusion, a ‘shield’ that permits the madness to continue.
We didn’t create the paper (but we bought it and read it, and used it as conversation at the water cooler so as to get along and attempt to bond with the coworkers we are ‘forced’ to coexist with, who make decisions about others). We didn’t make the coffee (but we bought it, harvested from the backs of workers that include children, women with child, and their parents and grandparents in underdeveloped areas). The jobs we hate we cling to, knowing that without trading the hour for the dollar we are much closer to those who reach out with a cup on the train we cannot make eye contact with. The pay that’s never enough is squandered on the ‘necessities’ of newspapers and coffee, to have something to do during commutes so as not to make eye contact with anyone, lost in our thoughts of discontent, reading all that’s ‘wrong’ with the world, in the paper, that we paid for, that paid the ‘Haves’ without a conscience, that we complain are ‘robbing’ the ‘Have nots’, yet it has nothing to do with ‘us’…
Monday, November 2, 2009
A first, for here
Just realized this moment there was nothing for the end of the month: a marker for the intensity of events that have obviously overwhelmed to a point of missing what has become such a regular observed detail.
On the same day it was as this past one: unseasonably warm and pleasant. No jackets were necessary when the news broke that a child was on the way, by summer of the following year.
There was no way to anticipate what was to come. The most beautiful blessing, male, against the odds for a first delivery of a certain age and what was thought to not be possible by this time. What followed was the usual roller coaster that goes with hormonal changes compounded by pressures from an outside world that was not nearly as friendly as where home used to be. There was no option to not accept and embrace another human into this life.
Most memories are more joy than pain, more pain than was necessary. Too much was missing in the form of essential contacts. They were too far away. Where we were was too costly. We couldn't get out when it didn't seem to matter, when it would either have been agreed to happily or if the news hadn't been broken at all, saying it wasn't working so someone could go forward with their plans to go after someone else they thought they wanted more, never knowing what was to arrive.
Who we make up in our minds is what we attach ourselves to; caught up in emotions and all that goes with it does not reveal what others see. We often find out too late that our loyalties were misplaced, our time taken, our lives compromised, exploited as means to another's end, as if we don't matter at all. Becoming part of another's short-term purpose until the next conquest that appears to offer what they think they want, if only for the short term, as far as they can think.
This was the difference between us: different visions, objectivity, consciousness, conscience, compassion, definitions of the same words so far apart from so-called reality. Daring to label the other as if entitled or qualified, practiced enough over a lifetime to convince others without question, expecting it to work again as it always had in the past, with whomever chose to serve them, consciously or not.
Now, more lives are lost or being lost, imposed by others just like them, not yet awake. The most vulnerables' voices are silent or not heard, though they will be.
On the same day it was as this past one: unseasonably warm and pleasant. No jackets were necessary when the news broke that a child was on the way, by summer of the following year.
There was no way to anticipate what was to come. The most beautiful blessing, male, against the odds for a first delivery of a certain age and what was thought to not be possible by this time. What followed was the usual roller coaster that goes with hormonal changes compounded by pressures from an outside world that was not nearly as friendly as where home used to be. There was no option to not accept and embrace another human into this life.
Most memories are more joy than pain, more pain than was necessary. Too much was missing in the form of essential contacts. They were too far away. Where we were was too costly. We couldn't get out when it didn't seem to matter, when it would either have been agreed to happily or if the news hadn't been broken at all, saying it wasn't working so someone could go forward with their plans to go after someone else they thought they wanted more, never knowing what was to arrive.
Who we make up in our minds is what we attach ourselves to; caught up in emotions and all that goes with it does not reveal what others see. We often find out too late that our loyalties were misplaced, our time taken, our lives compromised, exploited as means to another's end, as if we don't matter at all. Becoming part of another's short-term purpose until the next conquest that appears to offer what they think they want, if only for the short term, as far as they can think.
This was the difference between us: different visions, objectivity, consciousness, conscience, compassion, definitions of the same words so far apart from so-called reality. Daring to label the other as if entitled or qualified, practiced enough over a lifetime to convince others without question, expecting it to work again as it always had in the past, with whomever chose to serve them, consciously or not.
Now, more lives are lost or being lost, imposed by others just like them, not yet awake. The most vulnerables' voices are silent or not heard, though they will be.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Hawaii
Arrived this morning...
By Paul Curtis - The Garden Island
Published:...September 14, 2009 2:10 AM HST
LIHU`E —...someone who knows a flawed system when she is ensnared in one feels the need for "sunlight" on the problem on Kaua`i...
Jonea Schillaci-Lavergne,...followed her daughter to Kaua`i to be close to her and has organized...rallies to raise awareness of...problems in the state-run system designed to protect Hawai`i's youngest, most-vulnerable residents.
"...the public really needs to be more informed about what's going on on Kaua`i,...abuse should not be kept a secret. We have to put the sunlight on the problem."
The name of her group is the Kaua`i Angels, patterned after the Maui Angels, a similar group of concerned adults on Maui who are pushing for...reform on the Valley Isle.
While Schillaci-Lavergne's...rally,...in front of the...courthouse..., started,...people joined in at the Kapule Highway-Ahukini Road intersection near the entrance to Lihu`e Airport, and well-wishers honked their horns at...sign-holders...
Gatherings are also planned at...sections of...highways,...the day the group also plans to meet with Mayor Bernard P. Carvalho Jr...
The purpose...is to inform the community that...the Kaua`i Family Court and its court-appointed experts are not doing enough to protect children from abuse and...violence...
Child...abuse,...has become a national epidemic, and judges spend more time ignoring and suppressing facts and...evidence than investigating and prosecuting perpetrators...
Marsha Kitagawa, a spokesperson for the state Judiciary, said state judges are prohibited under the Revised Code of Judicial Conduct from making public statements that "might reasonably be expected to affect the outcome or impair the fairness of a matter pending or impending in any court."
Schillaci-Lavergne is undeterred. "I've seen so much...suffering going on. It's a problem everywhere,"...
"It's not a fun subject. I didn't choose it,"...of...cause to let people know about...the broken..system she says protects the abuser, sometimes just to punish the protective parent who reports the abuse.
A group of concerned parents who were unable to protect their children from abuse gathered and demanded a state audit of the Maui Family Court,...about the origins of the Maui Angels.
The Kaua`i Angels are asking that...cases be properly investigated and that the protective parents be allowed due process in court to fight for and protect their children from abuse...
Approximately one in three girls and one in five boys will be...abused...by age 18.
"These statistics are unacceptable for our children and, as a community, we need to end this problem immediately"...
Dara Carlin, who holds a master's degree and has spent 20 years as a child and family therapist on O`ahu, said what's happening in Hawai`i is both "disillusioning and disheartening."
She also totally understands that, culturally, because of the shame brought on families by the offenses, people are sometimes reluctant to come forward and admit that they have been or are being abused...
Ernest Sisca, a Wailua Homesteads resident and one of the half-dozen men who gathered at the courthouse, said he came to support Schillaci-Lavergne, who gave up her California home and career in order to be close to her daughter.
Copyright © 2009 - Kauai Publishing Company
http://www.angelgroup.org/component/content/article/22-what-were-doing/185-kauai-rally
"Angels" on Kauai successfully rallied on September 10 & 17, 2009; eliciting the support of the community who honked horns and shouted out, "Good for you", "It's about time somebody did something!", "Something definitely needs to be done!", and "Save our children!"
