Confessions... Thoughts Better Not Left Unsaid

I Have Moved

2011-10-31T16:51:00.000-05:00

This blog has been discontinued but you're still welcomed to browse this blog. I will not be adding anything new to it from this point on. My new blog has a different focus and design and I invite you to stop by and explore it. If you'd like to contact me, you can at steph@stephericsson.com. Thanks for your support!

My book, Companion now has its own Facebook page

2010-06-25T10:45:00.003-05:00

After years of having readers track me down, I decided that my book needed its own Facebook page. I am hoping that I can help people connect with one another and provide a place for myself and readers to share interesting information, links, etc. I am just in the infancy stages of building a public page, so please bear with me as I attempt this new learning curve!

today... my blackout on communication

2010-02-01T00:23:00.003-06:00

For the people who have been so supportive, thank you. I haven't posted because I've imposed a blackout on my own communication. There is a good reason for this, but I won't go into it. I want those who are interested to know that we are safe, secure and that we are going to be alright. I am writing still, although it isn't for public consumption, and hope that those who care will understand. At times, there are people who will twist anything said to their own agendas. I only seek to avoid any chance of this happening right now.

Soon, I'll be back. For now, please know that your prayers and good wishes have kept us afloat.

2009-08-03T14:33:00.004-05:00

Hell No, We Won't Go

My son told me he would come to the shelter with me. But something still bothered me. He'd never objected. I was the one who'd objected to putting him through that.

So my friend, Julie, helped me break down the logic in a conversation we had this weekend about values. Do we live according to the values that we hold? Or do we change our values to suit the occasion? We weren't talking about this situation, but one that still had to do with parenting.

I said, I am a terrible disciplinarian, and I gave the example of finally giving in to my daughter's teenaged aversion to doing the dishes. Julie said,

What's the value you hold by asking her to do the dishes?

Well, I said, that we all share a portion of the work so no one is unfairly overloaded.

Ok, said Julie, and what happened?

What happened was that she put me off by saying, I'll do it in a minute...in an hour...

Okay. What did you do?

Well, I used to get upset and yell at her but that got old fast. This happened so often that I would become a total idiot over it. She simply refused, passively, by putting me off. I got sick of yelling, cajoling, insisting... I even stopped making dinner for her as a consequence, but she didn't notice. Eventually, it became a matter of choosing my own sanity and peace of mind over nagging her to no effect.

Julie thought about it, and said, But did you change your value that work should be shared fairly?

No. I just chose my battles. For my own sanity, I chose not to fight with her because it got me nowhere. Most of the time, I made dinner for both of the kids, and I always asked her to do the dishes. She never turned me down flat. She just put me off, and that was so infuriating that I reconfigured her response to mean, "No" in my own head. I wanted her to have better nutrition than she chose for herself, so I cooked. That seemed more important than anything. Eventually, I simply gave up on her.

But did you change your value?

Nope. Not one iota. Now, she's a mother herself, with a toddler who rearranges everything before she can finish cleaning. Now, she understands the value of sharing the work...

So what is this thing about you being a terrible disciplinarian?

Well, I feel as if I should have forced her to do the dishes.

Why didn't you?

What was I going to do, beat her? From the time she was able to tell me yes or no, she's shown me she has a formidable will of her own. If anyone tries to force her to do something, she will dig in her heels deeper and outlast the best adversary! I tried all sorts of approaches until I wore myself out. Eventually, it came down to choosing my own peace of mind over anguish.

Exactly, said Julie. She knew exactly what she was doing. How she was manipulating you. You were simply choosing, like all mothers do, to pick your battles. You were doing what all mothers must do--be flexible.

I said, tongue in cheek,

Well, I threatened her the way my own mother threatened me: I hope that someday, YOU have a daughter exactly like YOU. Julie laughed. There are some things that are true and have been true since time immemorial. The curse of the mother is one.

So I thought some more about my values. With my children, the first value has always been to protect them from danger. Not necessarily from discomfort, but from suffering for something that was not theirs to suffer.

And I concluded that I would NOT subject my son to the shelter.

Period.

If it cuts me off from their resources, so be it. I will think outside of their box.

I make no judgments on the women who bring their kids to the shelter. Most have no other alternative. Most are probably making the right decision. Most of them, I really admire. And, I might still have to change my mind and give in. But as long as I have the ability to think creatively, I'll follow that first.

Hell, NO! If the only way to get help is to make him sleep on the floor of a different church every night, then I'll just have to beg, borrow or take a job teaching English in Ethiopia.

Copyright 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved.

2009-08-02T01:14:00.006-05:00

Steph~

This was on side of the road @ ground Zero in NYC after 911. taken by a gal that I know. It's one of my favorites I have the orginal and often find myself staring @ the picture. Can't imagine the horror of it all and yet having the courage & guts to spray paint this...bet it was a #cowboyupgurlz

2009-08-01T13:14:00.003-05:00

I Make It To The Shelter

If I keep circling this block, they're going to report me for stalking. If I keep sitting in my car for hours on the street, feeding the meters, some cop is going to take an interest in me. No matter how much I try, I cannot seem to get out of this car by myself and go open that door. Finally, I accepted my friend George's offer to go to the shelter with me. Just to get me through that front door.

I met him on the street, and we walked around the corner to the two unmarked double doors. There was no sign on the doors—just some numbers on the wall—244—those reflective numbers with sticky backs that you get at hardware stores. Some women who were out for a smoke and a flock of kids playing tag were just a few yards away. I reached for the door and pulled but it was solidly closed. Locked.

I turned and saw all the women looking at me. Everyone stopped talking for a moment and then started again. They ignored me without taking their eyes off of me. No one looked unfriendly, but no one looked friendly, either. There was something here that they were protecting. I realized it was the Entrance. A moment later, one of the woman startled me from behind and with an official voice asked, "May I help you?"

Here was a Gatekeeper that I had to get past.

Was I supposed to state my business right here out in the open with everyone listening? Checking me out? Eyeing me from head to toe—taking my measure? The first principle of survival was in play—be observant—watch everyone and everything that is nearby. What were they seeing anyhow? A woman in her fifties, overweight, graying, clean, well-groomed. I'd be dammed if they'd see me any other way. Wearing a long skirt (because I always wear long skirts), a clean blouse, a cotton sweater, a decent but not flashy purse and flip-flops. I had on lipstick and held a thick file of papers in my arms. Did they know I was there because I'm homeless? How would they? How do they tell this? Did they think I was an official from the state? Don't count on it, Steph—the flip-flops give you away...

I need help, I said.

What kind of help? she asked.

I'm homeless.

Well, this place is for families... she said.

I have a son.

So, you need shelter today for you and your son...she said, matter-of-factly, as she took out her keys and unlocked the door.

I hesitated and looked over at George. He pointed his walking stick at the open door and I obeyed.

The door opened into a cement staircase of the institutional variety. It went up and down and the echo of our footsteps rang out. Just to the right of the door was a small waiting room with an office beyond that I could see behind a large window. The door to it was locked too. With the jangling of her keys echoing, she unlocked that door too and held it open for me.

Can we just talk first? I asked.

George settled himself in a corner of the waiting room, looking calm and managerial—both hands balanced on the top of his walking stick.

Can you tell me how this works? I asked, not sitting down. So she outlined the program.

You stay here during the day and then at 5:30 pm, we bus you over to a church where you sleep on mats on the floor for the night. We don't allow anyone to drive their own cars to the churches. You get a locker where you can lock your belongings at night and we open them when you get back to the church in the morning. There are showers... We take your money and hold it for you...

All I hear, prison, prison, prison. Can't drive yourself. Sleep on mats on the floor. Other people sleeping right next to you who you don't know. When was the last time I slept with anyone else but my kids or grandson in the room? I couldn't remember... Apparently, I said this thought out loud because she said,

Well, there are screens set up...

Sleeping on the floor... she might as well have said I will be sleeping on a bed of nails for my chronic pain syndrome. What are we supposed to do between 6 pm and when we fall asleep? When was the last time I went to sleep before midnight? I'm a night person... They lock up our things and we don't get the key—they do. They open the lockers when they want, and if I need something in them—too bad. They take my money... (What money? I laughed out loud) what is that all about? I have to ask them for my own money? Isn't it humiliating enough? As if I couldn't be trusted with my own money. Well, maybe that's true for a lot of these folks, but if I wasn't frugal and good at squeezing ten dollars out of a five dollar bill, I'd have been down here years ago... I have clothes older than my children... If I had any money, I would make sure they didn't know it. Does being homeless constitute being treated like a prisoner? Or a child? You do what we tell you...Holy Mother of God, I hate this... She kept talking,

Then, when there is a spot at the shelter, you go there. You get your own room and the curfew (yes, she used the word, 'curfew'), is better—you have to be in by nine pm... You can only stay there for 30 days in a 3 month period... They have housing counselors there...

And if they don't find me and my son housing within that time, what happens?

You come back here...

Does my son have to be here with me?

If you want to use this shelter. If it's just you, you have to go to the women's shelter. That's on the 2^nd floor of the Dorothy Day Center, but it's locked.

Everyone in Saint Paul knows where the Dorothy Day Center is because it's right across from the Xcel Center—the huge sports arena that sits at the entrance to our tiny downtown—which one could navigate within five minutes from end to end. Garrison Keillor on his show, The Prairie Home Companion on National Public Radio talks about Saint Paul as a quaint little town—where you can stand on the corner of 6^th Street and 7^th Street at the very same time... Well, on that particular corner, all the homeless congregate, sprawled out on the grassy knolls with their backpacks or their shopping carts, bumming cigarettes and cat-calling any girl that walks by. My kids' friends go over there to bum smokes from the homeless... Yes, that's exactly where I aspire to hang out... I'm thinking as I hear the last part of her description,

...but they don't have any housing counselors there.

