A Starry Starry Night

Posted on 03/12/2009 by Jane Devin

It’s a room with clean white walls, hardwood floors, and a blue rug. There’s a big window at the rear of the room, open to the breeze, and white curtains that lightly billow. In the middle, there’s an old mahogany desk with lots of drawers, and a comfortable chair — sometimes blue, sometimes brown. I am wearing a warm gray sweater, and feeling something so profoundly different that I know I’ll wake up every morning for the rest of my life and have that one startled moment of disbelief before I comprehend that it really is mine — this room of my own. This place that feels like home, steady under my feet, worn and sun-bleached in all the right places, humming with such a calm sense of place that even during the night storms, when thunder splits the sky and rain beats against the windows, I feel nothing but gratitude.

Some things really never do change. I’ve imagined the same room since I was nine years old.

I also fell in love with Vincent Van Gogh in grade school, and I still get lost in his night skies and fields of flowers. There’s something about his heavy-handed painting that makes me ache — that makes me want to jump into the scene and find comfort in the company of the Potato Eaters, or to reminisce alone under the awning of the Night Café.

I didn’t know then that Vincent and I shared a birthday. When I found out, it felt like an eerie, beautiful connection — even if one that was created out of nothing more than my want for a brother who could light a night sky with yellow swirls and ease the lines of weathered faces. Warren Beatty could never do that, even though he was also born on March 30th. I wonder if my mother remembered that detail from some horoscope section somewhere – I can’t imagine any other reason she would have picked Warren’s name when, in fourth grade, I asked who my father was. I actually believed her for two months, and read everything I could find about the actor and his sister Shirley at the Washoe County Library. I was such an idiot when it came to my mother. She never stopped lying, and I never stopped wanting to believe her.

In Minnesota today, it’s some ungodly number of degrees below zero. The wind is whipping up snow in cold swirls, the lights are flickering on and off, and I’m feeling the type of restlessness that comes from wanting to be somewhere else, not just in winter but in life.

However, like the room of my own, the dream of “somewhere else” is elusive. At 46, I still feel my desperate teen days of walking the highways and scrounging for food and friends in bus stops too viscerally to ever want to repeat the experience. Through four states and countless cities, I’ve learned – there’s more to leaving than merely being gone. There has to be a safe harbor, money to make it through the rough spots, a plan, a job. And right now, realistically, I’m at least three or four years away from making all of those things come together.

So I stand where I stand. And there’s a gnawing in my gut that won’t go away, no matter how many yellow swirls I imagine in my night skies, or how many weathered faces I seek to ease.

I’ve written a lot of crap lately, and I apologize to those who come to this blog looking for something better. The restlessness has gotten to me, and there’s a feeling of being torn between a world where I need the support of people, specifically you, and my turbulent interior world, where the story of Mila is scratching to get out – but I’m so afraid of spending/wasting more time writing another rejected novel. There are only so many years left, and the roads are narrowing with each one that passes.

And I’m not oblivious, although I often wish I could be. A hurt world is seeking humor and finding relief in comedy. Even bathroom comedy is more welcome than reality right now. When there is a drama, people want a happy ending. They want the slumdogs to miraculously become millionaires. They want the child actors to be lifted up out of poverty in a day, in a month, and they are willing to suspend every other truth in order to create a scene that’s as simple as good vs. evil – and where good, in all of its innocence, ultimately triumphs. Life is just not that clear-cut, but that’s another story.

This story is about standing where I stand, and knowing that there’s no solid foundation under my feet, and no room of my own or redemption on the horizon. And somehow, ironically, I have to make peace with that.

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer’s day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Swirling clouds in violet haze — swirling clouds of snow. And somewhere, someplace, someday. . .a room of my own.

Share this:

Poverty Series IV: In the Land of Plenty, A Sicker, Poorer Population

Posted on 10/18/2008 by Jane Devin

Few would argue that there is not a health care crisis in America. We now rank 29th in infant mortality, behind countries such as Cuba, Slovakia, and Hungary. Since 2000, according to a study by the non-partisan Kaiser Foundation, the average worker contribution for a family health insurance policy has increased 107%. Over 45 million people are uninsured, and eight out of ten of them are from working class families in the low-to-moderate income range who have no access to employer-sponsored health care plans. Between 2005 and 2007, the number of working-age Americans who had problems paying their medical bills rose from 34 to 41%.