...These gender-neutral rallies were created to bring attention to...Court's indifference in addressing substantiated allegation of...abuse against children and the misappropriation of custody to the "abuser"; resulting in the railroading and eradication of the parent who "reports" on behalf of the child(ren) and/or takes action to protect them.
http://www.angelgroup.org/images/pdfs/090909_press_release.pdf
By Paul Curtis - The Garden Island
Published:...September 14, 2009 2:10 AM HST
LIHU`E —...someone who knows a flawed system when she is ensnared in one feels the need for "sunlight" on the problem on Kaua`i...
Jonea Schillaci-Lavergne,...followed her daughter to Kaua`i to be close to her and has organized...rallies to raise awareness of...problems in the state-run system designed to protect Hawai`i's youngest, most-vulnerable residents.
"...the public really needs to be more informed about what's going on on Kaua`i,...abuse should not be kept a secret. We have to put the sunlight on the problem."
The name of her group is the Kaua`i Angels, patterned after the Maui Angels, a similar group of concerned adults on Maui who are pushing for...reform on the Valley Isle.
While Schillaci-Lavergne's...rally,...in front of the...courthouse..., started,...people joined in at the Kapule Highway-Ahukini Road intersection near the entrance to Lihu`e Airport, and well-wishers honked their horns at...sign-holders...
Gatherings are also planned at...sections of...highways,...the day the group also plans to meet with Mayor Bernard P. Carvalho Jr...
The purpose...is to inform the community that...the Kaua`i Family Court and its court-appointed experts are not doing enough to protect children from abuse and...violence...
Child...abuse,...has become a national epidemic, and judges spend more time ignoring and suppressing facts and...evidence than investigating and prosecuting perpetrators...
Marsha Kitagawa, a spokesperson for the state Judiciary, said state judges are prohibited under the Revised Code of Judicial Conduct from making public statements that "might reasonably be expected to affect the outcome or impair the fairness of a matter pending or impending in any court."
Schillaci-Lavergne is undeterred. "I've seen so much...suffering going on. It's a problem everywhere,"...
"It's not a fun subject. I didn't choose it,"...of...cause to let people know about...the broken..system she says protects the abuser, sometimes just to punish the protective parent who reports the abuse.
A group of concerned parents who were unable to protect their children from abuse gathered and demanded a state audit of the Maui Family Court,...about the origins of the Maui Angels.
The Kaua`i Angels are asking that...cases be properly investigated and that the protective parents be allowed due process in court to fight for and protect their children from abuse...
Approximately one in three girls and one in five boys will be...abused...by age 18.
"These statistics are unacceptable for our children and, as a community, we need to end this problem immediately"...
Dara Carlin, who holds a master's degree and has spent 20 years as a child and family therapist on O`ahu, said what's happening in Hawai`i is both "disillusioning and disheartening."
She also totally understands that, culturally, because of the shame brought on families by the offenses, people are sometimes reluctant to come forward and admit that they have been or are being abused...
Ernest Sisca, a Wailua Homesteads resident and one of the half-dozen men who gathered at the courthouse, said he came to support Schillaci-Lavergne, who gave up her California home and career in order to be close to her daughter.
Copyright © 2009 - Kauai Publishing Company
http://www.angelgroup.org/component/content/article/22-what-were-doing/185-kauai-rally
"Angels" on Kauai successfully rallied on September 10 & 17, 2009; eliciting the support of the community who honked horns and shouted out, "Good for you", "It's about time somebody did something!", "Something definitely needs to be done!", and "Save our children!"
...These gender-neutral rallies were created to bring attention to...Court's indifference in addressing substantiated allegation of...abuse against children and the misappropriation of custody to the "abuser"; resulting in the railroading and eradication of the parent who "reports" on behalf of the child(ren) and/or takes action to protect them.
http://www.angelgroup.org/images/pdfs/090909_press_release.pdf
Monday, August 31, 2009
Testimony (NYC)
Dear Distinguished Members of the Panel, and Allies:
We continue to watch fatalities in the headlines every day, many of which have either no history or background where the phrase ‘domestic violence’ is rarely mentioned. The press will include terms such as ‘separated couple’, ‘estranged boyfriend’ (or girlfriend), or ‘ex-partner’, though this effectively masks for the public that these are all crimes by those from abusive relationships.
There’s no established way to track if someone ended up dead, sometimes along with children, from returning to the oxymoron of ‘abusive home’ after being turned away from attempting to find shelter or safety, having found the courage to leave, many knowing the risks of doing so are great: the answer to the question ‘Why don’t they just leave?’.
The above refers to fatality reports. As many of our city’s inhabitants speak English as a second language, or are often traumatized on occasions when police officers are involved in incidents where death from attempts to escape is not yet a result, DIR’s (or Domestic Incident Reports) and police reports are written up incorrectly. Sometimes it is not disclosed or known that there was in fact an attempt to leave. Believe that it often is.
When there is some report in low percentages in contrast to the actual number of known unreported cases, the average individual filling out that form is a front line ‘first responder’, when it’s done at all, who is not a trained DVO (or Domestic Violence Officer). DVO’s, with few exceptions do not work during the most frequent times that ‘domestic incidents’ occur: evenings and weekends.
The officer often hands the supposed victim the phone number of the DVO, without filling out any report. It’s your guess how many actually call in later…, putting the children at even further risk of harm, when it is usually the mother attempting to protect them.
The alternative to not finding housing is potential or real death, in either returning to an abuser in desperation, or being found attempting to find other housing (including though not limited to abuse through the systems that have continued to fail to protect and further empower abusers).
The low number of survivors and their children placed in safe housing and high numbers of homicides or incidents of abuse that go unreported or for the largest percentages without police reports or orders of protection makes documentation requirements unrealistic and inappropriate, directly inflicting additional trauma by requirement alone to be considered 'eligible'.
Survivors seeking housing and safety in shelter and/or on PA must be referred to agencies where advocates may provide letters of their circumstances. It is most usually not possible to be misunderstood by or to misrepresent to a trained DV advocate. Police reports and DIR's do not address needs, indicate risk, or provide protection any more than Orders of Protection.
The extreme small percentage of those thought to 'misrepresent' will either not visit advocate agencies or not pass the interview or intake process, unlike the current process for making reports though 'law enforcement' (when done at all), which are often by untrained 'first responders', or between officer and alleged 'victim', reporting single incidents and not addressing DV.
Fatality reports are not representative of actual 'DV incidents', in order to 'keep the numbers down', though the headlines have also frequently mentioned no prior police involvement or no orders of protection in a number of deaths (also related to the unrealistic documentation requirements for more permanent housing).
If ‘domestic violence’ is not spelled out, it is treated as if it doesn't happen.
The deaths go up with budget cuts to preventive programs and housing options, while the ‘numbers’ ignore the realities. Is this the way the city regards our homeless families, who have been documented as 90% women and children as well as the #1 reason for their seeking shelter and housing now confirmed this year as Domestic Violence? The lambs are being thrown out for slaughter; we are all but numb from the headlines. Do you see the connection now?
For those that do survive the system, requirements for shelter and those in housing are obsolete and additionally oppressive, as if what these most always women and children have gone through weren’t enough.
The need or desire to work can be addressed by training providers or hours that do not fit a regular schedule or location. Assignments can be obtained by survivors of domestic violence who can put in work hours online or at varying locations in specific training or work situations who have been stalked by abusers or former partners seeking to find them at locations with 'normal business hours'. They can also be available to their children who have been traumatized by abuse or witnessed violence.
By providing survivors who know how to locate assignments the means to become established with an online business or flexible training or work locations and hours, we can potentially transform extremely limited resources to enable economically abused survivors a means to find their way back to safety, and even supporting themselves and their children.
The missing link is making the connection between those affected and those willing to help. This will also raise awareness to these and many other issues that are in the interest of the next generation, including seniors and extended families.