Where?

At the women's shelter...

Of course not, why would women need a housing counselor...?! I think to myself.

So, I say, there's only one way to get to the shelter and the housing counselors, and that's through you?

Pretty much, she says.

And the only way I can come here is if I bring my son with me, (I didn't say what my first choice of phrasing was—that the only way I could get help was if I subject my son, who is now safe, cared for, and relatively content where he is for the time being, to being a homeless prisoner here at the shelter... As if I am not a mother unless I'm actually accompanied by my child—(What? Am I going to fake being a mother? Isn't THAT on file, somewhere?) ...and protecting my child from this whole mess is exactly what disqualifies me from getting the help we need.

None of it makes any sense in my line of logic. Since I started looking for help with social service agencies, I've run into this conundrum so often that I've begun to wonder if my logic isn't faulty. It seems that theirs is the only logic exists. After all, they're the government. They have all kinds of paperwork, red tape and research to back up their reasoning.

I'm sure there are plenty of reasons for all these rules, but their effect, not only on the self-image of their clients—but on their very lives, doesn't seem to be a factor. It would be like living in a world where people say, Well, sure, we can help you!—but only if you've given birth to a dwarf with size twelve shoes. Size eleven and a half won't do... Or—Sure we can help you, if you are five foot seven, have green eyes, a limp on the left side—left side only!—and you talk with a lisp. Yessiree! There's ALL kinds of help out here for those unfortunates who've fallen on hard times...Or—the best one of all—and this one is REAL—Sure! We can help you! As long as we know that this will solve your problem and it won't be a REOCCURRING problem... Otherwise, if it IS a reoccurring problem, (as if anyone could promise that they could find work right now!) then, I'm sorry—we can't help...

Does THAT make any sense? Like the Urban League telling me that because I didn't have a job, they couldn't help me with my energy bill... (...if I had a job, why would need to ask you for help??)

Every month, I get at least five pieces of mail from the county with gobbley-gookey verbiage and tables of numbers that make no sense to me and are completely unnecessary. Every month I get at least one letter that threatens to stop my benefits because I didn't get my household report in on time, (which I always DO, by the way) and which my financial worker tells me to ignore...

I decided to do some math on those letters—let's say TWO of the letters are important. That means that THREE aren't. At 44 cents per letter, times 3=$1.32. Now there are 327,357 people in Minnesota on food stamps alone—so let's just use them for a theoretical number.

327,357 people
X $1.32
$432,111.24 monthly

$432,111.24 every month is being wasted on mailing unnecessary letters. What does this add up to per year?

$432,111.24
X 12 months
$5,185,334.88

Five million dollars a year is eaten up by sending out mail that no one understands, needs or that's actually wrong. .

How many houses, apartments, even these rare birds called 'housing counselors' could be bought, rented or hired for five million dollars?

And this is the government that is bailing us out of our recession? Or would somebody please correct my math?

It’s Time You Knew

2009-07-28T11:58:00.004-05:00

Lost My Voice

Now I understand why we don't hear too much from the homeless, themselves.

I can't find my voice. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to write. I can't find my voice. Every time I start, I choke up.

I never realized how much energy it takes to have no ground. No corner where you belong. It absorbs all my energy. There is no place where I can just BE. Nowhere where I'm not imposing on someone, or doing something illegal. I'm not sure, but I think that sleeping in your car is illegal. I'm terrified that if I sleep in my car, in the middle of the night I'll get a flashlight in my face and a cop who's got nothing else to do that night but harass me. Be arrested for public loitering. I'm scared all the time that I'm infringing on someone's space, or that someone is going to hurt me. If I sleep in my car, will some thugs looking for cheap entertainment find me? I don't sleep well at all because I have no bed. Right now, I'm staying at my daughter's on her couch and it's awful. I wake up with my chronic pain throbbing in all the old familiar places.

There's nowhere to go where I can have any privacy. Everything you do when you're homeless is done in public. I'm living out of my car, obsessed with staying clean, but my 'stuff' is scattered all over the place—packed in this box, or that suitcase. I go to the garage where all my 'stuff' is boxed up, and it's even more depressing. What a bunch of crap I've held on to...Only I know that it used to be nice stuff.

I keep putting off going to the shelter. I'm really scared to do it. Somehow, going there makes being homeless too REAL. But nothing is going to happen for my son and me until I do. I keep driving by the place, meaning to stop and go in but then I keep driving.

This is as much as I can write today. At least it's something.

It’s Time You Knew...

2009-07-12T14:00:00.003-05:00

#cowboyupgurlz

There are these women, see? Women who've sent me direct messages on Twitter or emailed me, or posted to my blog. These women, who saw me floundering, make it a point to support me almost every day. You can do it... each of them says, each in their own way. Some send prayers. Some send money. Some send me their stories. Some even send me 'virtual' flowers! Little by little we learn one another's stories... All of them give me strength that I would not have had without them.

One of these women, givelovecoffee, a coffee micro-roaster with her own company, Moon Monkey Coffee, sent me this message one day, after she'd had a particularly hard day herself "...time to live our new mantra, 'cowboy up, girls'... with Tylenol everything will be OK." From there, one of us came up with the Twitter toy #cowboyupgurlz and since then, we've been using it to alert all the other women, living in a man's world, picking ourselves up by our bootstraps and trudging forward in spite of all. Later, she wrote,

"No more apologies take captives under your influence & make a difference in spite of your circumstances. #cowboyupgurlz It's a new day! Your tweet was divine—instead of feeling sorry for myself I felt humbled but not powerless...The act of one-anothering in online spaces, gives a connection to not just pixels but people to share in your circumstances, to offer a kind word, a 140 characters of encouragement to be excellent!

All the best today! Leaning in looking up & whispering our names...

I think that's a great definition of #cowboyupgurlz. "The act of one-anothering..." is apt.

Today, I sit in my old apartment, alone...trying to get the loose ends wrapped up. Trouble is—I get confused when I'm overwhelmed and my attention-deficit takes over and leads me by my nose in circles. Added to this is my pain-level today, which is greater than it's been in months. Ugh. I've worn out my son and his friend, Cain—they have worked really hard for the past week, so I sent them off to their respective dwelling spots to recuperate. Now I have to get the rest of the stuff packed and ready for moving. I am praying someone will be able to help. Can only do what I can.

I sat down and had a good cry. Then I checked my email, and there were notes and tweets of encouragement. Suddenly, what just seemed impossible—seems possible. It will be ok. All of it.

So, to all these women, members of the #cowboyupgurlz club, Yahoo...! I'm going to get it done. I'm going to make a difference, in spite of my circumstances—maybe even because of them...

The angels just told me a secret:

Within the difficulties, the suffering, the hopelessness, there is hidden opportunities for redemption, for connection, for love. If I tackle the problems, I'll find miracles hiding there.

I once painted this little painting for one of the quotes I love, by Saint Exupéry:

It’s Time You Knew...

2009-07-11T12:17:00.003-05:00

The seeds of compassion and love

Moving day...

Oh, to have the stamina of a 16 year old boy!

My son, Henry and his friend, Cain, have been packing and boxing for days and yesterday, they moved all those boxes & furniture. Michael, a good friend of Henry's since first grade, also showed up to help. Wow. I'm so impressed...

For the life of me, I cannot understand why anyone would volunteer to do this thankless and backbreaking work... We do it because we have no choice—it's got to be done. But, personally? I'd have to love someone to the moon! to show up on their moving day!

Yet, Cain's been here for a week, cheerfully packing boxes. Yet, Michael not only showed up, he brought a friend who worked as hard as if we were his own family.

In our last move, I was so devastated from losing my house that I was shamefully unprepared when the moving van arrived. Michael's mother, Debbie, showed up and helped. I could not have accomplished that move without her. This is love. Love is an action, not a feeling. Anyone just meeting me that day would not have felt much love for me, I'm sure. It helps that we've known each other for years through our kids—we both have children the same age so we've become friends through the years of schlepping and chauffeuring, but there's more to it than that. I doubt that Debbie helps everyone she's known for years. She's discerning and doesn't waste her time. Perhaps it's that quality about her than made me appreciate her help even more.

My landlord, Ben, has been so generous and understanding. He remembers growing up poor during the Depression so he comes from experience. He doesn't shy away from emotional pain either. He insists on asking the difficult question that most people don't want to ask: Where will you be staying tomorrow night? People don't want to ask that question because they don't want to know the answer. But I don't think it's because they don't care—actually, I think it's because they do care and can't handle the feelings of being helpless.

I so understand. I don't know anyone who has it easy these days. Everyone has their problems–that's simply normal life. Life is about solving problems. However, these days, those problems are compounded by the state of our economy. People like Ben, Debbie, George, Cain, Michael and my own son, Henry, realize that we're not going to get through this if we try to do it all alone. We've got to join together—give what we have to give, and stay connected.

Those connections are vital to me, personally. They give me the strength to face another day, even after previous days have been brutal. They reconfigure my attitude so I can accept reality without believing that it's my fate. Or that I deserve to lose my home.

After all, the economy didn't collapse for the sole reason to punish me for my sins. It didn't just happen to me. It wasn't personal.

But my personal connections will help me survive this and become better for it.