Minnesotan Lisa C. is one of them. In 2005, after suffering a series of debilitating migraines that sent her to emergency rooms, and to specialists for tests and treatment several times, she racked up over $15,000 in medical bills. Uninsured and working for a temporary employment agency then, Lisa struggled to send in minimum payments to multiple providers, a process she says was confusing.

“I ended up receiving something like six bills from my first visit to the ER, and I couldn’t figure them all out. There was one from the hospital, another from the doctor who treated me, another from radiology — I don’t remember the rest. But then I had to go in again, and again, and there were more bills, and when I couldn’t pay them all the collection agencies started sending me their bills on top of that, and everything had different account numbers. . . .and I just got lost even trying to keep track.” Presently threatened with wage garnishments against her $9 per hour salary, Lisa is trying to save up the money to file bankruptcy.

“There are judgments against me now, and with legal fees and everything, I owe more like $21,000. It’s just impossible.” Bankruptcy may also be impossible for Lisa, whose salary leaves little disposable income to pay the costs of an attorney, or the credit counseling mandated by state law.

Joe Squillace, an adjunct professor of health care policy at the St. Louis University School of Social Work and a doctoral candidate in Public Policy, has studied the issue of health care extensively. He points out that the dim statistics on the uninsured don’t tell the whole story. “Because there is such variation in health insurance policies, including benefits covered, it is difficult to determine the actual numbers of the under-insured. According to Kaiser’s studies, 10% of insured non-elderly adults reported that they lacked drug coverage in 2001. 29% had no dental coverage, and 37% had no vision coverage.” Rising premiums, deductibles, and co-payments among the insured may mean that even those who have health coverage forego necessary treatment or medication.

Squillace says it is not clear whether either of the health plans proposed by Obama or McCain will contain outrageously high health care costs, but “Obama’s plan will help those working families that earn too much to qualify for Medicaid, and provide an affordable option if the employer does not. McCain’s plan does not really provide an option for many reasons. “There are many problems with McCain’s proposal for the working poor and lower income households.” Squillace compares the “play or pay” element of Obama’s plan to the recent Massachusetts plan to cover all of its citizens.

The Massachusetts plan places a $295 per year/per employee assessment on employers who do not provide health insurance. Since its inception, 439,000 of the 650,000 uninsured in Massachusetts have gained coverage. Still in its experimental stage the plan is not without its flaws, including a shortage of doctors to handle the influx of the newly insured, and increased waiting times — sometimes up to 100 days. Massachusetts is seeking to attract new doctors with school loan payoffs, investing more in its medical schools, and waiving tuition and fees for medical students who agree to work as primary care doctors in the state for four years after their training. The results of these efforts won’t be seen immediately, but the plan is being carefully watched by other states and policy makers, both for short and long-term effect.

Jeff Crim, a chaplain at a public hospital in Tennessee that treats many of its area’s poorer residents, sees the need for universal health coverage as urgent. “Oftentimes, when poor people are discharged, their primary care is carried out in undermanned, overburdened public clinics or not at all. In fact, for some of them, the ER is their primary care doctor. They can get the best care possible in the hospital, but it can be undone by poor follow-up or by late diagnosis.”

“People claim that universal health care is somehow un-American. Yet, I grew up as a military brat. I had all the free health care I wanted from the medical facilities on the base. If I didn’t like that care, I had an insurance policy I could use to get health care from private physicians. If that mixed system is good enough for the military how is it too un-American for civilians?” Crim, who meets face to face with the sick and dying everyday, argues against the bootstrap philosophies that inform those who are against universal coverage.

“Bootstrap and meritocracy philosophies are pure garbage that only serve to anaesthesize people not in poverty from the reality of poverty. Poverty is cyclical, there is no doubt about that. Economic resources are finite, there is no doubt about that. As long as the majority of those resources are hoarded by a small number of people at the top of the economic ladder, the number of people at the bottom will be huge” states Crim.