Documentation requirements repeat themselves regarding 'DV Advantage' and DV waivers in PA offices, compounding obstacles to safety for survivors and their children.
The 'boroughs of exclusion' in DV waivers, when granted, do not serve survivors or preserve their safety. They are put at further risk in any borough though current widespread technology where just having a cell phone on, unanswered, permits an abuser &/or their agents to track whereabouts, according to citywide law enforcement technical experts. Survivors have been dismissed without notice from shelters where abusers have shown up at confidential locations, without the survivors willingly or knowingly providing where they were. These practices must be eliminated; any one such incident can lead to more fatalities.
Forcing mothers to work requirements is an extension of abuse, where most are on PA either from economic abuse, shelter requirements, or both. Most are willing to work, so long as there is no additional risk to their safety or the safety of their children, though they are treated as non-cooperative and threatened with cut-offs or sanctioned when they resist practices that do not take into account safety risks without documentation, the acquisition of which can put them at even further risk or escalate threats or violence.
Addressing how mothers may keep themselves and their children safe with both housing and alternative work arrangements that allow for the 'required' number of hours while still being available to their children who have either been additional subjects of abuse or witnessed violence is critical for both safety and recovery.
We continue to watch fatalities in the headlines every day, many of which have either no history or background where the phrase ‘domestic violence’ is rarely mentioned. The press will include terms such as ‘separated couple’, ‘estranged boyfriend’ (or girlfriend), or ‘ex-partner’, though this effectively masks for the public that these are all crimes by those from abusive relationships.
There’s no established way to track if someone ended up dead, sometimes along with children, from returning to the oxymoron of ‘abusive home’ after being turned away from attempting to find shelter or safety, having found the courage to leave, many knowing the risks of doing so are great: the answer to the question ‘Why don’t they just leave?’.
The above refers to fatality reports. As many of our city’s inhabitants speak English as a second language, or are often traumatized on occasions when police officers are involved in incidents where death from attempts to escape is not yet a result, DIR’s (or Domestic Incident Reports) and police reports are written up incorrectly. Sometimes it is not disclosed or known that there was in fact an attempt to leave. Believe that it often is.
When there is some report in low percentages in contrast to the actual number of known unreported cases, the average individual filling out that form is a front line ‘first responder’, when it’s done at all, who is not a trained DVO (or Domestic Violence Officer). DVO’s, with few exceptions do not work during the most frequent times that ‘domestic incidents’ occur: evenings and weekends.
The officer often hands the supposed victim the phone number of the DVO, without filling out any report. It’s your guess how many actually call in later…, putting the children at even further risk of harm, when it is usually the mother attempting to protect them.
The alternative to not finding housing is potential or real death, in either returning to an abuser in desperation, or being found attempting to find other housing (including though not limited to abuse through the systems that have continued to fail to protect and further empower abusers).
The low number of survivors and their children placed in safe housing and high numbers of homicides or incidents of abuse that go unreported or for the largest percentages without police reports or orders of protection makes documentation requirements unrealistic and inappropriate, directly inflicting additional trauma by requirement alone to be considered 'eligible'.
Survivors seeking housing and safety in shelter and/or on PA must be referred to agencies where advocates may provide letters of their circumstances. It is most usually not possible to be misunderstood by or to misrepresent to a trained DV advocate. Police reports and DIR's do not address needs, indicate risk, or provide protection any more than Orders of Protection.
The extreme small percentage of those thought to 'misrepresent' will either not visit advocate agencies or not pass the interview or intake process, unlike the current process for making reports though 'law enforcement' (when done at all), which are often by untrained 'first responders', or between officer and alleged 'victim', reporting single incidents and not addressing DV.
Fatality reports are not representative of actual 'DV incidents', in order to 'keep the numbers down', though the headlines have also frequently mentioned no prior police involvement or no orders of protection in a number of deaths (also related to the unrealistic documentation requirements for more permanent housing).
If ‘domestic violence’ is not spelled out, it is treated as if it doesn't happen.
The deaths go up with budget cuts to preventive programs and housing options, while the ‘numbers’ ignore the realities. Is this the way the city regards our homeless families, who have been documented as 90% women and children as well as the #1 reason for their seeking shelter and housing now confirmed this year as Domestic Violence? The lambs are being thrown out for slaughter; we are all but numb from the headlines. Do you see the connection now?
For those that do survive the system, requirements for shelter and those in housing are obsolete and additionally oppressive, as if what these most always women and children have gone through weren’t enough.
The need or desire to work can be addressed by training providers or hours that do not fit a regular schedule or location. Assignments can be obtained by survivors of domestic violence who can put in work hours online or at varying locations in specific training or work situations who have been stalked by abusers or former partners seeking to find them at locations with 'normal business hours'. They can also be available to their children who have been traumatized by abuse or witnessed violence.
By providing survivors who know how to locate assignments the means to become established with an online business or flexible training or work locations and hours, we can potentially transform extremely limited resources to enable economically abused survivors a means to find their way back to safety, and even supporting themselves and their children.
The missing link is making the connection between those affected and those willing to help. This will also raise awareness to these and many other issues that are in the interest of the next generation, including seniors and extended families.
Documentation requirements repeat themselves regarding 'DV Advantage' and DV waivers in PA offices, compounding obstacles to safety for survivors and their children.
The 'boroughs of exclusion' in DV waivers, when granted, do not serve survivors or preserve their safety. They are put at further risk in any borough though current widespread technology where just having a cell phone on, unanswered, permits an abuser &/or their agents to track whereabouts, according to citywide law enforcement technical experts. Survivors have been dismissed without notice from shelters where abusers have shown up at confidential locations, without the survivors willingly or knowingly providing where they were. These practices must be eliminated; any one such incident can lead to more fatalities.
Forcing mothers to work requirements is an extension of abuse, where most are on PA either from economic abuse, shelter requirements, or both. Most are willing to work, so long as there is no additional risk to their safety or the safety of their children, though they are treated as non-cooperative and threatened with cut-offs or sanctioned when they resist practices that do not take into account safety risks without documentation, the acquisition of which can put them at even further risk or escalate threats or violence.
Addressing how mothers may keep themselves and their children safe with both housing and alternative work arrangements that allow for the 'required' number of hours while still being available to their children who have either been additional subjects of abuse or witnessed violence is critical for both safety and recovery.
Friday, July 31, 2009
With my child's permission: a positive experience.
'How You Did': A Boy's Birthday Wish Fulfilled...
A First-Time Response to a Regular Request
At the bottom of receipts is often a feedback request, sometimes with an incentive for participation. Have missed out on many 'sweepstakes entries' by either forgetting or not enough time. This one warranted an answer.
This one was for a survey; there was nowhere to place this review, which is deserved on the part of the employees present the last weekend of my child's birthday month.
It was expected to write this content in duplicate to an appropriate place on the feedback site, though the boxes in the survey didn't seem quite right for this little story. We hope the staff eventually is rewarded for exceptional service: something I had no expectations of from a group of 'older kids' working on a weekend 'beach day'. For the low expectations, I apologize.
Had my son not had a fever the day before which carried over into that morning, he would have been playing baseball. He had wanted the same thing since the winter holidays: a portable game system.
'Life happened' over those six months, and baseball season took almost all of our weekend hours, to a point where just getting out to shop for the occasion of his birthday became an obstacle. For what was no small amount of money, I wanted to make sure that this was his first choice when the moment finally arrived.
"You didn't get me a birthday present, Mom." were words that stung at the heart when even the weekend that followed his actual birthday didn't render an opportunity to get to the right store following yet another baseball game and get all of the other unavoidable chores done. I wanted him to be present to pick out exactly what he wanted, not pick up what I thought was the right thing for the day, only to have to go back for an exchange.