I'm watching the effect it has on my son, as painful as it is. He seems to be re-sorting his values. Suffering now doesn't mean 'not going to the mall' or not having the latest techno-gadget that 'everyone else' has. Suffering means something real. It means being hungry. It means not having a roof over your head. It means not having the money to cover the basic, fundamental necessities of life.

Now, he can't be threatened with the loss of material things. He knows that 'things' come and go, and most of them are not really necessary. Can he live without his snowboard? Yep. Without his stereo? Yep. Without vacations? Yep. Without love? Nope. Would he rather have these material things but live without love and respect? No. He'd rather be without these things and have love and respect. We're a family. If one of us suffers, we don't have to do it alone. It's the sharing that makes it survivable.

With suffering comes compassion. With compassion comes humanity. With humanity, we will save the world.

It’s Time You Knew...

2009-07-09T13:03:00.003-05:00

What Does One Pack for the Homeless Shelter?

We're packing and packing and packing...

My son and his friends... Cain... and Skye... George... Melinda... such good friends... (Funny, how many people disappear when you're moving!! LOL!—I've been guilty of it too!)

Found a cheap, dry, 24-7 place to store our things...

But really—we have to be smart about this. Put the things we won't have a need for until we find a new place all in the back. Books, knickknacks, etc. Furniture and stuff like that. Stuff we might have a need for should go closer to the front... Ugh....

What about things that we'll need in the interim? Like the scanner? Or the hard drive and the disks for recovery... files that I may need for documentation...

Do I dare bring my laptop to the shelter?? If not, where do I keep it so I can get at it when I need to and not impose on anyone else?? In my car??? What if it gets towed or stolen? Do I back everything up on the hard drive? On line?

Do I bring my own pillow? What about laundry detergent, shampoo, office supplies... Stuff that if I have to buy again will cost more than we can afford out of pocket?

And our clothes—what should we do with the stuff that is better hung up? Create a pole in the storage and then keep stuff on hangers but covered with plastic bags?

Hmmmm....

I have no idea what to expect... I've just written to a woman who specializes in these kinds of things...The Survival Mom –Lisa Bedford. What an amazing website she's built! Got to go now, and see if she's got some tips for us!

For those amazing people who are keeping track of us, we are very thankful.

2009-07-09T12:07:00.000-05:00

Found this a while ago on Blogger--and it had really interesting things to explore

Survival Guide to Homelessness

This post was both terrifying and informative... Shelters are for someone else - part 2

It's Time You Knew

2009-07-07T04:34:00.003-05:00

I am willful, arrogant and full of pride.

There is no room at the shelter, they tell me.

At the Family Place, it's first come—first serve, they tell me. If you're there first you get shelter for the night. You can stay there at the center during the day, where you'll get meals, and access to phones, computers, etc. Every night, you will go sleep in a different church. Volunteers from that parish will be there to assist you and stay the night with you.

Why does the thought of that make me angry? Why is the first thought that comes into my head about this (knowing absolutely nothing, btw, about it, since I have never been one of these volunteers...) "Oh, so we're like zoo animals, on display"...?

Because I'm willful, arrogant and full of pride.

A part of me says, "No way. No friggin' way am I going to do that! I'd rather sleep in my car..."

So, I'm a hypocrite. It's all well and good for me when I'm the one who is giving. Hell, I'm in control then. But to be the one in need? This is going to test my humility.

Yet, what about the people who are actually doing this? Are they less than me? Isn't that what I'm really saying by trying to hang on to my pride? Humility does not mean, humiliation, unless I allow it to mean that.

It doesn't mean degradation.

It means: to remain teachable.

Can I find my way to really living this meaning? We shall see.

But I know one thing about life, from years of learning the same damned lesson over and over, being thick-headed... There are times in our lives when the very thing that we least want to do is the very thing that we most need to do.

Dammit...

It’s Time You Knew

2009-07-05T14:37:00.003-05:00

I have not posted for the past couple of days because I've been processing...adjusting to what reality keeps insisting I accept. When my feelings are overwhelming me, it's best that I be alone with them until I can find some balanced perspective.

All Roads Lead To...

All roads lead to the same answer...that we must enter the homeless shelter... I have gone down every path that I could find, and the answer I continue to get is—if we are to receive any assistance, we must be homeless.

Many people warned me that this was most likely to be the case.

From there, I am told, the social workers can help us. From there, we will have access to housing assistance. From there, the influence that I have not been able to exert on the agencies that are moving at a snail's pace will be exercised for me. I suppose it puts us in a different category which has access to resources that we cannot get unless we're desperate. But it seems so illogical and I am trying to fight off a prideful inner voice that can be so depressing—one that wants to convince me that 'they'—(whoever 'they' are)—want us to be reduced to total humiliation. I reserve judgment, for the time-being.

My son is more cynical than I am. He doesn't trust 'the system'... and behind his anger, I can see the fear that he's feeling. He claims to have talked with 'lots of homeless people' who were promised things by the system that never materialized. "And five years later, they're still hanging around the Dorothy Day Center, picking cigarettes up off the sidewalk to smoke..."

I shudder. I realize that I still believe in some greater form of fairness and justice. Some would call that delusion.

I have to do my best to help him process all these changes. We've argued recently—something we never do. But, both of us are reminded that WE are not the enemy. WE must stick together, support each other, cut each other some slack for a time— ergo: forgive those outbreaks of overflowing emotions that don't have anywhere to go.

A job for me would solve nearly everything right now. Yet, that has to be put on the back burner until we're packed up, our stuff moved into storage, and we've landed somewhere.

I'll try to post daily, but if I don't post for a day or so, it's only for the reason I mentioned above.

I feel such gratitude to those of you who've been so compassionate and who have, and continue to follow us in this journey. You are beacons of light in an otherwise dark landscape.

It’s Time You Knew...

2009-07-02T04:26:00.004-05:00

The Countdown has now expired, but we are not homeless, yet. When there is anything definitive to report, I will shout it out. Meanwhile, the feedback I've listened to has made it evident that the greatest misconceptions today, (held about nearly everything), are 'assumptions'. In particular, assumptions that over-simplify very complex issues like: what things lead to homelessness; where is the line between a person's own responsibility and the responsibility of the community he or she lives in; etc. A person does not become homeless suddenly. It is a gradual fall of one domino upon another, each feeding to the velocity of the decline.

So, I'm starting a new series and calling it, It's Time You Knew... to discuss individual aspects of the domino effect that so many have in common and, hopefully, to inform people on things that are widely misunderstood. As in most of my writing, I begin with my own personal experience of things that many people share in common with me.

It is time to raise this conversation above the level of the merely "personal", out of the genre of 'sob-blog' and relate it to a larger scope where it can do some good. So, welcome to the first installment of—It's Time You Knew...

In Praise of Mules

I have a disability which seriously limits the kinds of work I can do that is called chronic neuropathic pain, or chronic pain syndrome. About 40% of all Americans suffer from chronic pain at some point in their lives, but not all chronic pain develops into the syndrome. A syndrome is a collection of clinical signs and symptoms that reoccur together. But, what makes all syndromes difficult to treat is that different people have different combinations of these signs and symptoms.

It's not well understood medically because it can appear to be many different things—therefore is it difficult—nearly impossible—to treat. Many things can increase the severity of the pain—stress, lack of quality sleep, barometric pressure, humidity, depression, certain foods, etc. –and often bring on more severe pain or other symptoms.

I have not yet found an effective treatment that didn't have worse side-effects than the pain itself. I do not take pain medications anymore. I would rather be in pain and alert than not in pain and stupefied. Besides, pain medication seemed to destroy my connection to others, to myself and to my spiritual life. I learned how to manage my pain with rest, pacing and light exercise—but 'manage' is a misnomer—since it implies that I make the pain go away. I don't. I can't. I can only make it less severe or do things that will keep it from getting worse.

That's the compromise. I can live with that. But it means that I live with some level of pain 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It means that I cannot always predict how much I will be able to do in a day. Some days I am at least as productive as anyone else, but more often, I live with the disappointment of an unfinished To-Do List which rides rough on the self-esteem.

I rarely mention this disability because part of my pain management is that I pretend it isn't there. Until they invent a device that can objectively measure pain, this syndrome and others like it are often hailed as 'all in the head' –implying that the pain is imaginary. But anyone who has ever had chronic pain knows it's very real.

The subsequent fall-out from it run the gamut—lost jobs, damaged relationships, financial ruin, depression and, a very high rate of suicide. It invades every part of a person's life and takes a devastating toll. Considering all this, I feel grateful to be able to show up, everyday, alive.

So, I do. I show up. I do what I can. I have learned not to allow jackals much air-time in my head. I've even learned not to let them have the satisfaction of getting me angry. On the occasions that they turn out to be someone close to me, I get wounded, like anyone. However, my bounce-back-ability gets stronger with every encounter. If I hold on to resentments towards them, it only causes the pain to increase, so I've woven a line of logic that says, "You canNOT have a piece of me!" I have had to learn compassion and forgiveness, not because I'm some sort of saint, but out of self-defense.

Many people who are homeless today began their slide into homelessness with some kind of medical problem or serious injury. The lion-share of bankruptcies in our country is a direct result of massive medical expenses that devastate a person or a family and threaten their hard-earned security. Many of these victims are left in chronic pain, unable to assume the level of performance that once kept them in their jobs. Often the chronic pain leads to a pattern of physical addiction, where the body's tolerance of medication increases as the pain increases too.