Although insured now, Lisa C. rarely goes to a doctor. “I owe everybody money, and I feel so stupid about why. $21,000 for headaches? I’m glad I didn’t have anything more serious, but I didn’t know that at the time — I just knew I was in a lot of pain. Now, if something like that happens again, I probably won’t go in (for treatment). My plan has a $1000 deductible anyway. Who can afford that?” Not Lisa, or millions of other Americans who are uninsured or under-insured.

One of the greatest nations on Earth, heralded for its progressiveness and ingenuity, has so far failed to find a solution to its health care crisis. Without one, America can only grow sicker, poorer, and more divided.

Next: Pt V, Conclusion

Share this:

Poverty Series I: Beyond Joe & Jane Six-Pack and other Human Parodies

Posted on 10/07/2008 by Jane Devin

INTRODUCTION

We live in a world of instant everything. Every human situation, it seems, comes attached with cliches, platitudes, bromides, stereotypes and parodies. There is, conceivably, a box to place every person in, and a label to slap them with. There are also socially created barriers that inform perception, determine response, and decide opportunity. As society evolves, so do these barriers.

In the 1970′s, for instance, it was not unusual for job applicants to lack college degrees. Today, four year degrees are required for almost every corporate position, including those that are considered entry-level.

Throughout history, but even more apparent in today’s political climate, the have-nots have born the brunt of social stereotypes, bootstrap philosophies, and feel-good bromides. They’ve been romanticized in songs and novels, damned by social critics, and sacrificed at the altars of law and politics.

The pride and strength of the working poor is legendary — their clothes are old, but never dirty*, their love for each other overcomes all, and they’re only poor if they choose to be* — because it’s love, and not money after all, that makes a person truly rich. They bear drudgery and ridicule with hearty stamina, and sing and dance their way through meager lives filled with hardship, always hoping, always praying, and never losing sight of what’s really important.

At the same time, there’s something wrong with those people — something inherently flawed about them, like their character, their ambition, or their intelligence. It can’t be about any of the “isms” because, as we’ve all come to learn through the example of the rare exception, the -ism’s don’t really exist. After all, if Loretta Lynn can work her way out of a coal mining town in Kentucky, and Oprah Winfrey can become a billionaire, then anyone can. It’s just a matter of really wanting to achieve, and working hard enough to find success. And since there’s no such thing as luck, unless you’re talking about the kind people make for themselves, there are no logical reasons for failure, only excuses.

Last night, engaged in a conversation with a new friend, I had cause to revisit some of my darkest days as a young single parent. My husband had managed to get a divorce from another state, with the Navy’s help no less, stating that he had no children. He left while I was pregnant and had a one year old daughter. His legal maneuver left him off the hook for child support but still gave him the legal rights of a father. There was no legal recourse for me since at the time my state, Nevada, did not cross jurisdictions. It took twelve years to find even the minor relief of terminating his rights. He never paid child support, and never saw or expressed interest in seeing the children.

I worked two jobs, while struggling to pay daycare and rent. One job wouldn’t cover both, much less buy groceries, and I was evicted twice, and had my power shut off several times. One of the lowest points I remember was a cold day in October, when I washed my cocktail waitress uniform out in a dark bathroom, with cold water, because I had no electricity. No heat, either, so the babies were bundled in snowsuits and covered with blankets. We had no food in the house to speak of, and when I woke up to go to work, my uniform was still wet. I had to hop a bus to daycare, then to a casino where a poker player fried my leg and my last pair of nylons with the tip of his cigar. I broke down crying, and was promptly fired.

In those dark days, hope was tinged with desperation and need, and I drove myself past exhaustion, while at the same time trying to be the kind of mother I always wanted. One who was essentially happy, loving, and present. It took years, an incredible amount of energy, and living through multiple traumas to make a life that wasn’t desperate, or teetering on the brink of disaster. It wasn’t even a middle class life — there was no home in the suburbs, 401K, or college fund — but it was a life that covered the essentials.