He got to pitch for the first time this season; having run out of rain dates, the last game he participated in was in a downpour (which likely contributed to his low immunity by week's end). All of this 'game proficiency excitement' provided a distraction between that special birthday and the time that followed, though every extra day that passed ate at us both, in different ways.
On a day before the weekend he said again how he 'really wanted' the system, with that heart-wrenching, half-wincing look on his face as if it may not be possible, after so long. In that moment I showed him what I had just printed out from the computer: the current most valuable U.S. coins. After years and for the first time, his sealed bank was full enough to break for the occasion, and I wanted to make sure what survived, if at all, was keeping aside any coins that showed up on the list.
The next day he wasn't able to go to school, and pushed a little hard on the last day of school to be able to participate. The next morning, still with a low fever, knowing going to the game was not an option, the first words out of his mouth upon waking was the hopeful 'little' question: "Can we get it today?" Before he could see me, I winced this time, not really knowing how much was in that bank, wanting as much to have the answer he so deserved. "It's possible," I said.
Was so intent on the task at hand until it was done that I practially didn't notice that I hadn't made coffee for myself (incredibly) before picking up the very heavy bank and heading for a place to break it: our concrete 'mini-patio' at our back door, though not without a special boy's request to hold it to feel how heavy it was for himself. After getting a good feel for its weight he willfully handed it back to me and followed me into the kitchen, where I proceeded to lower the purple dinosaur bank into a plastic bag so that once dropped the coins wouldn't go flying everywhere, as he assisted in eager anticipation.
This could not have been put off another day; that the coins were not so much to the top so as that the pressure of the drop would immediately cause it to crack upon impact was not quite the case, so after a few tries, with the birthday boy making the first two throws from the stepladder, then handing it off to me to finish the job, after a couple more tries he instructed me to deploy the hammer, which did the trick. A couple of hours later, as we sat in the pleasant temperatures of an early summer day in our 'back yard', the necessary amount was divided into clear plastic bags by coin type and prepared for transport. I wanted to keep the ones with his birthday year that I had made a point of carefully including in the almost daily 'bank deposit' over time; my son insisted they go with the rest. After all, they weren't on 'the list'.
What I didn't share was how unlikely a business was inclined to take 'cash' this way; I was half-prepared and dreading the possibility of our 'legal tender' being refused, or at least negotiated with considerable effort that I was not looking forward to incurring, though was bracing myself to be very persuasively assertive on behalf of my child, whose birthday had passed without a 'real' present from me, who had a fever.
To dilute all potential outcomes, I prepared my young flush-faced (whether fever or anticipation was indistinguishable now) son for the possibility that the actual item he was looking for may not be at the location that was our destination, and not to raise his expectations to a level that would set him up for disappointment. We at least had what we needed; what we might not have was enough time to go elsewhere if the thing itself was not at this store.
Thirteen sandwich bags, equal amounts in each, were placed in the same heavy grade plastic FAO Schwartz bag we got when we made it out an earlier weekend as an early celebration in anticipation of his upcoming special day (with a couple of special token gifts for the occasion). With the lot hoisted into our weekend backpack, we made one stop to the library to return books and attempt to register the giftcard his aunt and grandmother had sent for his birthday that would make up the balance and perhaps allow for an accessory or two. After a frustrating too many minutes online, I resolved that beyond online purchases, a simple swipe should be sufficient, as somehow some portion of the very personal information was being rejected, which I had very uncomfortably and reluctantly entered more than once. All giftcards are not created equal, though I knew from experience that store purchases did not always require registration. This only added to my secret anxiety about the upcoming pending transaction.
"How many more minutes till we get there, Mom?", was asked three times as the bus neared the mall. I answered him each time to his satisfaction, until just a few minutes before arriving at the stop. After visiting the pet store and puppies across the hall, we entered the store.
We asked about the system (they had both new and used), and the pros and cons of purchasing new as opposed to the latter. One young man brought out two used units for my son to examine as one eye remained on the available game shelf that we were standing beside.
Following a short discussion and a very informed sales-oriented information session on the part of the young man, my son decided to follow the suggested advice and acquire the used though latest model that would also allow for the purchase of a game and an outer case. The incentive was that a full refund was an option within a week, whereas if he didn't like it after having purchased it new, it could not be returned at that value once opened.
Once his decision was made, my son quickly returned his attention to the game rack, knowing I would take care of 'the rest'.
Fortunately, the desk that the young man returned to was out of earshot from where my son continued to browse. With as much optimism and confidence as I could muster, I requested a manager (who was identified as standing closeby), then proceeded to explain our form of payment. Two (young) managers were in fact behind the desk, with two different answers. The second contradicted the first in the affirmative. Before the first manager could utter any protest, I quickly responded with "Great!", then returned to my son to help him with his case and game choices.
The first hurdle was cleared; no full breaths were taken so long as the card issue hung in the balance. It was not presented until each bag was re-checked by several staff behind the desk as having the amount stated, one coin at a time. Fortunately again, we had arrived in the lull of a 'beach day', when the store was not as busy as we had encountered many times before.
When the last coin was counted and the amount matched, it was time for the balance; I handed over the card, knowing even this young manager had experience in these situations. After a few attempts, showing little frustration, the manager who didn't want to take our money rather calmly helped in the steps necessary to make the card work, asking for what was needed (which I had) and dialing the right number to get a live person, in the Phillipines (yes, I asked). With the cordless in hand, wandering around the store as other business was tended to, it was less painful to give the same personal information under my breath so those around couldn't hear; it was finally 'the home stretch', as my son waited almost patiently by the demos in the front of the store.
Just a minute or two later, the receipt rolled out of the machine. The transaction was complete. The long awaited and much anticipated birthday choice was now my son's property. He was the proud owner of his long awaited system, which he continued to say almost incredulously into the next day, as TV was ignored over his new (used) high-resolution game that made his other player seem, well, 'less-than'. There was almost no comparison; the latter was not removed from his school bag the entire weekend.
Had the staff at this store responded as I was hoping they would not, it would have been a very different day indeed. My thanks and gratitude go out to these kids who surpassed my expectations; they deserve more than a few extra compliments from 'higher-ups'. With so many kids like them who have jobs at the same level who choose to behave 'as expected', those who go beyond that merit recognition by their superiors in the presence of their peers. In doing so, there's a higher probability that a little boy who was able to have his special birthday shopping trip go as was planned in his mind witness what older kids can do that he can choose to carry on, as opposed to something else that's all too common.
And not only this little boy, for whom I'm grateful. For many other children as well. Some moments that others forget quickly remain unforgettable to a child forever. My thanks for this day turning out the way it did. It was a team effort, and everyone stepped up to the plate. Congratulations; we'll be back.
A First-Time Response to a Regular Request
At the bottom of receipts is often a feedback request, sometimes with an incentive for participation. Have missed out on many 'sweepstakes entries' by either forgetting or not enough time. This one warranted an answer.
This one was for a survey; there was nowhere to place this review, which is deserved on the part of the employees present the last weekend of my child's birthday month.
It was expected to write this content in duplicate to an appropriate place on the feedback site, though the boxes in the survey didn't seem quite right for this little story. We hope the staff eventually is rewarded for exceptional service: something I had no expectations of from a group of 'older kids' working on a weekend 'beach day'. For the low expectations, I apologize.
Had my son not had a fever the day before which carried over into that morning, he would have been playing baseball. He had wanted the same thing since the winter holidays: a portable game system.