Doctors don't like to treat chronic pain, not because they're bastards, but because it makes them subject to medical boards that see it as their mission to stop drug abuse. These medical boards target doctors who write prescriptions for narcotics and threaten their licenses to practice medicine, sometimes for the smallest infraction. And, by the way, it has yet to be proven that these dope-dealing-doctors contribute one iota to our country's problem with drugs. The real victim in this political battle, however, is the person already suffering from chronic pain. Domino number 3 or 4 begins to tip toward the next one... Now, in terrible pain, left without the benefit of a withdrawal program, he searches desperately for some relief and finds it in street drugs...and so the next domino falls, and the next, and it isn't far to go to that state that everyone finds repulsive: Homelessness.

I was lucky that my chronic pain did not lead me to look for relief out on the streets. My doctor got me into a pain clinic just before his battle with the medical board began and I responded well to the alternative treatments for pain. But I could have gone that direction; there is no doubt in my mind. But that was only one of the potholes I avoided in the decline that chronic pain caused in my life and is still causing.

I don't want to give the impression that I've got this all under control. The only way that I gain any kind of skill is by falling down and getting up again. It's a constant cycle of trying, failing, getting back up and trying again. My grandmother used to brag that I was the most stubborn child she'd ever known. It's a character defect, I know. But, without it, I'd probably be in worse shape or dead. Maybe I was made that way to prepare me for this battle that I've been fighting for over 16 years. If I every write a book about chronic pain, I shall call it, In Praise of Mules.

Countdown to Homelessness...the last day

2009-07-01T03:42:00.006-05:00

The Wind Has Shifted

I made all of the hard calls early in the morning. Most of them turned out to be better than I had expected. My brother said he'd send help. My landlord said we could stay another week. I finally exhaled.

I keep feeling as if I should be doing more-more-more! Yet twice I heard compliments on how much I was doing and it made the calls that ended in a dead-end much less painful. When my ex-fiancé called out of the blue, I was strong enough not to pretend I was glad to hear from him. I won't need to block his number anymore. I doubt he'll risk frost-bite again.

There is a shift happening inside of me...Call it trust. I'm trusting that we'll be OK. My son does not appear to be anxious. I'm not sure if he's just trying not to pressure me, or if he is confident enough in me that he's not losing sleep and doesn't know that I am.

When I checked email, there was a note from an old acquaintance that I'd just reconnected with on Facebook. His son just died, but I didn't know the circumstances until today, when I read the pages that he'd taken over for his son. It was a sudden, tragic and senseless death. Every parents nightmare. The kind that is nearly NOT survivable...and I couldn't hold back my tears.

Yet, in the midst of this avalanche of grief, he made a point to get me a message: he was aware of our circumstances. Call me, he said.

So, I did, prepared to offer my condolences and to listen to him. Instead, he offered us room in his home. We agreed to meet tomorrow to discuss it before he leaves town for two weeks.

It stuns me. I know something of the power of that avalanche from my own experience. It changes you so profoundly that you almost don't recognize you're own reflection in the mirror. So, for him to be able to gaze beyond his own circumstances and notice anyone else's problems is amazing. Then to find the generosity to open his home to two virtual strangers leaves me speechless. Of all the friends and acquaintances who know what is happening in our lives, he has been the only one to offer us shelter.

If I had tried to predict who would have offered help, he would never have entered my mind.

There is a shift in the wind that blows inside of me telling me how little I know.

Angels: 14--Jackals: 5...

Wow.

Copyright 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved

Countdown to Homelessness...2 days to go...

2009-06-30T02:53:00.002-05:00

Score: Angels: 10—Jackals: 4

Phone died today...died....dead...never to be booted up again... and the whole day was spent getting a new one... that's what being poor is like...things that normally would take an hour, end up eating up your whole day or two ...and of course, (LOL) at exactly the worst moment!

It's two in the morning on the day I'm going to post this... I've hit my head twice on the keyboard falling asleep—so please don't expect anything coherent. Looking at places, scared to ask at some if they can handle subsidized renter... Section 8 is more like Section 8888 with its 5 year waiting list, but I'm discovering that some places are working around it. Found an artist's loft today that may fit our situation... Can't see it until Thursday...

My son nearly broke my heart yesterday when I asked him if he could handle going back to the 'hood. He looked up at me and hesitated, and then said,

If I have to, I will. But, Mom—Dude! I've really gotten used to being about to just walk around...

The end of that sentence is ...without having to defend myself from some jerk who's looking to jump a white boy for points. I raised him in Frogtown, which meant that he and his friends weren't allowed to go outside of the yard and sometimes—even out the house, if it was a particularly active night in the 'hood.

It is such a simple request: Mom, can we live some place where I'm not a target? Where I don't have to watch my back 24-7? Where I'm not worried about bullets coming through the dining room window? (Yep... that happened—the shooter was aiming at a car driving down the street. Our house happened to get in his way... at 3:00 in the afternoon as all the school buses were dropping kids off...If I hadn't taken a break from working at the dining room table, I very probably would have been hit—the trajectory of the bullet was right through where I usually sat...)

Well, I told him, we'll end up where we end up and we'll make it into another paradise...watch. He grinned.

The number one thing to do in the morning is go to my landlord and beg for another week. Cross our fingers that we can reset the countdown stopwatch... more papers, more phone calls... so much time lost today.

Note to self: Do not let the bastards see you sweat...

But, I get the uncanny feeling that I'm not at all behind. That we're going to be in the right place at the right time...There are so many new people entering my life and a few old friend re-entering from the past...people who are very changed....some by much bigger hardships than mine.

At the moment, the score is: Angels: 10—Jackals: 4—

I can't figure out why I feel so grateful...

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 3

2009-06-28T11:39:00.002-05:00

BREATHE, dummy!

Still in the limbo period of nothing to report. Can't spend too much time on the computer since the real world is having temper tantrums outside and I've got to go give it a spanking.

But I will take a moment...breathe...exhale...

Exhale....that's one of the things I forget to do. I learned in the pain clinic that the universal reaction to any kind of pain is to hold your breath. It's also the worst thing you can do... (Duh...any woman who's ever been through labor knows that... but it's the first thing I forget!)

So! Note to self:

Shift down to sloooo ...remember... Mañana ... EEKS! Mañana?!! OMG! Tomorrow is...!! OK, forget Mañana...picture a tropic island and you're floating on the gentle waves... Now, you're talking... BREATHE, dummy! Oh yea...

Just thought I'd give you a glimpse at my inner dialogue.

I have received some emails from the friends and family list, trickling in and I'm beginning to understand why I haven't heard from people... Everyone one is hurting. People who I've always assumed are stable and immune to these kinds of things...are struggling. Or if not themselves, they are trying to keep their own family afloat...

But it means so much to hear that. I know they don't want to burden me now with their problems, but silence is the one thing that hurts the most—it leaves too much room for my devils...

Last summer, when I was losing my house (—it's a long drawn out process) I really wanted to talk to my little brother. I called and called and he never returned my calls. I felt so abandoned. Then—this winter, he finally sent me an email...and in a few words told me he'd lost everything (including, he said, my family's respect...)
and I suddenly realized why he hadn't returned my calls. Like me, he assumed that I was doing all right and he was ashamed to say that he wasn't. We were both so relieved to know that we weren't the only ones. (Does it sound weird? That we felt relief in the knowledge that the other was also suffering? If it does, than you are a robot!) Shame can be so isolating...

Got to go. The day is screeching for me and I better go tell it to BREATHE, dummy!

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 4

2009-06-27T03:48:00.002-05:00

I got people...

I don't know what it says about me when I don't realize that it's not Saturday until 2 in the afternoon on Friday—that I was getting ahead of myself? It's one of the things that happen to me with my ADHD—my kids will vouch for it: my internal clock ticks to the sound of a different time warp.

For those who want to know, progress is happening, but it's the twilight time of waiting that falls in-between intent and action. I just don't know which way to go until I have more information and that is on its way.

The good news is that I'm not engaged in my terror right now. This may change upon awakening tomorrow but for now, I'm living one moment-at-a-time and trying not to think any further so I don't scare the b'jesus out of myself. The downside of this approach is that it makes me thoroughly bad at planning what to do next. To imagine all possible scenarios and prepare for them means leaving the 'living one-day-at-a-time' post and scouting the landscape of worst-case possibilities—the very ones that paralyzed me. It's my own personal catch-22.

I will say that my email box has been remarkably clean of email after sending out my SOS to my personal list of friends and family. I don't want to jump to any conclusions about what that means. However, it hasn't been entirely silent, and a miracle happened when an old and beloved friend responded.

We've known each other too many years to admit in public—and we laughed about that. We've both been so wrapped up in our own lives to be able to really pay much attention to others for quite a while. I spent an hour and a half on the phone with her today and we talked about everything, interrupting each other with a fast switch to another topic. Mostly stuff that we'd tucked away to someday mention to the other. There were tears and admissions, recollections and the filling of long gaps, our shifts in philosophy and lots and lots of laughs.

At the end of the conversation, I didn't want to let go because I realized how much I'd missed her over the years. It's not anything we could have avoided—everyone has their own world that sweeps them away and tends to make us myopic if it doesn't directly affect us.

But in our case, we've had so much to give each other. It was a revelation to me how much I'd longed for her wacky point of view, her examples of cowboying up in really bad times, her love for me and her delight in the love I've always felt for her.