I know poverty because I’ve lived through its varied realities, from the grumbling hunger to the bone-chilling coldness; from the pain of infections I couldn’t afford antibiotics for, to being robbed because I lived in a bad neighborhood and was an easy target. I’ve suffered from the policies and punitive measures that steal hope, time, and money from those who can least afford to lose anything.

I know bootstraps and bromides. The romanticizing of poverty, and the damnation of the poor. In this series, we’ll discuss economic realities and policies, as well as the emotional cost of being poor in America, the richest country in the world.

Excerpted from songs:
*Stevie Wonder, Livin’ for the City
*Dolly Parton, Coat of Many Colors

Share this:

Poison not Just in the Neglect, but in the Cliches

Posted on 03/10/2008 by Jane Devin

Poverty is Poison was the headline of a February 18th editorial in the New York Times. Every time I read something like this – old news passed off as a new discovery – I want to scream a little bit. Massive amounts of research, some of it quite famously cruel and spectacular, has been done on child development. That “children growing up in poor families. . . .experience unhealthy levels of stress hormones which impair their neural development” is not a new finding, nor is it surprising. These same stress hormones are found in children from abusive or neglectful homes, and it has been far beyond proven that children who are not nurtured in infancy, if they survive at all, will experience a host of problems, from social attachment disorder to learning disabilities.

What is surprising is that we, as a society, continue to expect and demand a cure through self-determination. That we negate the factual science of neural development in favor of blaming, shaming, or shunning the affected, believing that moral weakness or poor character, rather than any significant physical or cognitive deficit, is responsible for those who fail to rise to the social challenges of our competitive society.

I’d like to find your inner child and kick its little ass.

“Get over it,” pop star Don Henley once sang. “Complain about the present and blame it on the past, I’d like to find your inner child and kick its little ass”. Henley’s popular song, which seemed to show equal disdain for real victims as well as those faking it in exchange for a car crash payday, reflected the attitudes of many Americans at the 1990′s height of child abuse stories. Unfortunately, there was a window of time when it became somewhat hip to come out as an abused child – and celebrities, whether jumping on the popular bandwagon, or sincerely trying to help, only caused a serious issue to be taken less seriously. People started to recoil, not from the horrors of child abuse, but from yet another sad tale of alcoholism, rape, or rage – especially those told by people living a privileged existence far removed from the hardscrabble lives of the working and middle classes.

The backlash against abuse victims was swift, hard, and long lasting. English professors across America added “child abuse” to their list of cliched topics. More and more writers were steered away from the topic by threats of non-publication. When books were published, such as “A Child Called It” or “The Glass Castle”, the endings were happily-ever-after.

The old but persuasive bromides of positivity were shined up for a new generation who were spoon fed the concept of self-esteem without the struggles and accomplishments that naturally lead to a sense of self-worth. I remember arguing with my daughter’s second grade teacher about this when Elisabeth came home one day and told me spelling didn’t matter. I was sure she misunderstood the teacher, but no. Mrs Greene informed me that correcting a child’s spelling could “stunt” their creativity and lead to lowered self-esteem. My argument that self-esteem would be a natural byproduct of mastering the task of spelling fell on stubbornly deaf ears – as did my argument that creativity isn’t so fragile that it’s destroyed under structure.

That new generation is now grown up, and they seem all too willing to carry the torch for the crumbling and blind school of self-determination, regardless of scientific discoveries, old or new. Poverty is character, and character is destiny. Trauma is gotten over by self-help books and positive self-talk. Neural pathways, receptors and hormones are nothing that an hour with Joel Osteen or Dr. Phil can’t fix. Think it and be it. Get real. Or, as Oprah – who was once of the foremost advocates for the misunderstood underclass before taking the Cosmo girl road of peddling everything from diets to beauty secrets – might suggest, discover your spirit. Live your best life.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with feel-good philosophies, positive thinking, or living one’s life with passion. The wrong enters when these things are held out by the dominant society as a cure to problems that are far deeper, more serious, and more poisonous than everyday problems.