'Life happened' over those six months, and baseball season took almost all of our weekend hours, to a point where just getting out to shop for the occasion of his birthday became an obstacle. For what was no small amount of money, I wanted to make sure that this was his first choice when the moment finally arrived.
"You didn't get me a birthday present, Mom." were words that stung at the heart when even the weekend that followed his actual birthday didn't render an opportunity to get to the right store following yet another baseball game and get all of the other unavoidable chores done. I wanted him to be present to pick out exactly what he wanted, not pick up what I thought was the right thing for the day, only to have to go back for an exchange.
He got to pitch for the first time this season; having run out of rain dates, the last game he participated in was in a downpour (which likely contributed to his low immunity by week's end). All of this 'game proficiency excitement' provided a distraction between that special birthday and the time that followed, though every extra day that passed ate at us both, in different ways.
On a day before the weekend he said again how he 'really wanted' the system, with that heart-wrenching, half-wincing look on his face as if it may not be possible, after so long. In that moment I showed him what I had just printed out from the computer: the current most valuable U.S. coins. After years and for the first time, his sealed bank was full enough to break for the occasion, and I wanted to make sure what survived, if at all, was keeping aside any coins that showed up on the list.
The next day he wasn't able to go to school, and pushed a little hard on the last day of school to be able to participate. The next morning, still with a low fever, knowing going to the game was not an option, the first words out of his mouth upon waking was the hopeful 'little' question: "Can we get it today?" Before he could see me, I winced this time, not really knowing how much was in that bank, wanting as much to have the answer he so deserved. "It's possible," I said.
Was so intent on the task at hand until it was done that I practially didn't notice that I hadn't made coffee for myself (incredibly) before picking up the very heavy bank and heading for a place to break it: our concrete 'mini-patio' at our back door, though not without a special boy's request to hold it to feel how heavy it was for himself. After getting a good feel for its weight he willfully handed it back to me and followed me into the kitchen, where I proceeded to lower the purple dinosaur bank into a plastic bag so that once dropped the coins wouldn't go flying everywhere, as he assisted in eager anticipation.
This could not have been put off another day; that the coins were not so much to the top so as that the pressure of the drop would immediately cause it to crack upon impact was not quite the case, so after a few tries, with the birthday boy making the first two throws from the stepladder, then handing it off to me to finish the job, after a couple more tries he instructed me to deploy the hammer, which did the trick. A couple of hours later, as we sat in the pleasant temperatures of an early summer day in our 'back yard', the necessary amount was divided into clear plastic bags by coin type and prepared for transport. I wanted to keep the ones with his birthday year that I had made a point of carefully including in the almost daily 'bank deposit' over time; my son insisted they go with the rest. After all, they weren't on 'the list'.
What I didn't share was how unlikely a business was inclined to take 'cash' this way; I was half-prepared and dreading the possibility of our 'legal tender' being refused, or at least negotiated with considerable effort that I was not looking forward to incurring, though was bracing myself to be very persuasively assertive on behalf of my child, whose birthday had passed without a 'real' present from me, who had a fever.
To dilute all potential outcomes, I prepared my young flush-faced (whether fever or anticipation was indistinguishable now) son for the possibility that the actual item he was looking for may not be at the location that was our destination, and not to raise his expectations to a level that would set him up for disappointment. We at least had what we needed; what we might not have was enough time to go elsewhere if the thing itself was not at this store.
Thirteen sandwich bags, equal amounts in each, were placed in the same heavy grade plastic FAO Schwartz bag we got when we made it out an earlier weekend as an early celebration in anticipation of his upcoming special day (with a couple of special token gifts for the occasion). With the lot hoisted into our weekend backpack, we made one stop to the library to return books and attempt to register the giftcard his aunt and grandmother had sent for his birthday that would make up the balance and perhaps allow for an accessory or two. After a frustrating too many minutes online, I resolved that beyond online purchases, a simple swipe should be sufficient, as somehow some portion of the very personal information was being rejected, which I had very uncomfortably and reluctantly entered more than once. All giftcards are not created equal, though I knew from experience that store purchases did not always require registration. This only added to my secret anxiety about the upcoming pending transaction.
"How many more minutes till we get there, Mom?", was asked three times as the bus neared the mall. I answered him each time to his satisfaction, until just a few minutes before arriving at the stop. After visiting the pet store and puppies across the hall, we entered the store.
We asked about the system (they had both new and used), and the pros and cons of purchasing new as opposed to the latter. One young man brought out two used units for my son to examine as one eye remained on the available game shelf that we were standing beside.
Following a short discussion and a very informed sales-oriented information session on the part of the young man, my son decided to follow the suggested advice and acquire the used though latest model that would also allow for the purchase of a game and an outer case. The incentive was that a full refund was an option within a week, whereas if he didn't like it after having purchased it new, it could not be returned at that value once opened.
Once his decision was made, my son quickly returned his attention to the game rack, knowing I would take care of 'the rest'.
Fortunately, the desk that the young man returned to was out of earshot from where my son continued to browse. With as much optimism and confidence as I could muster, I requested a manager (who was identified as standing closeby), then proceeded to explain our form of payment. Two (young) managers were in fact behind the desk, with two different answers. The second contradicted the first in the affirmative. Before the first manager could utter any protest, I quickly responded with "Great!", then returned to my son to help him with his case and game choices.
The first hurdle was cleared; no full breaths were taken so long as the card issue hung in the balance. It was not presented until each bag was re-checked by several staff behind the desk as having the amount stated, one coin at a time. Fortunately again, we had arrived in the lull of a 'beach day', when the store was not as busy as we had encountered many times before.
When the last coin was counted and the amount matched, it was time for the balance; I handed over the card, knowing even this young manager had experience in these situations. After a few attempts, showing little frustration, the manager who didn't want to take our money rather calmly helped in the steps necessary to make the card work, asking for what was needed (which I had) and dialing the right number to get a live person, in the Phillipines (yes, I asked). With the cordless in hand, wandering around the store as other business was tended to, it was less painful to give the same personal information under my breath so those around couldn't hear; it was finally 'the home stretch', as my son waited almost patiently by the demos in the front of the store.
Just a minute or two later, the receipt rolled out of the machine. The transaction was complete. The long awaited and much anticipated birthday choice was now my son's property. He was the proud owner of his long awaited system, which he continued to say almost incredulously into the next day, as TV was ignored over his new (used) high-resolution game that made his other player seem, well, 'less-than'. There was almost no comparison; the latter was not removed from his school bag the entire weekend.
Had the staff at this store responded as I was hoping they would not, it would have been a very different day indeed. My thanks and gratitude go out to these kids who surpassed my expectations; they deserve more than a few extra compliments from 'higher-ups'. With so many kids like them who have jobs at the same level who choose to behave 'as expected', those who go beyond that merit recognition by their superiors in the presence of their peers. In doing so, there's a higher probability that a little boy who was able to have his special birthday shopping trip go as was planned in his mind witness what older kids can do that he can choose to carry on, as opposed to something else that's all too common.
And not only this little boy, for whom I'm grateful. For many other children as well. Some moments that others forget quickly remain unforgettable to a child forever. My thanks for this day turning out the way it did. It was a team effort, and everyone stepped up to the plate. Congratulations; we'll be back.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
'Acceptance Speech (Unspoken)'
Not gotten my copy back yet, so it's not officially official (though perhaps for most basic purposes); was sworn in during a 'mandatory' orientation with a notarized document in the past few days.
What is official is formally offering sincere thanks and gratitude for your continued support and confidence in my abilities to represent the children, your community, and your school.
It was as important that as many as possible participated in the first ever national online election. I know it's hard to imagine, though I was as happy for any participation, even if I wasn't the one you voted for. You were part of history if you did.