There are private wars being fought in silence, in lonely bedrooms at 3 a.m. when sleep has deserted its post and not even the shopping channel can bore us back to sleep. These battles are invisible: the hand-to-hand combat with the relentlessness of chronic pain; the assaults of aging on the body that leave you continually surprised every time you pass a mirror; the losses that come naturally with growing older—the people we've lost, the eras, the passions—each took a piece out of us. Perhaps that accounts for the very human tendency to pull in a little bit at a time until we're isolated and nearly invisible.

But I don't know if we ever grow old enough to not need an old, dear, trusted friend. Today, my friend gave me the gift of believing in me. That meant something because she's known me when I'm at the top of my game, in the losers'-circle and every place in-between. Like two conspirators, we began laying the plans for the next phase of our lives and this time, with one another in attendence! After I hung up, I cried at the feeling of being full again—I had not realized how empty I'd let myself become. By opening up and re-embracing me I felt as if she'd just given me a brand-new bullet-proof vest.

So---World?—Bring it on. Do your worst! I'm not afraid of you.

I got people.

The forgotten victims of the subprime crisis--Foreclosure to Homelessness 2009

2009-06-27T03:00:00.001-05:00

"Getting back on your feet’ is next to impossible in today’s society. The public needs to be made aware of who is becoming homeless... and that they could be next - just like any average family,”from the National Coalition for the Homeless

You see...it's REAL.

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 5

2009-06-25T11:35:00.002-05:00

Is that a light at the end of the tunnel?

I don't have the time to post much right now, but I just wanted to say that a few good things are in the works. I have to use the day to take care of all the priorities, but I promise to let you know what's happening.

There's a saying that I put into a little unpublished journal I called The Jitters Journal, Collections of Dipsomaniacal Wisdom, I did years ago for a group of people who helped me survive another hard time in the past.

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 6

2009-06-24T03:43:00.003-05:00

A Day that Starts in Terror, Ends in Triumph

(a partial account of my day yesterday...)

A couple of people wanted to know if I'd gotten help at United Way.

United Way? Nothing new, but I'm not done pushing those buttons yet. I find you get different information from different operators -- maybe some of them have more experience, just like anywhere else. I think that, like me, people think that the United Way is a place you can go to, but it's just a big switchboard with some people who know a lot and some who don't yet.

But the real low-down came from the Family Place, whom a friend and reporter emailed me this morning.... As it happens, I accidently emailed the program developer, (but you know there are no accidents!) and she emailed me back right away. "Call me." She'd read my blog by the time I called.

We spoke for about 40 minutes. First of all, she immediately calmed me with her warmth. She was patient and kind but also really honest. She walked me though the whole process of how things work. She told me to that the new breed of clients they were seeing were 'the you's and the me's" and that, yes, it would be hard on my son.

Then she told me that one of their counselors had been homeless for years with 8 children. After that, I actually WANTED to go there, if nothing else but to meet these amazing women.... And I know that if the program director and I got together, we could really make some waves for change.

Then I called the bank, and they said, well of course you can have your checking account back!... My new banker said, Everybody's had money problems in their lives, and if they say they never have, they're lying... This was another one of those angel kisses, like having my traffic ticket dismissed last week, since they had ever reason to say no. But when I asked about repaying the money I owed them, she said, 'What money? No, you are in good standing with us..." We accept the gift and don't question the giver... and so I've got a PayPal button tonight on the web.

My car, which needs a new alternator, will get fixed tomorrow thanks to the donations of two women and one man...and my willingness to overcome my shame and ask.

Emailing the blog to my friends and family email list (which I had not done up to this point) provoked two of the most vicious letters I've ever gotten--one from a good friend and another from a tried and true enemy. And here is the amazing part--they didn't weaken me-- they strengthened my resolve.

Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.

— Albert Einstein

So, a day that started out in abject terror, ended in triumph. I could not have done it without your encouragement.

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 7

2009-06-23T08:24:00.001-05:00

The thought of moving into a shelter makes me suicidal.

I've received several emails from concerned people, with suggestions of things to do, and I realize that it may appear that I've just sat in my apartment chewing my nails...

So, if anyone is reading this, I just want to say that I haven't been idle—

I've tried and am still trying the obvious methods – calling 2-1-1, Salvation Army, etc. (Please doesn't even mention the Urban League...see earlier posting...)

I can hardly breathe—I am so scared right now. I have to post early because there is too much to do. A nice letter mentioned that I may be grieving and it might be making me dysfunctional... it's totally accurate. But, don't even crack open that door right now...I just don't have the time to fall apart, so I have to settle for limping around in the shape I'm in. And what is that shape??

At every minute in the day, I have tears trying to get out of my eyes. I have shame that I have to reach out in public and bear my soul. I have terror that keeps me from sleeping and makes every part of my body hurt. I cannot remember what it was like to laugh without either tears or black humor. I'm sick with worry about my son, who more and more is taking to trying to take care of me. Yesterday, he told his father in therapy, he wanted to live full time with me... Oh God!

There are tiny rays of hope coming from some responses in Twitter, angels who are cheering me on, a few who've sent small donations, but I can't help fearing that there is no hope. It's taking every bit of courage I have not to collapse and go silent. To be needy is the most gawd-awful position I've ever been in. How people do it with dignity, I don't know!

Sorry to indulge myself here, but that is all I have today. Got to go now. Too much to do and it's going to be soooo hot and humid today. If there is anybody out there, please, pray for me because right now, I really can't pray for myself...

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 8

2009-06-22T17:27:00.004-05:00

Don't be surprised...

My car broke down the other day. Figures, I thought, I've neglected it for years and it's been a loyal old mule in spite of that. But, why, of all times, now?

I got to thinking about the way things seem to fall apart all at once. My own personal domino effect as if my life was hitting a point of critical mass—the disintegration takes on a life of its own. I can find a million ways to blame myself—but that's just another way to waste energy. I'm talking about the basic laws of this world—the ones you just can't argue with like gravity—(well, you can argue but you'll lose...)

The particular law I was thinking of is the law of entropy which is that everything is in a constant state of decline into chaos. But, there's a caveat here—another law that says that order is created out of chaos. So basically, everything is always falling apart—you can depend on that with absolute certainty—however—it's also creating order out of the chaos. In fact, order can only be created out of chaos. Are ya following me here? Every gardener knows this—seeds sprout, they grow, they wither, they die, they rot and new seeds are born again.

So, what I was watching happen in my life as it fell apart was the basic law of entropy. But that's all theoretical boloney –I still needed something I could get my arms around so I created a list—

Ten Things That Should Not Surprise You When You're Losing Everything...

Don't be surprised when the people you believed you could trust—disappear...
Don't be surprised when things break—exactly when you need them the most...
Don't be surprised when your back goes out— just when you have 5 days of packing ahead of you...
Don't be surprised when your car insurance cancels— the day before you have an accident...
Don't be surprised when, three months after you've applied for Social Security— their office says it has no record of your application...
Don't be surprised when you run out of your ADD meds—the day after your shrink has gone to—Fiji—for a month...
Don't be surprised when, for once in your life, you reach out and actually tell someone you are suicidal—and they call you a selfish bitch...
Don't be surprised when that person is— your sister...
Don't be surprised when your fiancé breaks up with you—in a text message: "Drop me a line when you don't have so many problems"...
Don't be surprised when you tell your friend, (who's worth a gazillion dollars) that you're losing your house and she says—"Wow ...bummer..." and changes the subject...

Maybe you wonder why I had to look at it this way—maybe it's obvious—I needed to survive this decline. By looking at it in this context, I found that old proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. And the result of this serious 'scientific' study of mine?

—this too shall pass...

Ha ha ha ha–ROFLMAO—I'm such a dweeb...!

PS—I wanted to share part of a comment that was posted on my blog because I think she described the process of trying to find help better than I did.

"I feel like I have found a fellow traveler reading your posts....I live in Michigan. Like you said, there is no one resource for help. The orgs who make that claim give you a phone number or referral that leaves you navigating a maze that ends in someone's voicemail box. If you are lucky, they call you back. Then you are either told why you do not qualify for help, or someone gives you another phone number. Ad infinitum.... BTW, at least in my state, there is more emergency help available when you are actually homeless than when you tell the state you are going to be homeless. Why they let it get to that point is something I do not understand."

Her comment helped me. It ordered part of my chaos. I didn't feel like such a freak, and that renewed my depleted energy. Thank you. Keep the comments coming. They're as valuable as cash—(well, almost!)

Countdown...is Silent Today...

2009-06-21T10:36:00.003-05:00

...out of deference and respect for those who died yesterday in Iran, fighting for their freedom—

--for Neda—not for the symbol you've become but for the flesh and blood you were,

-- for her father, howling in his helplessness as he watched her die,

-- for her mother, family and friends who are still in shock,

-- for the unborn baby who was shot in the back while he was curled in his mother's womb,

-- for his mother, who must have died too,

-- for her husband, the baby's father, who is left now with empty arms,

--and for all of the others I cannot name, who died yesterday,

--and for their families and friends—

I cry tears that you may not be able to cry yet. I feel the aching sleeplessness of your grief. I feel the savage rage that must fill you at the sacrilege of what you held most holy.

I have known such agonies. But, I was always safe in my own country. Free to be who I am no matter how diminished I felt in the wake of death. I know what it is to lose someone I loved with all my heart, but I will not pretend I can imagine life without freedom.

After following you yesterday, my own problems seem so small.

We, in the rest of the world, are watching. You have cried out and we cry out with you. You are risking your lives to let the world know and the world has responded. You may not be able to hear us, but we hear you. We stand behind you—brother behind brother.

