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A problem with organizing in America

Today a young Spanish speaking woman showed up at the door asking for me. She turned out to be the sister of a client. She had come to ask me if our psychiatrist and I can write a letter to help get her brother, a gay man, out of ICE detention. He’s being held up in Goshen, NY two hours north of the City, and I hate to imagine what he is going through up there. I tell her I’m not sure it will help, that the system lacks compassion, but that we will try. First, though, I am going to speak to his lawyer to make sure we don’t accidentally say anything that could make the situation worse. I could see her anxiety when she walked in, but as we talked she relaxed, and when we finished with her brother’s situation, she decided to ask if I can help her too. She lost her work permit and needs to replace it. We went over the form, and she asked me about the fee – this administration has jacked up the prices for everything immigration related, so the filing fee for this is a whopping $4...
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Policy Fallout

On the way to Manhattan this morning we were really crawling and a young Chinese man near me was listening to American country/pop songs in Chinese, or rather, we all were, involuntarily. I recognized some of the songs, which melodically were almost the same as their American versions. I went to high school with a lot of Chinese students, and I know spoken Chinese is a tonal language, with the four tones – five if you count lack of tone – adding to the meaning of the words. As I listened to this guy’s music, I was struck by the lack of tonality as the melody took precedence and I wondered if that detracted from the meaning of the lyrics. Last night Sunday dinner was packed and loud, but E, a quiet girl who mostly speaks Spanish, approached me at the desk and handed me a letter from NYC. The letter was informing her that the Emergency Housing Voucher program, that pays for an apartment for her and her two year old, is out of money and that although they are trying to find another p...
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No Kings 3

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I woke up tired, which is not great on a day when you have to marshal a big march. I started gathering necessary items – water, snacks, ID (just in case). Connor was watching from his spot near my pillow and - realizing that I was packing to head out instead of spending my day off at home with cats- began to glare as hard as he could. It was a chilly morning with a cold wind blowing but I don’t like to marshal in my bulky winter coat - the back often involves a lot of big arm gestures, guiding people into the march and things like delivery bikes away from the march - so I layered one sweatshirt over another. Heading to the marshal meet up, in a public space on 57th st, I found myself thinking about Dad. That whole neighborhood makes me think of him. I know he would march if he could – I remember him coming to pro-choice marches when I was too young to go alone, strolling along with a cigar in his hand. My mother told me about how they went to the March on Washington in DC. M...
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Frustrations

Between several hours talking a client through a crisis and then a friend, I had only slept for four hours yesterday when my cats began creating a ruckus. They know the alarm goes off at 8am, and it was only 7am, so I struggled my way awake to find out what was going on. Before I opened my eyes, I ran my hand over Connor, who sleeps right next to me. I felt something sticky on his tail and figured he’d gotten it in the food dish. Putting on my glasses I saw that what was on his tail were some clumps of blood. Then I noticed blood spotting the sheets, on the water dish, on both of Connor’s front paws. His nose was bleeding. He’s had an ongoing issue with a scabby nose that comes and goes. The vet has never been able to say anything more about it than it’s probably a virus from his kittenhood reactivating. But it’s only bled once before, a few months ago, and nothing like this. I wonder if the steroids for his cancer are making his skin more fragile. We’re past due for his f...
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Gardening

The best part of having been doing this work for as long as I have is that the work is very much like planting seeds. It takes a long time for things to take root in peoples lives, to grow and then to bloom. Last night we were short a worker, and the others were so busy with clients they couldn’t get dinner completely cleaned up before they had to go lead group. I stayed in the basement wiping tables and clearing away a few left behind plates and cups, thinking about the time I spent as a young waitress. Looking through the kitchen door, I noticed suds leaking from the sink and spreading across the floor, so I texted the Pastor. Everyone had gone upstairs to group except one trans girl who is so paranoid she will only sleep inside on the rare nights it is so cold that we stay open. She was sound asleep with her face on the table next to her half eaten salad. I finished cleaning, but I figured I would let her sleep until we closed, so I sat back down. At the front door a fligh...
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Spring Begins

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I got a text the other day. It was just one word from an unknown number, but it had a familiarity to it that set off the familiar chain of flight or fight responses. Calm down, I told myself, it reminds you of the Asshole but it could be anyone. I refocused, went about my day, but ever since then there has been just a little bit of extra alertness. This morning, after months of silence, a text that’s definitely from the Asshole showed up. I know about trauma - my graduate work was on trauma at a time when new thinking was transforming the concept. Hell, my day-to-day work is all trauma all the time. Yet I’m startled when these few sentences send me plummeting to the bottom of an empty elevator shaft. The last time I saw the Asshole, they were just back from a few months out of the country. They showed up not just at my front door but in my bedroom early in the morning. I was getting dressed to go marshal a march and then they started trying to stop me from going because they tho...
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ACT UP's 39th (edited)

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Today was the protest in Observation of ACT UP's 39th anniversay. I joined in 1990, so it's "only" been 35 years for me, but still hard to imagine that it has been that long. It's a protest about money for AIDS and healthcare, not warfare, a perennial theme, but it also has a theme of remembering Mark Milano. I pushed for a civil disobedience in honor of Mark, who did so much of it in his lifetime, and Ryan ran with that, so there was a plan to block 6th ave with banners at the very end. We started out at the AIDS memorial, an oddly shaped spot where the microphones tend to be set up so that anyone sitting is either behind them on the stone benches or too far away on the park benches closer to 7th Ave. The beginning of these things is always a lot of greeting and mingling, with activists you see all the time and some you see more rarely. Banners are hung, t-shirts get sold, and the speeches begin. I was half-heartedly following along on the planning chat ...
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