I'm a very reluctant 'politician' and was steered in the direction of your district because of open seats. Honesty cannot always be best in politics, sometimes for good reason (such as timing, or the 'Santa Claus' debate, from someone who's found out or observed the hard way); what I strive for is to use as much honesty as possible in representing our children and communities for the highest and best of all concerned.
There's sometimes truth in the saying that "No good deed goes unpunished". Through trial and error and many 'hard knocks', with the help of a few seasoned 'veterans' I've gotten to know along the way so far on this journey, it is a continuing objective to keep the 'punishment' to a minimum. My 'BS meter' is pretty strong, and there's a learning curve to 'playing the game'. One thing I cannot or will not lose sight of is why we go through what we do. We cannot diminish ourselves by shortchanging the next generation, as we have witnessed a good deal of already.
Turning a tide is not a popular position to be in sometimes, as many are deeply invested in keeping things the way they are. If this were satisfactory for all concerned, I would not have allowed myself to be on the other side of the regular 'consensus'.
To have children seeing an 'older person' as their best friend years from now, that they learned the connection between what those who cared for them helped make what they have ahead of them possible, and much easier instead of harder will have been a life well lived and purpose fulfilled. One day at a time.
Our young people arrived to be able to develop the capacity not to respect those older than they are because they're told to (positively speaking). To have the knowledge and skills to discover both themselves, and the freedom it takes to accomplish that is part of our purpose as a community. It is in reaching that place that they can also see whom among the older in their spheres merit the future investment of precious time, to know beyond a doubt as to why, and maybe not because it's 'popular'.
If a child wishes to fill your shoes because of the example and legacy that was your life, we have all succeeded, as it is our environments that shape us, and the sum total of 'everyday' experiences children encounter with and without us makes us who we are.
There is no such thing as a 'little thing', and no such person as 'just a child'. Any one of us who was ever taught that in one of those unforgettable moments others made light of or lost sight of either recognizes this, or it shows or surfaces eventually. It is a wish that every possible moment in our children's developing lives offers opportunity, promise, and nurtures who they truly are. It is part of our collective purpose as self-identified conscious community members that the next generation has what it needs to do just that.
It goes beyond the thought of senility, where we are placed in the hands of these individuals when it's too late to wonder if what we did will insure the quality of care they are delegated to serve us, if some 'little thing' will extend our lives, or 'otherwise'. It is being proud in knowing that what we left will carry on not only through them, that it carried after them as well, as their legacy, from ours.
Not least of all, thanks to cherished staff and a few special others who continued to gently 'arm twist' and encourage until the process was 'finished', for now. You are all deeply appreciated for what we have in common that's all about kids, our purest and best teachers: part of why they're here.
What is official is formally offering sincere thanks and gratitude for your continued support and confidence in my abilities to represent the children, your community, and your school.
It was as important that as many as possible participated in the first ever national online election. I know it's hard to imagine, though I was as happy for any participation, even if I wasn't the one you voted for. You were part of history if you did.
I'm a very reluctant 'politician' and was steered in the direction of your district because of open seats. Honesty cannot always be best in politics, sometimes for good reason (such as timing, or the 'Santa Claus' debate, from someone who's found out or observed the hard way); what I strive for is to use as much honesty as possible in representing our children and communities for the highest and best of all concerned.
There's sometimes truth in the saying that "No good deed goes unpunished". Through trial and error and many 'hard knocks', with the help of a few seasoned 'veterans' I've gotten to know along the way so far on this journey, it is a continuing objective to keep the 'punishment' to a minimum. My 'BS meter' is pretty strong, and there's a learning curve to 'playing the game'. One thing I cannot or will not lose sight of is why we go through what we do. We cannot diminish ourselves by shortchanging the next generation, as we have witnessed a good deal of already.
Turning a tide is not a popular position to be in sometimes, as many are deeply invested in keeping things the way they are. If this were satisfactory for all concerned, I would not have allowed myself to be on the other side of the regular 'consensus'.
To have children seeing an 'older person' as their best friend years from now, that they learned the connection between what those who cared for them helped make what they have ahead of them possible, and much easier instead of harder will have been a life well lived and purpose fulfilled. One day at a time.
Our young people arrived to be able to develop the capacity not to respect those older than they are because they're told to (positively speaking). To have the knowledge and skills to discover both themselves, and the freedom it takes to accomplish that is part of our purpose as a community. It is in reaching that place that they can also see whom among the older in their spheres merit the future investment of precious time, to know beyond a doubt as to why, and maybe not because it's 'popular'.
If a child wishes to fill your shoes because of the example and legacy that was your life, we have all succeeded, as it is our environments that shape us, and the sum total of 'everyday' experiences children encounter with and without us makes us who we are.
There is no such thing as a 'little thing', and no such person as 'just a child'. Any one of us who was ever taught that in one of those unforgettable moments others made light of or lost sight of either recognizes this, or it shows or surfaces eventually. It is a wish that every possible moment in our children's developing lives offers opportunity, promise, and nurtures who they truly are. It is part of our collective purpose as self-identified conscious community members that the next generation has what it needs to do just that.
It goes beyond the thought of senility, where we are placed in the hands of these individuals when it's too late to wonder if what we did will insure the quality of care they are delegated to serve us, if some 'little thing' will extend our lives, or 'otherwise'. It is being proud in knowing that what we left will carry on not only through them, that it carried after them as well, as their legacy, from ours.
Not least of all, thanks to cherished staff and a few special others who continued to gently 'arm twist' and encourage until the process was 'finished', for now. You are all deeply appreciated for what we have in common that's all about kids, our purest and best teachers: part of why they're here.
Friday, May 29, 2009
LEGACY
'Early' for the month in honor of my son's great-grandmother: my grandmother, who is being laid to rest as this is posted...
For Mabel Black (5/29/09)
Legacy:
Mabel Black was no saint; she’d be the first to tell you. Others would disagree. Not totally embracing the concept of ‘sainthood’ for anyone, it could be said she was above and beyond any ‘ordinary’ human. One would not have had the honor of knowing this perhaps, had they not known her well, or been her grandchild.
She was not a matriarch in the traditional sense, though some may disagree there also. She certainly wouldn’t have called herself that either. Just being who she was was special in and of itself. She was not ashamed or afraid and was entirely self-possessed: a true role model.
If only today young women could claim themselves as early as Mabel Black did; she was a woman who in many ways was scores of years ahead of her time, who lived to exemplify what she stood for. If girls today (or other humans, for that matter), found and claimed themselves or their respective purposes in the way my grandmother did, the world would have been a better place much sooner, though her legacy was infinitely meaningful, nonetheless.
At a time when other parents were pressured by society to join in marriage when an unexpected child was on the way, Mabel had already done something somewhat radical for her time, though she wasn’t the first. #1: she got a divorce, and #2: she had re-married before her first grandchild was born. Details aside, she had chosen in perhaps a less tolerant time that life was too short not to move on to a situation that suited her better: a lesson for us all. She was blessed to recognize the option, and seize her opportunities.
By the time I was born, with her parents, my grandfather’s and her respective re-marriages, and maternal grandparents all around, with no basis for comparison, I didn’t know it wasn’t ‘normal’ to have four sets of grandparents. Not only that, she seemed to effortlessly juggle caring for her aging parents (Carrie & ‘Larry’), me, & my sister (& ‘Mr. Black’) while my parents worked, as if there was nothing else she would rather do.
It didn’t occur to me then, of course, that she could have made other choices, or that the quality of care she skillfully administered to her parents and me were far superior to the highest caliber of any home care professional nurse or caregiver of a child, all at the same time, as the routine of the day. And it was all done usually without any hitches amidst jokes, smiles, and fun.