Never before in history has there been such an immediate, world-wide rise of support to injustice. Why do you think that is?

Because, even in a country like the USA which is supposedly the symbol of liberty, we are sick to death of deceit and lies that assume we are sheep.

I, for one, feel that you are not only fighting for your freedom—you are fighting for ours too.

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 10...

2009-06-20T03:40:00.003-05:00

I'm in Denial...

I'm really scared today. I get paralyzed when I'm this frightened. I sit on the bed trying to think of what I'm supposed to do next. I can't seem to remember how to prioritize my to-do list. I'm in denial and I really, really want to stay there...

As I was driving around neighborhoods, looking for For Rent signs, my car started to sputter. And cough. And chug. And then, it gasped and died. I coasted up to the side of the road, and sat for about 20 minutes, wondering what I should do. (Duh...) It's always been a work horse, never complaining even though I neglected it, always starting up, always going. So, I didn't cuss at it—I appreciate how little it complained at my blatant neglect—but something deep down told me that this was probably the end of me being able to abuse it with impunity.

It seems that there are lots of things that I'm going to have to get used to. But, at least, I didn't cry over it.

Countdown to Homelessness Day 11

2009-06-19T03:36:00.007-05:00

The IQ of a House Plant

I’ve just spent 8 hours on the internet looking for places to live, looking for help with rent, looking, looking, looking—and I’m burnt out for the night.

There is plenty of material on rental help, grants, programs—if you're a non-profit program. They write words and words and even more words to each other. They market to each another; theorize together, organize and throw fund-raisers together. It’s a very full dialogue.

That's all very nice but... we're getting ready to sleep in our car. I just need to focus on getting help for me and my son...I can't figure out who does what and if they can help. There isn't a central place that coordinates what's really available...or maybe there is...maybe they're hiding it from me... When I talk to one person, I hear one thing. Then I talk to another and he tells me something else... I find lots of things, get excited and then read, We do not make grants directly to individuals...but they sure give each other a lot of money...

Last year, I searched and found one website that looked very informative. They would send me all the material for free! –plus $1.48 shipping. Well, that seemed reasonable, so I typed in my Visa Card number, authorized the $1.48 and clicked please send. I never received a single piece of paper from them. But the next month, I noticed that my bank balance was low. Scanning through my account activity was Greek to me because the bank puts it all in these top secret codes and numbers, which tend to cause my eyes to cross.

I sighed and told myself to be more careful next time, never connecting my bank balance with the grant company.

That month, they took out $30 and some cents. The next month, I was short again, but by then, I’d forgotten about grants. I was fighting to keep my house, talking to foreclosure experts or filing complaints with the attorney general, who’d won the class action against my beloved predatory lender. I was trying to puzzle out the ramifications of her notice that declared we had won. I was entitled to a whopping $400 for losing my house... Did they forget a couple of zeros??...I did the math...(it wasn't hard...) and yep, they were a tad short... So, I returned the form and advised them where they could invest my portion of the settlement...

Point is—I was distracted. For someone like me with pretty severe ADHD, that is my normal state. So, another month went by and another $30 was nicked.

The next month, my attorney instructed me to file bankruptcy. Now. If you’ve ever filed bankruptcy, you know what I'm going to say. It's really hard. Not because you have to hunt down all the names, addresses, amounts, verify them, sort them out from collection agencies... yada...yada...yada...

It's because it's a slow crawl on your belly down memory lane—past all the broken shards of failed relationships—over the sharp edges of old injustices—through the muck of self-recriminations—and down into potholes of suicidal depression.

When the bank statement came that month, it was the last thing I wanted to look at.

And so it went, they nipped away at my heels to the tune of $180 before my banker pointed this out to me. I was in his cubical that day, profusely apologizing for bouncing a check—hoping that my remorse would guilt him into removing all those $31 overdraft charges on $10 ATM withdraws. He was nice enough to cross off a couple of the charges, but it hardly made a dent in the total I’d racked up.

$180 may not sound like a lot of money to some people. At one time, it had not been much money to me either. But I was living by the chin of my chinny-chin-chin and couldn’t afford to shave so closely. I’d had that same checking account for the past 30 years, through three corporate takeovers and several hundred thousand dollars of deposits and withdraws. But that had been a long time and several personnel changes ago. I’d sometimes fantasize that they had a graph of my net worth for the last 10 years in my file—with a big red circle with a line through it—BAAAAAD customer....BAD, BAD, BAAAAD... I suppose that says more about my shame than anything.

The 800 number had been listed next to the withdraw all along, he pointed out, and suggested I call it.

Well, I did call, and got an out-sourced Indian accent who told me that, had I scrolled to the bottom of the ‘agreement’ (it was two pages of small print...) it stated that I had agreed to be robbed—because I did NOT cancel this agreement within 30 days...

Argh.....I didn’t know who to be madder at—him or me. In the end, I had given these jackals $180 and the bank jackals $400+! —All because I was a complete idiot. Well, so much for paying the electric bill this month...I thought...

And so, thirty years of a banking relationship was ended when they closed my account...

I’m a grown woman. I can comprehend basic physics; I can understand very large words; I can even play intermediate level in backgammon.

But give me a paper full of numbers or a page of small print and my IQ drops to the level of a house plant...

Next—
I’m in Denial...

Copyright © Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved

Countdown to homelessness...Day 12....

2009-06-18T11:53:00.004-05:00

Angels and Jackals

As children, growing up in the 50’s and early 60’s in the Mission District of San Francisco, my brothers and I were sheltered by a whole community of immigrant parents who were proud, hardworking and generous. The Mission was not yet the Hispanic barrio it grew into later in the 60’s. In those years, it was full of working-class Europeans who’d grown up during WWII and then migrated to the U.S. leaving behind their extended families.

Our neighborhood replaced those far-away families and our neighbors became more aunts and uncles to us than our own biological ones. Doors were propped open and there was always a cup of coffee ready or room for one more at the table. Everyone knew everyone else’s business but there was also an unwritten rule to respect each other’s right to work out their own problems. When my father left us, the neighborhood closed ranks around my mother as she struggled to raise us three kids on her own.

When it was time for my First Communion, little anonymous packages showed up on our doorstep, one by one—a crinoline petticoat, a lace veil, a pair of white gloves, some frilly socks, a new pair of patent leather shoes, a rosary, and even my dress. Things just got arranged. People were paying attention. Angels were plentiful, in those days. If someone could they lend a hand, they did. What we had—we shared. (What fun was it without sharing?) If someone got a bonus, the neighborhood had a party.

It was a safe place to live and people were easy to love.

I found similar community when, years later, I moved with my two kids to Oaxaca, Mexico where we lived for nearly three years. Like my mother, newly alone and in need of support, I found angels in the campesinos in Oaxaca.

Oaxaca is unique in Mexico because the Spaniards never succeeded in conquering the Zapotec and Mixtec people whose ancient cultures are still alive today. Most still live in tiny pueblas which look the same as they did hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago—with the satellite dish being, perhaps, the only new addition to the landscape. In this culture, the worst crime you could commit wasn’t murder; it was to refuse to help a neighbor if you were able to do so.

When we moved home, it was a shock. America had changed. There was no community. People escaped into their houses like burrowing rabbits. I lived next to the same family for ten years and it took nine of those years to convince them to speak to me. The family across the street never did... But, there was an elderly Ukrainian couple on the other side of me who became dear friends. They are Alla and Paulo. Alla, with her effervescence and open heart and Paulo, with his dead-pan humor became my angels. Quietly, never intruding, but always observant, they were quick to offer help. They also were gracious enough to accept whatever repayment I could give them.

They’d both been the ‘guests’ of Hitler, forced into hard labor as children on German farms while the men where away fighting the war. When the Third Reich fell, those same Germans hid them from the Soviet Army which would have killed them had they been captured. They’d immigrated here, raised a family, made some money, lost that money and stayed married for nearly 60 years. During my summer without electricity, Alla would appear with an ice-filled glass of tea and sandwiches when I was working in the garden. When the sun went down, Paulo would wave me over to their house and pat the place next to him on the couch to watch the 10 o’clock news and discus world politics.

My other angel was and still is my best friend, George, who always showed up with something I needed in tow no matter how broke he was himself. He’d pocket my phone bill or steal my car keys to fill my tank with gas. His wife, Melinda, supplied me with all the fiction I could read from their personal library. Two or three books a week was my average, just trying to hold on to my sanity. They both seemed to understand that without that escape, I would have gone mad.

These angels in my past and current life are the ones who buffered me in my encounters with the jackals. The jackals were the people who stole from me because they could—I was the latest downed-deer. They consisted of the neighbor who helped himself to my few valuable pieces of furniture as they waited the sidewalk to be loaded into the moving van; the meth-head who lived down the street and prowled around my property under the guise of walking her dog, digging up plants from my garden when she knew I wasn’t home; her son, the flasher, who showed himself to the little kids in the ‘hood and made up vicious, petty rumors about us for his own entertainment; the so-called friends who stayed with me when they had no place to go but conveniently disappeared when I needed help moving. These were the jackals and this is all the ink I will give them...

Except to say that, after that summer, I understood why, during disasters like Katrina, looters are shot first and questioned later.

Today, I hit the streets again, looking for a place for my son and me. And I’ll try to remember that our home is wherever we are together.

Next—

...and then, there’s the 11^th Principle...

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 13...

2009-06-16T22:20:00.010-05:00

The Non(e) in Nonprofits...

