The mood swings are incredible, almost debilitating.

The day was Friday, probably a month ago. We call Friday "intern day." Since our volunteers are homeless themselves Fridays are reserved for our homeless staff who, besides working four hours a day four days a week for free, also have basic needs. What this is also supposed to mean is an easier day for the staff and the management--the only people using our facility are those with whom we've built a strong level of trust.

But Friday's have morphed. In an incessant drive to implement as many helpful ideas into every nook and cranny of this facility's possibilities, we now have a Free Medical Clinic every other Friday as well as rehearsals for the Seldom Seen Acting Company every single Friday. So, our doors are not open, but our doors are always open.

The day was Friday and in order to avoid constant distraction for the actors on account of the aforementioned door policy we obtained a different venue. But before we could obtain the venue I had to go through the right people in the Dining Room in order to obtain the keys. I went directly to my friend, the world's friendliest janitor. I was forced, however, to debate with him the merits of performing a play by homeless people about homeless people in a room traditionally dedicated to prayer. You see, the Dining Room has a small chapel that is never used except for every Wednesday morning when some of our homeless staff participate in a meditation session put on by an Irish, former Catholic priest. Needless to say the conversation stretched relations with the janitor--even the best of past human relations cannot challenge the bond many L:atins share with God. While this passion is one of the reasons I fell in love with the Latin culture, it happened to be in the way of Sleeping: It's a Wakeup Call which was my top priority on this morning. Fortunately, the janitor relented pending clearance from the boss.

Unfortunately, "the boss" aka the Dining Room Manager was out picking up food. I went to the second-in-command who immediately approved, being less inclined toward religiosity. This was not quite good enough for my friend the janitor, who made a phone call to "the boss" who did not answer his cellphone. He finally gave in and I delt with the guilt of violating his beliefs, decided I would write him a letter about how I respected his beliefs and how I thought the play was not mutually exclusive from those believes, and went to spread the good news.

The practice commenced but was missing one of its star performers who was also our new "Helpdesk Coordinator." The Helpdesk Coordinator is a former guest, turned intern, turned volunteer, who has proven his desire to help himself. The position is paid and is intentionally designed to be a transitional period--in other words after six months he is asked to leave--a circumstance he is made aware of in advance of his hiring. The Coordintator is charged with the day-to-day operations of the center, including managing the volunteer staff, fielding requests for referrals, receiving and documenting donations, writing clothing vouchers, cleaning up the center, issuing bus passes, rearranging furniture for special activities such as the Homeless Court, Free Medical Clinic, HIV awareness and testing, running AA meetings every Tuesday and NA meetings every Thursday, managing external volunteers, welcoming and touring visitors, enforcing all the rules of the center, and--what happened to be the most important aspect of his duties on this particular day--diffusing explosive situations.

Everybody take a deep breath.

As mentioned, the missing actor was a new Coordinator. You see, the center goes through transition anytime its Helpdesk Coordinator position changes and, analogous to the "13 zones" of the center, one Coordinator's tenure blends into the next--in other words, the ex-Coordinator was still lingering around. This gentleman, as opposed to moving "up and out," was, in fact, in moving down and out. Recidivism was in full swing as evidence of his return to drug use, violence both domestic and non, and theft began emerging. So, between me and the actor's new venue which, you might recall, I just so recently struggled to obtain, were standing the new Coordinator/star performer, the ex-Coordinator oozing resentment, and a mysterious beefy friend of the ex-Coordinator whom I had never before seen. They were staring me down as I moved from the rehearsal to the center, having in mind a sales pitch for the star performer. I could see hurt, fear, anger, and hostility seething from their eyes. To let them understand I knew their purpose but wasn't going to fight, I acknowledged their presence: "We got a big ole crew for the car wash today I see!"

I moved inside to commence my sales pitch. I came to find out while the ex-Coordinator was threatening violence on the Center and its management, the new Coordinator was trying to talk him out of it and into a rehabiliation center based on previously established prison gang bonds.

Super.

The desperate hope for conflict avoidance (of a middle-class white kid who never saw his parents fight, was never beaten as a child, has never been in a physical confrontation, shot a gun only once at a farm and felt naughty, cries at the ending of Homeward Bound every single time, and was labelled "soft" by his best friend) pinned on prison gang bonds. Unable to trust myself I immediately called my supervisor who, having left the premises and unable to answer his cellphone, had unknowingly left the situation up to the private school nerd.

Suddenly, a power lunch of sushi and sashimi with white-toothed public accountants discussing a defense contractor's treasury stock didn't seem so bad afterall.

Like any good conflict avoider I decided to let my salespitch fail. I let the new Coordinator "handle" the situation, the ex-Coordinator left the building without a peep, and the beefy friend disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived. Who am I to question the validity of prison bonds?