It cannot be left out that she had been a popular, confident, and happy child all through school and made others smile in spite of themselves just by being herself, without an objective to be accepted. She was also exceptionally beautiful. Both she and her brother (who passed earlier), had ‘movie-star’ good looks. I remember her telling me what life was like with her parents when her father ran a diner and what their days were like. They were well cared for and enjoyed what they had. Either she or her brother could have simply relied on their looks to get by. Mabel and French were made of different stuff, the substantive kind, learned from their environments and upbringing.
Firsthand, I can only say that this is the quality Mabel successfully passed on as her legacy to her own and this generation, as what has become a part of us down to our DNA on an unconscious level has come through as recently as her great-grandson, Emmett’s writing for 3rd grade. He could choose any topic; his subjects were about a girl being empowered and encouraged to be able to do what’s more recognized as what boys do, and the special bond between a boy, his family, and community, where teamwork and cooperation accomplish more and offer hope where otherwise none may have existed, where smiles quickly replace tears, and there is freedom and energy to help make more happiness for others.
This can be traced directly back to Mabel Black: no nonsense, in the moment, always taking care of what needed to be done with no complaints, and with smiles. Always there when no one else was: loving, strong, and with full knowledge of who she was from an uncommon existence that becomes exemplified in every generation in not enough measure for others to know and become inspired by, because she did what was right with no time for the world to be on notice of her unsung heroism. In this she was not alone, though she succeeded in her purpose: recognizing an option to choose and taking action with no looking back and no regrets. Having a purpose was a conscious choice: the one gift most all of us have in common. She now shares her space with the heroes of all time, not unknown to any of them, laughing and dancing.
In more contemporary terms, Mabel Black was not a ‘diva’, nor a saint, nor a matriarch. Throughout her lifetime, she was likely called many things. Any that were less than complimentary were simple envy for her gifts or the inability or lack to find in themselves what Mabel found in herself, and taught in her own way to every life lucky enough to understand the light inside, as she did, as she helped us find in ourselves.
What Mabel was she would also not call herself. It wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. She identified according to who she was to her family without diminishing her own self-worth: an accomplishment we can all aspire to and learn from.
Mabel Pearl Black was and is an Icon, a Woman of Valor who was successful in being the creator of a legacy. Mabel is now free to not only watch her legacy unfold. She can dance, laugh, and continue making jokes at the same time. Thanks Grandma, for the gift that was you in this human existence that will be with us always, forever, and until next time...
With Love,
Your Infinite Family (with a little help from one of your students: a granddaughter)
For Mabel Black (5/29/09)
Legacy:
Mabel Black was no saint; she’d be the first to tell you. Others would disagree. Not totally embracing the concept of ‘sainthood’ for anyone, it could be said she was above and beyond any ‘ordinary’ human. One would not have had the honor of knowing this perhaps, had they not known her well, or been her grandchild.
She was not a matriarch in the traditional sense, though some may disagree there also. She certainly wouldn’t have called herself that either. Just being who she was was special in and of itself. She was not ashamed or afraid and was entirely self-possessed: a true role model.
If only today young women could claim themselves as early as Mabel Black did; she was a woman who in many ways was scores of years ahead of her time, who lived to exemplify what she stood for. If girls today (or other humans, for that matter), found and claimed themselves or their respective purposes in the way my grandmother did, the world would have been a better place much sooner, though her legacy was infinitely meaningful, nonetheless.
At a time when other parents were pressured by society to join in marriage when an unexpected child was on the way, Mabel had already done something somewhat radical for her time, though she wasn’t the first. #1: she got a divorce, and #2: she had re-married before her first grandchild was born. Details aside, she had chosen in perhaps a less tolerant time that life was too short not to move on to a situation that suited her better: a lesson for us all. She was blessed to recognize the option, and seize her opportunities.
By the time I was born, with her parents, my grandfather’s and her respective re-marriages, and maternal grandparents all around, with no basis for comparison, I didn’t know it wasn’t ‘normal’ to have four sets of grandparents. Not only that, she seemed to effortlessly juggle caring for her aging parents (Carrie & ‘Larry’), me, & my sister (& ‘Mr. Black’) while my parents worked, as if there was nothing else she would rather do.
It didn’t occur to me then, of course, that she could have made other choices, or that the quality of care she skillfully administered to her parents and me were far superior to the highest caliber of any home care professional nurse or caregiver of a child, all at the same time, as the routine of the day. And it was all done usually without any hitches amidst jokes, smiles, and fun.
It cannot be left out that she had been a popular, confident, and happy child all through school and made others smile in spite of themselves just by being herself, without an objective to be accepted. She was also exceptionally beautiful. Both she and her brother (who passed earlier), had ‘movie-star’ good looks. I remember her telling me what life was like with her parents when her father ran a diner and what their days were like. They were well cared for and enjoyed what they had. Either she or her brother could have simply relied on their looks to get by. Mabel and French were made of different stuff, the substantive kind, learned from their environments and upbringing.
Firsthand, I can only say that this is the quality Mabel successfully passed on as her legacy to her own and this generation, as what has become a part of us down to our DNA on an unconscious level has come through as recently as her great-grandson, Emmett’s writing for 3rd grade. He could choose any topic; his subjects were about a girl being empowered and encouraged to be able to do what’s more recognized as what boys do, and the special bond between a boy, his family, and community, where teamwork and cooperation accomplish more and offer hope where otherwise none may have existed, where smiles quickly replace tears, and there is freedom and energy to help make more happiness for others.
This can be traced directly back to Mabel Black: no nonsense, in the moment, always taking care of what needed to be done with no complaints, and with smiles. Always there when no one else was: loving, strong, and with full knowledge of who she was from an uncommon existence that becomes exemplified in every generation in not enough measure for others to know and become inspired by, because she did what was right with no time for the world to be on notice of her unsung heroism. In this she was not alone, though she succeeded in her purpose: recognizing an option to choose and taking action with no looking back and no regrets. Having a purpose was a conscious choice: the one gift most all of us have in common. She now shares her space with the heroes of all time, not unknown to any of them, laughing and dancing.
In more contemporary terms, Mabel Black was not a ‘diva’, nor a saint, nor a matriarch. Throughout her lifetime, she was likely called many things. Any that were less than complimentary were simple envy for her gifts or the inability or lack to find in themselves what Mabel found in herself, and taught in her own way to every life lucky enough to understand the light inside, as she did, as she helped us find in ourselves.
What Mabel was she would also not call herself. It wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. She identified according to who she was to her family without diminishing her own self-worth: an accomplishment we can all aspire to and learn from.
Mabel Pearl Black was and is an Icon, a Woman of Valor who was successful in being the creator of a legacy. Mabel is now free to not only watch her legacy unfold. She can dance, laugh, and continue making jokes at the same time. Thanks Grandma, for the gift that was you in this human existence that will be with us always, forever, and until next time...
With Love,
Your Infinite Family (with a little help from one of your students: a granddaughter)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
"My Mom"
He wouldn't let me go, on a day when I had a meeting to get to and he was being picked up from school by someone else. I stayed as long as I could; it had been so long since I'd helped him with his homework on a day like this. We sat in the corner together between the classrooms where his schoolmates were being tended to by the after-school staff; the other children were having to do their homework on their own or with just one person in the room. When homework was finished, each child went from one room to the other across the hall. We were in the middle.
It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.
He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.
Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."
"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.
"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.
I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.
A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.
It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.
He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.
Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."
"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.
"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.
I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.