Last summer, I tried to get some help with our gas bill—(I’ll spare you my rant on the energy company jackals...)

Every agency I called took a major effort on my part emotionally—I had to psyche myself up first—think positive while I prepared myself for a ‘No’. I had to be prepared with answers that they would understand—short, to the point and in their vernacular. I had to overcome my reticence and my pride. Sometimes, I could only call one or two in a day—I’d be so devastated by hearing No.

Most every agency was plumb out of money. It was the end of the fiscal year. (Right, what was I thinking? I should have planned my crisis better!)

Or I didn’t meet their requirement—some of of which were pretty bizarre—

Have your utilities been turned off already?—Then, nope, sorry, you should’ve...

Are you mentally ill?

When was the last time you made a payment?—Two weeks ago? Then no, you have to have not paid for 3 mo...

How many small children are in the house?—None? No, we only...

The last non-profit on the list was the Urban League, who purportedly still had funds. The lady who answered the phone asked if I was currently employed—

No, I’m trying to find a job... She cut me off—

Well, if you don’t have a regular income, you don’t qualify for help.

Did I hear her correctly? Excuse me?

She repeated what she’d just said. (Oh...I did hear her right...) I replied,

If I had a regular income, you see, I wouldn’t need help... —She cut me off again,

Those are the rules, Miss. I don't make 'em and I don't break 'em...

I never did figure out that conundrum but I understood why they still had funds...

So, I lived without electricity for the next three months. I was grateful that it was summer... Actually, it turned out to be kind of wonderful. Life got simpler. No TV racket, no computer to distract me and when it got dark, I had to go to sleep or else read by kerosene.

It was during those three months, I began to discover some of the most unlikely angels in my life...

Next installment—

Angels and Jackals

Countdown to Homelessness...Day 14

2009-06-16T14:43:00.003-05:00

You have to have the instincts of a mercenary to navigate the social services systems. There’s no central place that links up all the information and, as of yet, I haven’t found a person who can tell me what we qualify for and what we don’t. It’s hit and miss detective work. I’m learning how to be pushy and elbow my way through all the language and forms that seem to act more as deterrents to helping people.

Don’t have much time to post much today—too many forms to fill out and lines to stand in. But my son and I accomplished our goal yesterday which was to make our apartment ready to be shown by our landlord to interested lookers. (Well, there is always more to do!) And it’s going to get busier and busier.

On top of all of this, my son’s girlfriend found out last night that her little brother and dad have come down with H1N1... so she’s staying with us... Thank goodness she hasn’t been near them in several days...

My friends on Twitter have been very kind and helpful. We were offered a place to live...unfortunately, it’s in the Netherlands! People have offered to send help—what an amazing world we live in.

Gotta go now. Thank you so much to everyone who has shown us so much kindness!

Notes to Self:
• Remember to eat....
• try not to spend too long following the Iranian situation on Twitter...
• Sleep!
• Remember your Ten Coping Principles...especially # 10 (because you know that you get depressed when you’re tired...)
• Don’t lose your check list!

Next:

The Non(e) in Nonprofits

Countdown to Homelessness...16 days...

2009-06-14T13:52:00.009-05:00

My Ten Survival Principles

In 16 days, my son and I will be homeless... I’ve been without work for 3 years. Lost my house, my garden, my bank account of 30 years, and—almost—my self-respect. Lost a few friends and some family too—(becoming homeless will re-write your address book for you) and discovered the extremes of, both, the lengths some people will go to in order to help and the depths some people will go to in order to take advantage of you—I have labeled them the angels and the jackals.

As a writer, I have recently discovered that the worlds that used to hire writers are changing so fast that no one seems to know what is happening. Publishing is in chaos with the explosion of free information available on the Internet. Book sales are down—some of that is due to the way the Internet is transforming the world, some of it is caused by the recession. I flounder around, looking for jobs to do the only thing I really am good at, (besides gardening and getting in trouble)—writing.

When I lost my house last August, I took a 1 ½ bedroom apartment, for September 1st, hoping against hope that my small income of royalties would cover the rent until I found a job.

Then—the economy hit the skids. Actually, as a single mother, raising two kids at the time, I saw that the economy was floundering nearly two years before it was ‘official’—official meaning that everyone suddenly woke up and knee-jerked their reactions and set off the trickle-down in real time to those who had been already struggling with just the basics.

I filed for a Chapter 13 bankruptcy but the court declared I could not afford it. I was too poor to even claim bankruptcy. Chapter 7 would have captured the only tiny income I had, my royalties, so that was not an option.

I went to public assistance and was given a grant of $320 for food and $192 cash assistance for all other expenses each month. For the past six months, we’ve lived on that. That and the generosity of my best friend who throws me a $20 now and then.

I’m months behind in my rent. My royalties have never come regularly, but now they’re not coming at all. My landlord, a wonderful man, has been very patient with me, but he has his own problems to deal with–problems that, frankly, I wouldn’t trade my own problems for. He came to me with such sadness and regret to say that he had to evict us. I agreed. It was time for us to go.

So, today, I’m cleaning and getting the apartment ready for him to show it to potential renters beginning tomorrow. I don’t know where we’re going to go, my son and I. We have no money to rent, and, at least on paper, we really look like a bad risk. The sadness inside of me sometimes overflows and wets my face. I battle with the shame of it on a moment to moment basis.

But here’s how I’m dealing with it:

First: We only have today.

—Tomorrow is too far away to think about. Do we have everything we need today?
—Yes. We have food, clothing, so-far we still have a roof, and we have each other.

Second: What can we do TODAY that could seed our opportunities tomorrow?

—This means trying to make calls, ask for help, bite the bullet when we hear no and pick up the phone again to make another try. It means to keep looking for work, keep learning the new directions that the world is going and keep training myself for future opportunities to open up.
—It also means that we need to take care of ourselves and each other—we are all we’ve really got.

Third: I try to put things in perspective.

—Things always could be worse. Always. Sometimes I literally sit down and write a list of my blessings just to get me through the day.
—Since I am a news hound, and one of the ways that I am training myself is on Twitter, (which is changing the world in profound ways), I get to see how people are struggling around the world. My problems seem small in comparison.

Fourth: Say ‘Thank You”

—I’m grateful for every little thing in my life. Really. For the small kindnesses like people holding a door open for me at a store and for the unexpected gifts that seem to come right when I need them. Last week, I had to go to traffic court. I’d been a bad girl—and I was there to get my consequences. At the roll call, I said I was ‘here’ and the clerk said, ‘Your case has been dismissed. You are free to go...” I was stunned. There was NO good reason to dismiss my case—I’d been speeding. Period. And I’ll never know why they dismissed me. But, I won’t argue with a gift-horse. Clearly, someone ‘up there’ knew I needed a break and gave it.
—I’m grateful for even the bad things, the jackals, the losses. They have made a better woman out of me. A song that I love goes, I’m grateful for every break in my heart... —and I am. Each enemy, each loss, offers up a choice for me to get down to their level or to rise above it. I’m certainly not perfect. I can give the one-fingered salute just as easily as anyone else can. And I do. Oh, yes, I do... I get down there in the mud and roll around in it—for a while—feel sorry for myself—for a while—mutter and complain—for a while—and I know that this is the part of me that I could easily succumb to. But then, I get bored. It doesn’t renew my energy. It doesn’t make me feel very good about myself. And, these days, I need all the energy and self-esteem I can muster. At 15—I read Man’s Search for Meaning, by Victor Frankl, and took from him a mantra that became my life-long life-line—If it doesn’t kill me, it will make me stronger...

Fifth: Remember that the only thing in this life that is ultimately important is love.

—I don’t have to love everyone. I don’t even have to like the people that I love. But I DO need to tell them. Regularly. Show them. Love is action. Love is willing sacrifice. Love was the only thing that mattered to me when my husband died before I had one last chance to tell him I loved him. On 9/11, the only thing that the people who were about to die wanted to do was to say, I love you to the people that they loved. Loving others sustains me far more than I sustain it. It gives me direction, purpose, something to complain about! and that touch that I need to feel connected. When I look at my one year-old grandson, his whole being exudes love in a way that I believe is within us all. I need to love others much more than I need to be loved—although, I'm no stoic! It’s the one thing in this life that makes me certain that there is a God.

Six: Laugh. A lot. It makes forgiveness possible.

—I have a very bad habit of looking for the twisted in everything.
—I try to see the humor in the ugliest situation or person. It makes good use of my anger—I tend to be funniest when I’m really, really angry.
—I make a baby laugh. Nothing gets the love endorphins going like making a baby giggle—not even chocolate.
—I laugh at fools
—I snicker at the contradictions in life
—I laugh at my enemies—it pisses them off in such a rewarding way!
—Most importantly, I try to laugh at myself. I’m the biggest fool of all. I’m the biggest baby. I’m the biggest ball of contradictions I know. I’m my own worst enemy at times.

Seven: No matter how bleak it seems, somewhere in the mess, there’s an opportunity.

—I use what I’ve got. Start from there. I try not to put on airs. My grandmother told me when I was a little girl that it didn’t matter what I was wearing — “You just wear it like it’s supposed to be that way.” She lived through the hardest times in this country’s history and designed dresses for Loretta Young. During WWI, Coco Channel wasn’t able to get the fabrics that her customers normally wanted so she took the fabrics that were plentiful and made them fashionable—and comfortable. She shorted dress lengths so while the men were away fighting wars, women could do the work that was needed with more freedom. She also wore the first pants—and made them very sexy.
—Without all this pain and struggle, what would I have to write about? How would I know what I am capable of? What would I have to measure myself against? And, where would my best ideas come from? Push me to the wall and I do my best thinking

.
Eight: Stay generous.

—I try to give. The worse it is, the more.
—I don’t buy into the thinking that there’s 'only so much to go around...'—there’s plenty for everyone. When I lived in Mexico, I noticed that the poorest people were the most generous. It humbled me.
—I pay it back—and pay it forward. The day that the angels smiled on me in traffic court, I saw a young mother struggling with a pesky three-year-old having those gawd-awful three-year-old tantrums. It was a hot afternoon. She was resting up before the long walk to the bus stop. I remembered how it was as a young mother—the constant state of exhaustion mixed with the increase in demand. I had my car, so I offered her a lift. It stopped the three-year-old’s tantrum (distraction always does), gave her some rest from the heat, got them to their appointment early, and cost me about 50¢ in gas. I told her of my good fortune in court and she brightened up too. The rest of the day I had energy to spare.

Nine: Acceptance: Boy, this one is the hardest one for me.

—I don’t mean, give up. I don’t mean, surrender—at least not to the enemy! I mean that I have to accept where I am at any given point. If I don’t I’m lost. After all, how would you know which map to use if you didn’t admit where you were starting from? YOU ARE HERE.
—There’s only one thing for certain—everything changes. No matter how permanent it seems on any given day, I'm no seer. I just don't know what will happen.

Ten: Don’t give up before the miracle happens.

—I remember how many times I’ve wanted to give up and didn’t. Then I remember how it paid off.
—This isn’t magical thinking. I’ve put in enough time on this earth to have seen things that defy explanation. Or logic. I’ve even been the recipient of some of those miracles. They happen. You don’t hear that much about them because, well, quite frankly, most of us are rendered speechless by them. But, they happen.

So, these are the ten tools I use to survive. Nobody gave them to me in a self-help book, (although I'm sure there's one that would!) I developed them over a lifetime. It’s nice to write them down because I can see them better. Nice to consider that maybe I have learned a thing or two as I’ve stumbled along.

With these things in mind, I figure this: If we end up homeless on June 30th, I’ll accept the idea that this experience is going to lead me where I need to go. All my life, I've written. That's what I do. I write for people. I write to their hearts. I write so I don't feel so alone. So, maybe I'm supposed to write this.

If it happens, I will need to think of being homeless as being 'on assignment'. Maybe I’ve been directed here so I can write something that will help others. There aint no way you can do it from the outside, that's for sure. George Orwell intentionally put himself in the slums and ghettos so he could write, Down & Out in Paris & London—and it is a fascinating work, but it’s not real. He always had a safety net. He was always an observer. He made a great piece of literature, but it didn’t change the world.

Tom Stoppard once said,

Words are sacred. If you get the right one in the right place, you can nudge the world a little.

So, I’m going to try to chronicle the time ahead. I would love to hear from people. I would love to hear other stories that are like mine. I’d love some help. Either way, this will go into ‘the book’!—(a writer’s metaphor to offset the feeling that THERE'S NOBODY OUT THERE!!)

This morning, my son wanted to go out to breakfast with some friends at a local bagel place. He’d earned $20 yesterday, helping out a neighbor and had given me $5 of it to pay me back for some things. We argued—we never argue, by the way, and then I realized how hard this was on him. I took out the $5 and held it out to him but he refused it. Then we argued about that until we both looked at each other and busted out laughing. He took the $5 and had a great time. In view of the whole scope of life, that is one of those small gifts I will remember on my deathbed.

Copyright © 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved

Little evils...

2009-06-12T04:07:00.013-05:00

Years ago, I wrote an essay called “The Ways We Lie” for Utne Reader . It was the cover story for an issue called, “The Whole Truth About Lying, Trust Us” which had originally been my title for the piece. Sixteen years later, that essay is still fresh and stimulating to me--the writer.

I listed 10 different ways that we lie—as individuals, as communities, as institutions, as governments, as civilizations. I wanted to actually put a name on certain kinds of behavior that we accept all the time because, in the human gestalt, something doesn't exist until it has a name.

The ten kinds of lies we tell are:

The White Lie
Facades
Ignoring the Plain Facts
Deflecting
Omission
Stereotypes & Clichés
Group Think
Out-& Out Lies
Dismissal
Delusion

I wanted to paint examples that would put these behaviors into a context that would help the reader identify with the lies and I started with a sort of true confession. But this wasn’t just for personal self-reflection—I went on to examples of the same lie being told by an institution, a government or a whole culture.

In this telescoping back and forth between personal and public, between a micro-view and a macro-view, I hoped to give readers the same experience I’d had when I’d realized that the only difference between my lies as an individual and the lies of, say, a corporation, was the scale.

It began as an exciting idea, one that I’d been working on for years but along the way, it grew into a tar-baby experience. Confusion often over-took me. Then I realized that confusion was a tactic to hide the truth. I kept bumping into something that I couldn’t name. Something that was very big. It was literally a tactile feeling, as if I were wandering around in a dark room, stepping in the same pool of goo from different directions. The goo stuck, the sensation made me shudder, and I felt unable to wipe it off.

I had to meet the deadline so the only thing to do was to stash away this mysterious tar-baby and keep things simple. Later I would tease out this boogeyman.

The essay turned out to be a great success, and I’m still surprised and humbled by how many people have read it, particularly in their college English course and how it changed their paradigm of the world.

It took me years to figure out who the boogeyman was which seemed to stick to every lie that I’d defined. When I finally put a name on it, it seemed so obvious and simple that I was ashamed I hadn’t seen it sooner.

The boogeyman was evil. I don’t mean EVIL in all capital letters. I don’t even mean Evil with a capital E. I mean, evil. All the little evils that we become immune to from constant exposure. The little evils that, like a virus, mutate and adapt. The little evils that hide behind our excuses or our secret self-loathing, that prey on our fears that we might be found out. That we’re really not loveable, or successful or competent. Like viruses, they cycle back on themselves, recombine and reinvent themselves to become even more invisible.

Here are a few excerpts from the essay:

The White Lie

A man who won't lie to a woman has very little consideration for her feelings. — Bergen Evans

The white lie assumes that the truth will cause more damage than a simple, harmless untruth. Telling a friend he looks great when he looks like hell can be based on a decision that the friend needs a compliment more than a frank opinion. But, in effect, it is the liar deciding what is best for the lied to. Ultimately, it is a vote of no confidence. It is an act of subtle arrogance for anyone to decide what is best for someone else.

Yet not all circumstances are quite so cut-and-dried. Take, for instance, the sergeant in Vietnam who knew one of his men was killed in action but listed him as missing so that the man's family would receive indefinite compensation instead of the lump-sum pittance the military gives widows and children. His intent was honorable. Yet for twenty years this family kept their hopes alive, unable to move on to a new life.

Dismissal

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! I am the Great Oz! —The Wizard of Oz

Dismissal is perhaps the slipperiest of all lies. Dismissing feelings, perceptions, or even the raw facts of a situation ranks as a kind of lie that can do as much damage to a person as any other kind of lie. The roots of many mental disorders can be traced back to the dismissal of reality. Imagine that a person is told from the time she is a tot that her perceptions are inaccurate. "Mommy, I'm scared." "No you're not, darling." "I don't like that man next door, he makes me feel icky." "Johnny, that's a terrible thing to say, of course you like him. You go over there right now and be nice to him."

I've often mused over the idea that madness is actually a sane reaction to an insane world. Psychologist R. D. Laing supports this hypothesis in Sanity, Madness and the Family, an account of his investigation into the families of schizophrenics. The common thread that ran through all of the families he studied was a deliberate, staunch dismissal of the patient's perceptions from a very early age. Each of the patients started out with an accurate grasp of reality, which, through meticulous and methodical dismissal, was demolished until the only reality the patient could trust was catatonia.

Dismissal runs the gamut. Mild dismissal can be quite handy for forgiving the foibles of others in our day-to-day lives. Toddlers who have just learned to manipulate their parents' attention sometimes are dismissed out of necessity. Absolute attention from the parents would require so much energy that no one would get to eat dinner. But we must be careful and attentive about how far we take our "necessary" dismissals. Dismissal is a dangerous tool, because it's nothing less than a lie.

Groupthink

Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark, or the man afraid of the light? — Maurice Freehill

Irving Janis, in Victims of Group Think, defines this sort of lie as a psychological phenomenon within decision-making groups in which loyalty to the group has become more important than any other value, with the result that dissent and the appraisal of alternatives are suppressed. If you've ever worked on a committee or in a corporation, you've encountered groupthink. It requires a combination of other forms of lying—ignoring facts, selective memory, omission and denial, to name a few.

The textbook example of groupthink came on December 7, 1941. From as early as the fall of 1941, the warnings came in, one after another, that Japan was preparing for a massive military operation. The navy command in Hawaii assumed Pearl Harbor was invulnerable—the Japanese weren't stupid enough to attack the United States' most important base. On the other hand, racist stereotypes said the Japanese weren't smart enough to invent a torpedo effective in less than 60 feet of water (the fleet was docked in 30 feet); after all, US technology hadn't been able to do it.

On Friday, December 5, normal weekend leave was granted to all the commanders at Pearl Harbor, even though the Japanese consulate in Hawaii was busy burning papers. Within the tight, good-ole-boy cohesiveness of the US command in Hawaii, the myth of invulnerability stayed well entrenched. No one in the group considered the alternatives. The rest is history....