It was just after 10:00AM and I was exhausted. Emotionally, I was toast. So naturally I headed over to the rehearsal room where homeless men were struggling through the creation and rehearsal of a piece of drama. It was not, however, sanctity that I experienced in the dramatic chapel, but joy. A Nigerian friend and homeless volunteer performed--no, emobodied--his piece. Having fully memorized his lines during what must have been a dozen sessions in the park or in the soft light of homeless shelters, this large Nigerian man with a thick African accent spoke clearly and slowly, deftly painting a picture described by another man as if it was his own:
"By the age of 11 I smoked my first joint, at the age of 13 I sold my first joint; at the age of 14 I owned my first gun, at the age of 15 I sold my first rock at the age of 16 I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first beer.

"Society slaps a label on me, on my culture, and my lifestyle: subculture.
Fortunately, I do not let my history hinder me, I'm blessed to have the ability to not let the stereotypes hold my back, I am liberated from societal judgment.

"Living in a society where I am looked at as being black before human I must maintain the wisdom, knowledge, and understanding that is within me to manifest the power that has been granted to me from above.

"I have a home without a house, I am house less, not homeless."

This was an excerpt from"Robert's Story," written by a homeless man who returned to LA to visit sick relatives, performed by a homeless man wondering if he'll ever return home to see his family.

Like I said: the mood swings are incredible, almost debilitating.

DESIGNATIONS

This is a piece I wrote for other work purposes, but I figured it would be nice to know some of the terminology constantly thrown around this blog.

People who enter the Champion Guidance Center (“the Center”) of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul of Alameda County (“the Society") may be categorized as follows:
Guest – An individual who desires to receive the emergency drop-in services offered by the Center: shower, laundry, hygiene items, coffee, clothing, referrals and bus passes. Guests can also enter to receive more rigorous assistance such as enrollment in the Homeless Court Program and attendance at AA and NA meetings.

Homeless Court Guest – An individual who desires assistance such as enrollment in the Homeless Court Program.

Recovery Guest/Sponsor – An individual who desires to attend at AA and NA meetings and/or is working as a sponsor with one of the men and attendance at AA and NA meetings.

Member – An individual, who has completed the member application process, understands and agrees to all of the Guidance Center social agreements including rules of conduct and expectations of participation, and desires the opportunity to return regularly for services.

Speaker – A guest of the Center as a speaker at one of the Recovery Meetings; an individual or group providing a service or introducing the men to new resources in the community; someone hosting a Job Readiness or Life skills, or any kind of spiritual workshop leader or individual mentor.

Intern – A former member who has made a commitment to help work at the center. Internships are three months long, are not paid and are facilitated by the Helpdesk Coordinators.

Volunteers – committed participants from one or more of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul Conferences or District Council volunteer programs or Interns who have shown a steady commitment to the center. Interns who “graduate” to volunteers after three months often receive and sign a plaque which is posted on the walls of the center. Individuals remain volunteers indefinitely. Volunteers receive significant attention from the center in the form of job readiness: they are usually employed in the Champion Workforce and try to gain long-term employment both inside and outside of St. Vincent de Paul.

Helpdesk Coordinators – Individuals who are employed by the Champion Guidance Center on a six month stabilized work and mentorship agreement to facilitate the day-to-day emergency services. Helpdesk coordinators, usually two, facilitate a staff of interns and volunteers to provide the services. Helpdesk coordinators provide coordination and vouchers to allow Guests to purchase clothing and other items at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. All vouchers must be approved and signed by JV or Center Manager.

Champion Workforce – Employees of St. Vincent de Paul who are graduates of the intern program. (The help desk coordinators, volunteers, and interns are often a part of the workforce, but may not be). Individuals not included in these categories may also be members of the workforce pending appropriate completion of all proper human resources paperwork.

Jesuit Volunteer – Administrative staff assisting the Manager and Helpdesk coordinator as necessary.

Manager –Program Manager of the Center.

Description of My Surroundings Part 2: The Center

This is perhaps one of the more selfish blogs I have written. For purposes of my own documentation—I want to remember all the gory details of the place I worked—I am undertaking a fairly detailed and structured description of the facility.

I recently paced off the center. The place where I work is roughly 55 paces deep and 25 paces wide, about 12,000 square feet. In this square space we have arguably 13 different “zones.” I say “zones,” like they are official and labeled and documented in our mission statement when, in fact, this is the first time anybody has ever called them that. They are listed as follows:
Sign in Desk
Coffee Bar
Stage
Lounge
Pop a Shot (yes we have a pop-a-shot)
Helpdesk
Hygiene room
Computer Lab
Doctor’s Office
Pharmacy
Bathroom 1
Bathroom 2
Cube Space

Where, pray tell, are the washing machines where 15-20 of our 80-100 daily guests wash their clothes? The answer gives you an idea of the amount of space violation going on at the center: they are in between zones, 4, 5, and 6 as well as between zones 7 and 11.

The zones are listed in the order in which one would view them if I were giving a tour, the last three being spots I would not take guests. They are in this order for no other reason than the facility’s natural footpath. I am trying, as it were, to paint a picture for the reader from the perspective of a guest. Besides the hygiene room, the pharamacy, the doctor’s office, the cube space, and the bathrooms, no space is enclosed and zone lines are rightly blurred. The computer lab, for example, is somewhat of a dubious name as it is nothing more than three wooden desks strung together on the way between the sign-in desk and the cube space.

The front door is in the corner of the building and immediately upon entering I pass the sign-in desk. Here guests sign their names to record a presence for fundraising purposes and sign membership agreements if it is their first time for liability purposes. Behind this waist-high counter, we store all guests’ personal belongings—a natural part of the center’s daily business that initially surprised me. There would be, I now assume, too much opportunity for theft otherwise. I used to wonder, “how can we extend them trust if we’re not extending them trust?” Recall that, on the other hand, we are the “world’s first sports bar for the homeless,” and probably the only one without booze; on our walls we have more than $15,000 in autographed memorabilia from famous professional athletes. In the business we call bag storage “refusing to set people up for failure.”

So we don’t have to put bags to faces, each man is given a playing card ripped in half: one piece appended to the bag, the other given to the guest. Also behind the counter and in this sign-in zone, lies the mailroom. The men constructed wooden cubbies so that our guests can receive mail—imagine filling out a job application without one. The sign-in desk has a metal storage cabinet, and a computer that does not operate, the latter representing our vision for the “electronification” of the sign-in process.

The coffee bar is immediately next to the sign-in desk along the wall facing the street. Here we charge $.25 for a small cup of coffee and under the counter are all the necessities: spare Styrofoam cups, extra sugar and cream, plastic silverware, and a few mugs.

The coffee bar juts up against a raised platform, a stage about four inches off the ground occupying the facility’s second corner. The stage is for speakers and performances, but most of the time it joins the lounge area: with two leather couches and a coffee table it is a popular vantage point for the movies which play next door in the facilities largest zone.

In the lounge area are four square tables placed end-to-end, two additional couches, three or four large reclining chairs, a dozen stackable chairs, and two televisions mounted high on support beams. Here men enjoy a respite from the street while drinking coffee and waiting for their clothes to dry or the shower to open up. The movies—very much in earshot of our cube space—are a daily part of the center experience.

Between the lounge area and the back door, which is cattycorner the front, is the famous pop a shot machine—a fully operational fair toy where players shoot small rubber basketballs under time constraints.. Donated by the Golden State Warriors this popular toy brings the noise level to new heights. The volume of both the movie and the voices move in direct proportion to the number of games played at the Pop a Shot.

After the pop a shot, as I move to face rear of the center, is the desk of the Helpdesk Coordinator. The Coordinator manages the day-to-day operations of the center and is a guest, turned volunteer, turned Champion Workforce employee. This is our key position—representing our “cream of the crop” client and the epitome of our therapeutic model. He has nearly complete autonomy to accept or refuse services to any guest for any reasonable reason. His decisions are the transitional training ground for his reintegration into the workforce.

The Coordinator’s desk is the center of the day’s activities. From this post the Coordinator issues bus passes and clothing vouchers, or official looking slips of paper authorizing the Society’s thrift store to release clothing at the expense of our center’s budget. Here the Coordinator usually stands and enforces the center’s rules, authorizes shift changes, and field’s special requests including tours and donations. He is the first line of defense for grumpy guests.

Behind the Coordinator’s desk are the two bathrooms I won’t describe other than to say that one of them contains the only shower in which 15-20 out of 80 or 100 visitors each day enjoy a shower.

Along the fourth and final side of the facility we have the hygiene room, the computer lab, doctor’s office, pharmacy, and my cube space. The hygiene room stores more than 10,000 items: everything from basic toiletries such as soap and shampoo to all kinds of men’s clothing including belts and extra shoe laces. Here the person in charge of the hygiene room records every item given out on specially designed tracking sheets. At the end of each day he records the inventory loss in excel. At about 25 square feet it is, needless to say, packed. Inside are two ceiling-to-floor bookshelves worth of clothing, a mobile unit for hanging clothes, a computer, a counter under which we store cleaning supplies, a ceiling-to-floor cabinet for hygiene items, and a storage closet of its own.

The doctor’s office, built entirely by the founding members of the center, is a storage closet that transforms every second and fourth Friday into a fully operational exam room with two-patient capacity. On those days the sign-in desk becomes a receptionist area, the computer lab a waiting room, and the lounge area a nurse’s station. Complete with two exam tables, a desk for each doctor, and a small supply of over the counter meds, about a dozen or so men and women receive free, individualized medical care out of our doctor’s office—unheard of in the homeless community. At its best, medical care means a couple of pain pills and a slap on the ass from the Highland Hospital. Next door to it is a pharmacy of donated prescription medicine—filled to the brim.

Invading in the doctor’s office zone is where I work: the cube space no more than 18 square feet. Behind the little green cube wall which separates my boss and I from the rest of the crew are two desks with computers, a copy machine, one inkjet printer, three filing cabinets, a large bookshelf with my boss’ mementos, one small garbage can, a dorm refrigerator, and finally a massive support beam from ceiling to floor around which I must dodge to get to my desk. It is in this area that all administrative tasks are performed. During the day it also acts as the final arbitration station: men from all over wait for the chance to see the short white man behind the green cube wall. They wait because he takes you in no matter what—he gives you money, he finds you shelter—in short—he solves your problems. He is social worker, case manager, counselor, confessor, lawyer, sponsor, mentor, financial supporter, and standup comedian for countless homeless men in the one of the nation’s most poverty-stricken cities.

It is, just on the other side of this man, where I work.

A Description of My Surroundings Part 1: The Walk to Work.

Somebody recently asked me to write a "day in the life" piece. There simply is no "typical day" upon which I can expound to give a generalized view of my daily life. I will, however, attempt to describe my surroundings.

I walked about 15 blocks to work. Often on these walks I see one or more of the men who come into our center to receive services or to volunteer. On this particular morning I had no such company.

My walk can be broken into three phases. The buildings that dot the first phase of my view on the walk to work are as diverse as the people in Oakland: high density apartments and commercial real estate bump up against convenience stores, coffee shops, abandoned buildings, beauty supply shops, and a SEARS. In this phase I pass some classic-looking office bees in their black trench coats and I hear the click of their leather shoes on pavement; but I also pass a group of young black kids on my corner attending charter school as well as the group of crazy senior citizens chiefing at their cigarates (literally--there is a home for mental senior citizens across my street) . While still in Phase 1 I move quickly into "Oaksterdam," so named for the handful of "marijuana dispensaries." Many mornings during this part of my walk I am reminded of the way people back East speak about California: for them and still for me at times it seems like a foriegn land too hip, cutting edge, fast-paced, alternative and misguided for good Southern folk. There's enough damn variety and change to "worry the warts off a horny toad," as the old Southern expression goes.

I move quickly into Phase 2, aka the "gentrification in progress zone." This is a former ghetto (think wide roads littered with liquor stores, slummy hotels, and, well, litter) turned into downtown office complexes. Construction and "pending demolition" signs are everywhere. The sidewalk is literally being shut down one block at a time as old buildings that used to serve the under class are being remade into daytime hangouts for the middle class office folk finally grown weary of the commute imposed by their own "white flight." The buildings themselves seem unsure of their own placement--hungry for profit, but their placement still a little too "gritty and real" for their own good. Almost as stark as the railroad track that so symbolically separates White and Black American in Natchez, MS, the final phase of the walk is begins when I pass under the freeway.

Welcome to "beautiful downtown Oakland," as my boss likes to say. I work at the corner of two major cross-streets, San Pablo and West Grand. The office bees just four blocks away have suddenly disappeared. Not a single BMW or Mercedez Benz makes its way across this corner. The litter is so prominent I still swear the street cleaners have abandoned this part of town. There is bus stop just outside my facility always full of patrons that never get on the bus. A small open space not more than 50 square feet hosts a constant crowd of loiterers. Papers, cans, bottles, brown paper bags, shopping carts, and mattresses fill the open space--all items have been, are being, or will be used. It was here that a crowd of volunteers from the local college found a half dozen dirty heroin needles.

The street outside my facility is always full of vehicles. Outdated, beatup, and discolored vans and sedans remain parked there all day--many of them the only shelter available the men who come into my center. Their home is literally parked outside and it ain't no RV. Just west of my place "affordable housing" runs right up against industrial parks pinned underneath the swirl of intersecting interstates. The freeways around downtown appear thrown together--the hodgepodge noticeable especially when driving the tighly banked curves. You see, just North of where I work "the bottoms" as they call that particular location is actually a gravesite to the thousands that were crushed when the freeway collapsed during the 1989 Earthquake. That section of the freeway was rerouted and replaced with a non-elevated road "Mandella Parkway" which sports a green-space median through which a sidewalk meanders.

As I approach the entrance--a small blue awning just past the popular bus stop--I am greeted by the men that recognize me. Some will help run the center today, others will just stop by for a shower, a bus pass, or maybe even a couple bucks. A friendly conversation usually ensues before I make it into the building. Pleasantries continue when I enter the facility, only I make sure to say hello to everyone for feelings are hurt far too easily around this place. Everybody, you see, can use a friendly smile and a pat on the back for it may be the only acknowledgement they get all day.