A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Regrets, To the Little Girl on the Staten Island Ferry
One resolved, only to acquire another. The intention here is to maintain the most optimistic attitude possible; I am a 'glass half-full' person in the worst of times. Thus, I hope the little girl seen at 2:00 a.m. on the Staten Island Ferry was sad and in tears for anything but what it looked like: another child with an abuser, perhaps a sexual abuser. The person she was with offered a tissue, though I know this type of person very well: trying to look civil in a public setting. His face showed no compassion and avoided eye contact, knowing I was watching.
Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.
There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.
Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.
There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.
That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.
I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.
By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.
Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.
Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...
I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.
Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.
There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.
Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.
There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.
That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.
I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.
By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.
Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.
Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...
I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Next Step
One cannot go without the other, a throwback to years ago, or the moment when the story became one of significance, one that others would want to know about, and that in knowing would offer hope and even help to make others stronger. It's time to cross over, still in small steps, one breath at a time.
The process happened by degrees, almost imperceptible; not being in the middle of it or understanding what was happening would provide a different perspective or opinion. I know the child the same as when first seeing them: what every movement meant, every expression, every utterance, every little noise, every pause.
It was as if I had gone back for the first time to having been where they were, feeling it all over again, reminded of what had been all but completely forgotten, buried in years of existence, what I had thought was a life, until the child appeared, then life and love had new definitions. Whatever the previous ones were could not ever be considered or entertained again. All was in the past, and all that mattered was looking to me, understanding my every glance, touch, and feeling, crying when my presence couldn't be felt in the dark, going quickly back to sleep knowing I was there (while I laid awake for hours wondering what had caused such urgency so suddenly).
I would find out, eventually. Parts of the puzzle came together almost as suddenly: a rising tide that once the flood subsided could not ever be the same again either. Only later would I learn the full scope and truth of a chain of events that faded against the tunnel-vision of fear and flight. A hundred books would be read with the child either elsewhere or sleeping softly in the wee hours before it was time to go out. A little hand would reach out to hold mine, content that there was finally some peace. A tear would be wiped by a blanket, words expressing from the place we had found how lucky I was not to have to go to where they didn't want to.
Even the day before it was time, the tears would start, sometimes running after me, sometimes screaming. I knew this child; nothing that was described as expected was normal or okay. The alternatives only added to what I knew had to be solved. There was no available solution that could take away what had been done that was brought to my attention. The child is now not the same.
The process happened by degrees, almost imperceptible; not being in the middle of it or understanding what was happening would provide a different perspective or opinion. I know the child the same as when first seeing them: what every movement meant, every expression, every utterance, every little noise, every pause.
It was as if I had gone back for the first time to having been where they were, feeling it all over again, reminded of what had been all but completely forgotten, buried in years of existence, what I had thought was a life, until the child appeared, then life and love had new definitions. Whatever the previous ones were could not ever be considered or entertained again. All was in the past, and all that mattered was looking to me, understanding my every glance, touch, and feeling, crying when my presence couldn't be felt in the dark, going quickly back to sleep knowing I was there (while I laid awake for hours wondering what had caused such urgency so suddenly).
I would find out, eventually. Parts of the puzzle came together almost as suddenly: a rising tide that once the flood subsided could not ever be the same again either. Only later would I learn the full scope and truth of a chain of events that faded against the tunnel-vision of fear and flight. A hundred books would be read with the child either elsewhere or sleeping softly in the wee hours before it was time to go out. A little hand would reach out to hold mine, content that there was finally some peace. A tear would be wiped by a blanket, words expressing from the place we had found how lucky I was not to have to go to where they didn't want to.
Even the day before it was time, the tears would start, sometimes running after me, sometimes screaming. I knew this child; nothing that was described as expected was normal or okay. The alternatives only added to what I knew had to be solved. There was no available solution that could take away what had been done that was brought to my attention. The child is now not the same.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Testimony
Testimony for Hearing 1/09:
Today we must mention again that 30% of survivors and families who make it into shelter are able to find housing. It’s another issue as to why they don’t make it and the subsequent deaths that are unverifiable as directly connected remains a serious concern.
Where the remaining 70% go has also been unverified, though it is known that many are faced with the unavoidable choice of returning to abusive households, to either become homeless again, or worse. This is a well known fact in the advocacy community.
What these realities do to mothers and their children is devastating in and of itself, if they are able to escape safely even once, let alone multiple times.
Widely available statistics conclude that 75% of most incidents occur while women and their children are attempting to escape, or thereafter, which either leads to homelessness, loss of support, return to the abuser, or more homicides.
We encourage you to consult on how children and women become legitimately disabled as a result of ongoing domestic turmoil over years of exposure to physical, emotional, and mental abuse, the most ‘minimal’ condition being ‘Complex PTSD’, which often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed.
Your research would not be complete without looking to Lundybancroft.com, and Legalabusesyndrome.org, where findings have shown after in-depth research that ‘conditions’ are natural responses to violence and abusive, biased litigation in both women and children that follow them through the rest of their lives, with profound long-term effects impacting the gamut from health factors to functionality and ability to seek or find living standards where a productive and improving quality of life can exist and thrive.
To make things worse, obtaining a ‘diagnosis’ or labels have proved to harm women in litigation for custody of their children, though their states were natural to the traumas they continue to endure. Mr. Bancroft goes on to say that the most expedient remedy for the conditions incurred by mothers and children is simply reunification, so they may heal and be given the opportunity of a life free from abuse by both batterers and the system.
A case last year involved a mother who had been put in a wheelchair by an abuser who went on to use her ‘disability’ against her as a form of unfitness as a parent to their children in a matrimonial custody dispute. These practices and others have been far from uncommon.
With these considerations strongly in mind, we are requesting another or improved, expanded category in housing developments, so that these families, who are most always women and children, may have more opportunities for lives free from abuse and to remain safe.
Today we must mention again that 30% of survivors and families who make it into shelter are able to find housing. It’s another issue as to why they don’t make it and the subsequent deaths that are unverifiable as directly connected remains a serious concern.
Where the remaining 70% go has also been unverified, though it is known that many are faced with the unavoidable choice of returning to abusive households, to either become homeless again, or worse. This is a well known fact in the advocacy community.
What these realities do to mothers and their children is devastating in and of itself, if they are able to escape safely even once, let alone multiple times.
Widely available statistics conclude that 75% of most incidents occur while women and their children are attempting to escape, or thereafter, which either leads to homelessness, loss of support, return to the abuser, or more homicides.
We encourage you to consult on how children and women become legitimately disabled as a result of ongoing domestic turmoil over years of exposure to physical, emotional, and mental abuse, the most ‘minimal’ condition being ‘Complex PTSD’, which often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed.
Your research would not be complete without looking to Lundybancroft.com, and Legalabusesyndrome.org, where findings have shown after in-depth research that ‘conditions’ are natural responses to violence and abusive, biased litigation in both women and children that follow them through the rest of their lives, with profound long-term effects impacting the gamut from health factors to functionality and ability to seek or find living standards where a productive and improving quality of life can exist and thrive.
To make things worse, obtaining a ‘diagnosis’ or labels have proved to harm women in litigation for custody of their children, though their states were natural to the traumas they continue to endure. Mr. Bancroft goes on to say that the most expedient remedy for the conditions incurred by mothers and children is simply reunification, so they may heal and be given the opportunity of a life free from abuse by both batterers and the system.
A case last year involved a mother who had been put in a wheelchair by an abuser who went on to use her ‘disability’ against her as a form of unfitness as a parent to their children in a matrimonial custody dispute. These practices and others have been far from uncommon.
With these considerations strongly in mind, we are requesting another or improved, expanded category in housing developments, so that these families, who are most always women and children, may have more opportunities for lives free from abuse and to remain safe.
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