Not feeling great about the way one looks in a bathing suit is in no way equivalent to actually being (as opposed to merely feeling like) a social outcast.

I feel like a fraud. I’ve never fit in anywhere…

“I feel like a fraud,” says *Kari, who spent her first six years of life with a neglectful mother before being sent to live with her elderly grandmother. “I’ve never fit in anywhere … and my thoughts just don’t seem to work the way other people’s do.” Kari, now 46, spent most of her adult years trying to climb the ladder as a graphic artist in the corporate world.

“No one ever told me I didn’t have talent,” she says, “I did, and was probably even above-average in that area, but I just wasn’t well liked. I wasn’t liked when I was myself, and I wasn’t liked any better when I followed the advice of all those self-help, how-to-heal, or how to make friends books. I knew there was something different about me – something that made other people uncomfortable – but I never found what it was. I kept trying out all sorts of different approaches, but it was like I had some invisible mark of a social pariah. My work was valued, but I couldn’t get promoted. There were convenient acquaintances, but no real friendships.

“I went to therapists. I meditated. I read every book I could find on healing and being social, and I trained myself to carefully consider every response and every action. . .

“The weirdest thing has always been the way people respond to me. For some reason, my words were always taken far more personally than if they came from someone else. For instance, if one of my colleagues casually complained, it was no big deal. If I did the same thing, even using almost the same exact words, it was an Oh my God event – people would be shocked, or instantly label me a chronic complainer.

“It’s that kind of over-sensitivity. . .to me as a person, and to my words. . . that made me afraid to speak out at all. I was labeled weird, no matter how normal I thought I was, or how like them I tried to act. I became quieter over the years, and my own sensitivity around other people became so heightened it was almost paralyzing.”

After seven jobs in 19 years, Kari quit. She subsisted on unemployment and savings for two years, while struggling with intense depression and thoughts of suicide. One therapist suggested Kari might have a mild form of Asperger’s Syndrome, a diagnosis that left her with little comfort. “Even if I agreed with that, which I really don’t seeing that I don’t have many of the symptoms, it really doesn’t change anything,” she says.

Eventually, Kari went to work as an $8/hr. checker in a small grocery store, which pays her extra on the side to create signage. It wasn’t the life Kari planned, but she’s not alone.

There are profound and visible differences between a “wild child” like +Genie, who was discovered at age 13, after having been isolated from infancy in a dark room in her parents’ home, and David Pelzer, whose childhood abuse and isolation was chronicled in the book “A Child Called It.” Genie never recovered, while Pelzer went on to become a successful journalist and author. Their experiences, the extent of abuse suffered, their brains, and exposures to other people, were quite different even though there are several parallels that can be drawn.

What is less obvious, and almost invisible in society, are those who were significantly poisoned in childhood – those who were permanently affected by the crossed wires, mixed-up hormones, and neural changes caused by poverty, neglect, and abuse. Most often, those affected are physically indistinguishable from those who were reared in relatively normal and healthy homes.

The emotional and social differences, not seen by the naked eye, may range from mild to severe, with Kari’s case being somewhere in the moderate middle.

There’s no “get over it” cure, and no amount of shame or blame placed on victims can reorganize or “fix” the brain that was damaged in infancy or childhood. The best that survivors can do is to be aware of the differences and develop the patience, personal strength, and comprehensive understanding necessary to deal with being something of an outcast – with being, perhaps, “of this world, but not necessarily in it.”

For society, the question should not be about a cure that doesn’t exist, but a two-fold one of awareness and prevention. Rather than throwing the science (and its subjects) away in favor of the quick, convenient, and empirical “bootstrap” approach – which seeks to make everything from financial achievement to social success mere matters of character and effort – society might instead seek to understand the deeper, more realistic reasons why some former victims of poverty and abuse fail to thrive.

Understanding that, we might put more stock in prevention and make the end of poverty and child abuse in America a real and urgent priority, rather than shuffling both off to the easy-to-forget realm of stale news and tired cliches.

*Real name not disclosed.
+Genie was the psuedonym given to Susan Wiley by researchers. She now lives in an undisclosed group home in Southern California.

Share this: