My day began when my dog decided he had to vomit, and then did. The vomit was copious and brown in colour. It spread across my couch (which is also my bed), and then dripped down onto the bag that I had packed for work.
I then realized, with growing horror and nausea, that the vomit did not smell like vomit at all. It smelled like poo. Gross, ingested, regurgitated poo. It seems my dog had at some point ingested some of his own feces, and then vomited those feces up, all over my couch/bed.
I looked at my dog with disgust. He looked at me with love, and wagged his tail a little.
I went to work.
I should have known that a day that began with dog diarrhea-vomit was not going to go well, but I tried to be optimistic. I sang off-Broadway show-tunes to myself and greeted the world (which was rainy) with a hopeful, cheery smile.
And then the diarrhea-vomit continued (metaphorically this time). We were short staffed, short on management and support, and our clients were short on understanding. Various crises arose, to be quashed down and then arise again like mythical movie monsters. By three p.m., I had threatened to kill two people.
And if the words, “I want to stab you in the aorta with a butter knife,” don’t convey unconditional compassion and understanding, I don’t know what does.
Showing posts with label Work Issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work Issues. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Judge me by the company I keep...
I've just scanned through the Vancouver Police's list of "Wanted" and "Most Wanted" suspects, and fondly recognized no less than five mug-shot individuals (more than double last month's total of two!), wanted for theft and assault, theft and assault times two, drug code violations and breach of probation, possession of stolen property, and "theft, breaking and entering, theft, and fraud," respectively.
Sadly, no one I know has yet to make the elite "Most Wanted" list, which ranks only ten individuals at a time.
Also of interest...there is a wanted person listed solely by the name "Pringle." No crimes or bodily descriptions are mentioned. I think someone at the police station is hungry.
Feeling special because you recognize someone on the Most Wanted list is kind of like feeling special because you used to go to elementary school with a celebrity - you become vicariously special and celebritized because of that person - or in this case, vicariously sad. And you, too, could feel vicariously sad! Check out if you know any wanted criminals today!
Sadly, no one I know has yet to make the elite "Most Wanted" list, which ranks only ten individuals at a time.
Also of interest...there is a wanted person listed solely by the name "Pringle." No crimes or bodily descriptions are mentioned. I think someone at the police station is hungry.
Feeling special because you recognize someone on the Most Wanted list is kind of like feeling special because you used to go to elementary school with a celebrity - you become vicariously special and celebritized because of that person - or in this case, vicariously sad. And you, too, could feel vicariously sad! Check out if you know any wanted criminals today!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Today (sucks)
I am tired. I don’t know if I still techinically have bronchitis, or if it’s officially pneumonia, or if it’s actually nothing at all. But I’ve been sick for a freaking month and coughing up disgustingness from my lungs, some of which is blood-tinged and some fluorescent yellow, and last week I seemed to break or bruise a rib in a wild coughing spasm, which now constantly hurts my chest. Especially when I move, lift my arms, or breathe.
I went to a walk-in clinic last night, against my better judgment, because my chest really really hurt and the interweb told me to seek “immediate medical advice.” As predicted, the doctor said, “you have a chest infection.” I asked if it was pneumonia, and he said, well, maybe. I asked if my rib was fractured. He said maybe. As an afterthought, he took my temperature. It was okay. Not normal, just ‘okay.’ “Come back if you don’t get better.” Which is what the last doctor said. I hate doctors. I hate doctors so very much.
My puppy is sick. I was away from home for a day and a half, during which my puppy decided to get sicker than I’ve ever seen him before. I arrived home to a house full of diarrhea and vomit, some of which was blood-stained, and a dehydrated puppy who could barely wag his tail hello. I am the worst puppy-mummy ever. I am so, so sorry. I then borrowed emergency money from my mother to take my puppy to the vet, so he could get IV fluids and three types of medication, because I am the worst, most incompetent and neglectful puppy mummy ever. Also, I skipped work to do this, because I am also a terrible employee and adult.
So, today was my first day at work since being on vacation for a week and then taking an emergency day off to take care of my dog who was suddenly ill. But my vacation wasn’t especially happy or restful - mostly because the latter part of it was spent moving my sister into residence at her new university, which is three hours away and involves travelling extensively by foot, skytrain, bus, ferry, bus, and another freaking bus (I don’t drive, because I’m a terribly incompetent adult).
And this was not only physically exhausting, what with 300 pounds of luggage (did I mention the pneumonia?), but also emotionally hard, because I love my sister lots, and now she’s far away, and the house is all quiet after two months of constant companionship, and university is hard and I want her to be happy and I’m all maternally with my worry and obsession.
Arriving at work, I was not happy to be there, because it was only nine a.m. and ideally I’d sleep in till three. But I was happy to see people I missed, and happy to go about my job competently and responsibly without any major emotional upsets.
Until, at 11am, my boss decided to mistakenly send a reply-all email that was meant only for my supervisor’s eyes. The email was about me. The email was sent to all of my coworkers and sort-of-coworkers, and me, too. And in a short and sweet way, it said: “We should really force Ivy to go to this workshop on Basic [quality that is essential to doing her job well which she obvious lacks to an extreme degree, as indicated by my sending this email]. What do you think?”
In a hasty cover-up attempt which involved sending a second copy of the exact same email to all of my coworkers and sort-of-coworkers and myself again, my boss then replied-all: “Sorry about that. I meant that EVERYONE should take that workshop. In fact, I’m cancelling your staff meeting and making everyone go, even though several of you have requested educational workshops on other subjects and staff meetings are kind-of important. So, screw you all. But not specifically Ivy. Yes.”
So I spent my lunch hour crying, in the staff room, because the bathrooms were all full and all the exits were blocked by unavoidable interaction with people with eyes. And whenever I tried not to cry I ended up crying harder, which was awkward and causing much facial puffiness, and then I would try and reassure myself by saying my boss and job and ability to do basic essential skills weren’t that important, and that I could find another job, and then the prospect of leaving my job and all its implications sent me into a fresh batch of tears.
My supervisor entered the staff room and witnessed me crying, said nothing and quickly left. And then a coworker entered the staff room and witnessed me crying, and wordlessly fled the awkwardness. And then the rest of the day was spent surrounded by coworkers, only one of whom actually brought up the email, advising me to talk to my supervisor, which I declined to do (whilst crying).
And now I am home, with my sick puppy and my empty apartment and my bronchitis and pneumonia and fractured rib and some stains from the puppy diarrhea that I still can’t get off my floor, and the place is a mess and I need to recycle and do the dishes and my laundry’s not done and it’s all stupid and I hate everything.
But mostly, I hate work, and life, and anything that’s worth caring about or trying hard to do well. Because, inevitably, people fail, and then they feel all the worse for having tried so hard. Or something cynical like that. Peace out.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Why Work Sucks
TOP 3 REASONS WHY I HATE MY JOB (in the last 7 days)...
1. Being invited to a dinner for one of our practicum students, not really feeling up to going to said dinner, not having enough money to go to said dinner, being convinced to attend said dinner anyways.
Arriving at the restaurant to find several coworkers, two former practicum students, and one volunteer who is also a client. Not saying anything regarding the client’s presence, because it was awkward, and there was a big group of us, and no one else was saying anything, and convincing myself it was fine. Eating food, having good time, going home.
Being sick for two days, after which I returned to shitstorm of doom, which culminated in an individual meeting with my manager to give me a verbal warning to compliment the report she had made to HR regarding my unprofessional conduct with a client. (Because, while I did not invite a client out to a social gathering, another staff had, and I was present, and I didn’t say anything, but I should have. Also, because other staff were drinking and so was the client and that was bad, even though I wasn’t drinking. And my manager telling me that she didn’t know that she would respond differently in the same situation, so she’s glad she wasn’t there. Fuck.)
2.i. Listening to a large Muslim man screaming for thirty minutes in the middle of my workplace about how he was going to kill and cut out the tongue of a petite, hostile woman who had said, eloquently, “fuck Muslims,” and been escorted by staff from the building. Finally, eventually, getting the man calm enough to sit, breath, and then exit.
ii. Having to file a police report after becoming scared that said man would actually kill and cut out the tongue of said woman, and vaguely recalling that counselling professionals were legally obligated to report serious threats, even if it meant breaking confidentiality. Wondering if I qualify as a professional, deciding I probably don’t, erring of the side of caution anyways. Feeling guilty.
iii. Being sad and conflicted, because I really do like the man in question, and I don’t want him to get in trouble, but I also don’t want him to kill anyone, or cut out their tongues, or cause large and frightening disruptions in the middle of our centre. Being sad because the man has absolutely no insight that his reaction was inappropriate or out of proportion in any way. Being sad because my life has been invaded by a destructive religious cliche.
iv. Discovering that, during my weekend, coworkers who were not present during the original incident had decided to ban said woman for a month, and said man for a week, which would have been fine, except for the whole “holding the entire centre hostage for a half hour while screaming violently about how he was going to kill someone less than half his size and cut out their tongue” part, which apparently was deemed unimportant.
1.i. Cracking, “who died?” when an unusually large impromptu meeting occurs, and having our manager respond with a name of a well-loved client who had committed suicide that morning. Gasps and crying ensue.
ii. Bursting into tears during my lunch break which, because lunch was served late, was divided into two thirty-minute halves. Deciding after twenty-five minutes of crying (which had rendered my face incredibly red, blotchy, and quasimodo-esque) that I was not okay to go back to work, and then finding out that, not only were were intentionally short-staffed that day, but that all other workers in the building (save four) had decided to take an impromptu afternoon off. Then returning to work, trying to remember that anger is a step in the grieving process.
iii. Spending the first ten minutes of my second crying-break watching a large unknown woman on the street banging on the window of an neighbouring restaurant while screaming and swearing and generally causing a scene.
iv. Leaving my crying-break at running pace when same screaming swearing woman crosses the street and enters our building.
After evicting said woman from our building (via her swearing at me until she voluntarily exited), letting my coworkers know that I was then returning upstairs to take the second half of the second half of my break, at which point one coworker laughed, “why, because you’re crying?” to which I responded, elegantly, “fuck you,” apologized, and then burst into tears.
I have become the screaming swearing woman that I hate.
1. Being invited to a dinner for one of our practicum students, not really feeling up to going to said dinner, not having enough money to go to said dinner, being convinced to attend said dinner anyways.
Arriving at the restaurant to find several coworkers, two former practicum students, and one volunteer who is also a client. Not saying anything regarding the client’s presence, because it was awkward, and there was a big group of us, and no one else was saying anything, and convincing myself it was fine. Eating food, having good time, going home.
Being sick for two days, after which I returned to shitstorm of doom, which culminated in an individual meeting with my manager to give me a verbal warning to compliment the report she had made to HR regarding my unprofessional conduct with a client. (Because, while I did not invite a client out to a social gathering, another staff had, and I was present, and I didn’t say anything, but I should have. Also, because other staff were drinking and so was the client and that was bad, even though I wasn’t drinking. And my manager telling me that she didn’t know that she would respond differently in the same situation, so she’s glad she wasn’t there. Fuck.)
2.i. Listening to a large Muslim man screaming for thirty minutes in the middle of my workplace about how he was going to kill and cut out the tongue of a petite, hostile woman who had said, eloquently, “fuck Muslims,” and been escorted by staff from the building. Finally, eventually, getting the man calm enough to sit, breath, and then exit.
ii. Having to file a police report after becoming scared that said man would actually kill and cut out the tongue of said woman, and vaguely recalling that counselling professionals were legally obligated to report serious threats, even if it meant breaking confidentiality. Wondering if I qualify as a professional, deciding I probably don’t, erring of the side of caution anyways. Feeling guilty.
iii. Being sad and conflicted, because I really do like the man in question, and I don’t want him to get in trouble, but I also don’t want him to kill anyone, or cut out their tongues, or cause large and frightening disruptions in the middle of our centre. Being sad because the man has absolutely no insight that his reaction was inappropriate or out of proportion in any way. Being sad because my life has been invaded by a destructive religious cliche.
iv. Discovering that, during my weekend, coworkers who were not present during the original incident had decided to ban said woman for a month, and said man for a week, which would have been fine, except for the whole “holding the entire centre hostage for a half hour while screaming violently about how he was going to kill someone less than half his size and cut out their tongue” part, which apparently was deemed unimportant.
1.i. Cracking, “who died?” when an unusually large impromptu meeting occurs, and having our manager respond with a name of a well-loved client who had committed suicide that morning. Gasps and crying ensue.
ii. Bursting into tears during my lunch break which, because lunch was served late, was divided into two thirty-minute halves. Deciding after twenty-five minutes of crying (which had rendered my face incredibly red, blotchy, and quasimodo-esque) that I was not okay to go back to work, and then finding out that, not only were were intentionally short-staffed that day, but that all other workers in the building (save four) had decided to take an impromptu afternoon off. Then returning to work, trying to remember that anger is a step in the grieving process.
iii. Spending the first ten minutes of my second crying-break watching a large unknown woman on the street banging on the window of an neighbouring restaurant while screaming and swearing and generally causing a scene.
iv. Leaving my crying-break at running pace when same screaming swearing woman crosses the street and enters our building.
After evicting said woman from our building (via her swearing at me until she voluntarily exited), letting my coworkers know that I was then returning upstairs to take the second half of the second half of my break, at which point one coworker laughed, “why, because you’re crying?” to which I responded, elegantly, “fuck you,” apologized, and then burst into tears.
I have become the screaming swearing woman that I hate.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Neuroses, neuroses
I cried at work today.
I made it through the staff meeting, which was a step up from last time, when I burst into tears in the first half hour and had to hide in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, during which time my phone rang, repeatedly, and disturbed everyone left behind in the board room...sigh.
But the precipitating events were not so dissimilar, in that I ended up locked in a death grip over an item on the agenda barely worth discussing - a tendency that I’m really trying to work on, though it’s proving surprisingly difficult. Note to self: When in staff meetings SHUT UP, for the love of god, shut up.
Inevitably, my stance on whatever issue will lead to a charming coworker vaulting personal attacks in my direction (or spreading rumors about me, or silently hating with a glowering wrath for over a year...it depends on the workplace, I guess). The coworker here is the master of jarring, unwarranted personal attacks - including the memorable, “It’s not all about you!” launched at a manager when he mentioned bathroom etiquette.
I’ve been on the receiving end of such declarations - that I’d like to initiate volunteer programs solely in order to pass off my most hated duties to vulnerable community members, that I’m trying to make our clients' lives more difficult through my choice in art supply cupboard, that I’m thoughtless and obstinate and she can’t understand why, exactly, I’m making things so difficult. Kid stuff, really.
Today, it was nothing much worse - a prolonged discussion over a discontinued games tournament, and then, “you’re so controlling. You just need to pick over every single little detail and micromanage everything. Why can’t you just...” I tuned out at this point, and the details are fuzzy. But the take home title of Micromanaging Control Monster Who Impedes Meeting Progress was certainly received.
The meeting ended shortly thereafter.
Less than two minutes later, in a well-lit office with a large glass window and an opened door, I burst into messy tears without warning as I tried to unplug my laptop. ...Stupid laptop.
And the nerve she hit was this: I’m a perfectionist, I’m a keener, I’m an over-achiever, I’m a bright-eyed bushy-tailed whippersnapper who everybody wants to punch in the nose. I type too hard, and too fast, and when everyone takes on one work assignment, I like to take on three. (It’s hard to tell these things about be, sometimes - especially since my greatest achievement to date has been dropping out of university - but trust me on this one, it’s true.)
Just like the obsessive compulsive person who’s hands, though raw with soap burn, will never feel clean, my over-achievement disorder stems from a feeling of the opposite - inadequacy. I’m constantly terrified of failure, of being perceived as lazy, or of simply being kicked to the curb because ‘well, we collectively decided that we don’t like you, and we don’t want you, and we don’t need you. So, get out.’ The assumption of this inevitability colours every situation in my life. (...Why? I blame Society.)
To make matters so very much worse, I’m aware of all this, as well as my tendency to piss others off through my efforts to compensate - which means I often find myself stuck between a neurotic rock and hard place, terrified by seemingly inevitable rejection no matter what I do. Speak up in meetings? Shut up and be quiet? I generally fall back on my do-gooder default, secure in my belief that at least, if I do the work of seven people in one, I’ll have a list of concrete achievements to stack up against the hate.
And so, when my colleague bestowed me with the title of Micromanaging Control Monster Who Impedes Meeting Progress, it struck a very large, open nerve - the one that tells me to speed up, and then simultaneously yells ‘slow down!’ Because, when you’re an overachiever, the very worst thing people can think is that you want Control.
(Control over self and my own neuroses? Yes. Control over others perception of me, in that I’m desperate for them to like me but somewhat convinced that they never will? Yes. Control over the independent actions, desires, and generalized lives of those around me, in that I want to influence them in any way that doesn’t directly pertain to me? No, not so much.)
Because micromanagers also take on more than their fair share, but that's about taking power away from others: “I don’t trust you to do this task, or I don’t like how you’re doing it, so I’m going to do this myself.” It’s about inserting personal preferences and standards into situations that have nothing to do with you - insisting that a work room be painted yellow because it’s your favourite colour, even when all your coworkers voted on green. (That’s not a real example, but this one is - at my previous workplace, every recipe used by our cooks for use in the drop-in centre had to be tailored to the taste preferences of our executive director, who did not even work in that building or ever eat the food. She blacklisted vegetables. THAT’s micromanaging.)
But MY over-achieving...it’s not about that, at all. I don’t want more power. Really, I’d like less power. In an ideal world, I’d have no power, and just a clearly defined check-list saying exactly what I have to do to keep my job, not be hated, and qualify as a decent person, and then I could mark off my list and be happy and be done.
And if I bring up a suggestion or an idea, or I offer my thoughts and opinions, it’s not an effort to take choice or power away from somebody else - because I want them to speak up, too. I want their opinions, and ideas, and unique efforts, precisely because they’re different from my own - because that takes the pressure off of me! I’ll drive myself nuts trying to do everything that can possibly be done - a little help, or even a dose of healthy competition...these are the things I want and crave.
The last thing I want for any coworker to think of me is that I want to usurp their ideas, or silence them, or to squash their laborious fruits into a sad, embittered pulp...none of that sounds good, to me. Because, really, in all that I do...I just want people to like me.
(And especially if I like them, which, really I do. And I like my job. And at work, well, we’re supposed to be a Team, and we rely on each other, and we comfort one another when our clients inevitably die, or have seizures, or yell at us, or throw bowls full of mustard flying across the floor... It’s important that my coworkers know I’m not an obsessive controlling psychopath.)
...Call me crazy, but that’s just the way I feel.
I made it through the staff meeting, which was a step up from last time, when I burst into tears in the first half hour and had to hide in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, during which time my phone rang, repeatedly, and disturbed everyone left behind in the board room...sigh.
But the precipitating events were not so dissimilar, in that I ended up locked in a death grip over an item on the agenda barely worth discussing - a tendency that I’m really trying to work on, though it’s proving surprisingly difficult. Note to self: When in staff meetings SHUT UP, for the love of god, shut up.
Inevitably, my stance on whatever issue will lead to a charming coworker vaulting personal attacks in my direction (or spreading rumors about me, or silently hating with a glowering wrath for over a year...it depends on the workplace, I guess). The coworker here is the master of jarring, unwarranted personal attacks - including the memorable, “It’s not all about you!” launched at a manager when he mentioned bathroom etiquette.
I’ve been on the receiving end of such declarations - that I’d like to initiate volunteer programs solely in order to pass off my most hated duties to vulnerable community members, that I’m trying to make our clients' lives more difficult through my choice in art supply cupboard, that I’m thoughtless and obstinate and she can’t understand why, exactly, I’m making things so difficult. Kid stuff, really.
Today, it was nothing much worse - a prolonged discussion over a discontinued games tournament, and then, “you’re so controlling. You just need to pick over every single little detail and micromanage everything. Why can’t you just...” I tuned out at this point, and the details are fuzzy. But the take home title of Micromanaging Control Monster Who Impedes Meeting Progress was certainly received.
The meeting ended shortly thereafter.
Less than two minutes later, in a well-lit office with a large glass window and an opened door, I burst into messy tears without warning as I tried to unplug my laptop. ...Stupid laptop.
And the nerve she hit was this: I’m a perfectionist, I’m a keener, I’m an over-achiever, I’m a bright-eyed bushy-tailed whippersnapper who everybody wants to punch in the nose. I type too hard, and too fast, and when everyone takes on one work assignment, I like to take on three. (It’s hard to tell these things about be, sometimes - especially since my greatest achievement to date has been dropping out of university - but trust me on this one, it’s true.)
Just like the obsessive compulsive person who’s hands, though raw with soap burn, will never feel clean, my over-achievement disorder stems from a feeling of the opposite - inadequacy. I’m constantly terrified of failure, of being perceived as lazy, or of simply being kicked to the curb because ‘well, we collectively decided that we don’t like you, and we don’t want you, and we don’t need you. So, get out.’ The assumption of this inevitability colours every situation in my life. (...Why? I blame Society.)
To make matters so very much worse, I’m aware of all this, as well as my tendency to piss others off through my efforts to compensate - which means I often find myself stuck between a neurotic rock and hard place, terrified by seemingly inevitable rejection no matter what I do. Speak up in meetings? Shut up and be quiet? I generally fall back on my do-gooder default, secure in my belief that at least, if I do the work of seven people in one, I’ll have a list of concrete achievements to stack up against the hate.
And so, when my colleague bestowed me with the title of Micromanaging Control Monster Who Impedes Meeting Progress, it struck a very large, open nerve - the one that tells me to speed up, and then simultaneously yells ‘slow down!’ Because, when you’re an overachiever, the very worst thing people can think is that you want Control.
(Control over self and my own neuroses? Yes. Control over others perception of me, in that I’m desperate for them to like me but somewhat convinced that they never will? Yes. Control over the independent actions, desires, and generalized lives of those around me, in that I want to influence them in any way that doesn’t directly pertain to me? No, not so much.)
Because micromanagers also take on more than their fair share, but that's about taking power away from others: “I don’t trust you to do this task, or I don’t like how you’re doing it, so I’m going to do this myself.” It’s about inserting personal preferences and standards into situations that have nothing to do with you - insisting that a work room be painted yellow because it’s your favourite colour, even when all your coworkers voted on green. (That’s not a real example, but this one is - at my previous workplace, every recipe used by our cooks for use in the drop-in centre had to be tailored to the taste preferences of our executive director, who did not even work in that building or ever eat the food. She blacklisted vegetables. THAT’s micromanaging.)
But MY over-achieving...it’s not about that, at all. I don’t want more power. Really, I’d like less power. In an ideal world, I’d have no power, and just a clearly defined check-list saying exactly what I have to do to keep my job, not be hated, and qualify as a decent person, and then I could mark off my list and be happy and be done.
And if I bring up a suggestion or an idea, or I offer my thoughts and opinions, it’s not an effort to take choice or power away from somebody else - because I want them to speak up, too. I want their opinions, and ideas, and unique efforts, precisely because they’re different from my own - because that takes the pressure off of me! I’ll drive myself nuts trying to do everything that can possibly be done - a little help, or even a dose of healthy competition...these are the things I want and crave.
The last thing I want for any coworker to think of me is that I want to usurp their ideas, or silence them, or to squash their laborious fruits into a sad, embittered pulp...none of that sounds good, to me. Because, really, in all that I do...I just want people to like me.
(And especially if I like them, which, really I do. And I like my job. And at work, well, we’re supposed to be a Team, and we rely on each other, and we comfort one another when our clients inevitably die, or have seizures, or yell at us, or throw bowls full of mustard flying across the floor... It’s important that my coworkers know I’m not an obsessive controlling psychopath.)
...Call me crazy, but that’s just the way I feel.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Schizophrenia
Schizophrenia runs in my family, though I didn’t know this until almost a year ago.
My father had an uncle who lived on the streets of Detroit, derelict, a loser and suspected alcoholic, rejected by his sister and brother and seldom discussed. My father’s brother, my uncle, was in a car accident during college, causing brain damage and sparking his downward decline. The uncle I knew smoked a lot of pot and painted images of the Virgin Mary, sporadically present in the lives of his wife and their five impoverished children. His wife later became a psychiatric nurse, and is now the primary caregiver of their adult child, my cousin, who is the only family member to be formally diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Schizophrenia runs in my day-to-day life, too, and has for a few years now.
Yesterday, I tried to offer a homeless man food, and he screamed at me and called me a cannibal. I retreated, quietly, and felt hurt and scared, and then wondered what it must be like to go through life, balled up in the corners of loading docks, believing the world to be full of marauding monsters who want to eat your flesh. A woman at work once smiled at me and said that I made her sad. She knew that I was really dead and being remotely controlled by Hell’s Angels, as were all of her friends, and that, eventually, all women would end up this way.
Not knowing how to respond, I walked away.
My father had an uncle who lived on the streets of Detroit, derelict, a loser and suspected alcoholic, rejected by his sister and brother and seldom discussed. My father’s brother, my uncle, was in a car accident during college, causing brain damage and sparking his downward decline. The uncle I knew smoked a lot of pot and painted images of the Virgin Mary, sporadically present in the lives of his wife and their five impoverished children. His wife later became a psychiatric nurse, and is now the primary caregiver of their adult child, my cousin, who is the only family member to be formally diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Schizophrenia runs in my day-to-day life, too, and has for a few years now.
Yesterday, I tried to offer a homeless man food, and he screamed at me and called me a cannibal. I retreated, quietly, and felt hurt and scared, and then wondered what it must be like to go through life, balled up in the corners of loading docks, believing the world to be full of marauding monsters who want to eat your flesh. A woman at work once smiled at me and said that I made her sad. She knew that I was really dead and being remotely controlled by Hell’s Angels, as were all of her friends, and that, eventually, all women would end up this way.
Not knowing how to respond, I walked away.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Awww....er....Ahhhh!
Somewhere, at this very moment, deep in the darkest alley of Vancouver's underworld, there is a small, frail elderly woman. She's about 5'3" and weights maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. And she is, apparently, going to kill me.
This fact, along with a number of colourful adjectives, was relayed to me last week as I attempted to evict said woman from the premises, following a series of escalating aggressive behaviours. I did ask nicely. I tried to be patient. But I daresay, she was not impressed.
After finally leaving the building, she returned, repeatedly, each time encountering different staff members, to whom she relayed the list of individuals who had wronged her. Afterwards, she often added their names to her list. There were a few more threats, including a vow to turn one coworker into mincemeat. And then she was gone, much like a small, elderly, terrifying nightmare.
As small and frail and she may be, I have no doubt of her ability to kick my ass and/or turn me into a pie. And while this fact is more than a little embarrassing, it is also really terrifying. I am scared of this tiny abusive woman. And she's out there, somewhere, waiting.
I know that she remembers me, because each time she returned she kept mentioning how much she hated me to other staff. She didn't know my name, so she called me, "that skinny one who smiles all the time. She's dead!"
Which...aww. That's the nicest death threat I've received in a long, long time.
...I'm scared.
This fact, along with a number of colourful adjectives, was relayed to me last week as I attempted to evict said woman from the premises, following a series of escalating aggressive behaviours. I did ask nicely. I tried to be patient. But I daresay, she was not impressed.
After finally leaving the building, she returned, repeatedly, each time encountering different staff members, to whom she relayed the list of individuals who had wronged her. Afterwards, she often added their names to her list. There were a few more threats, including a vow to turn one coworker into mincemeat. And then she was gone, much like a small, elderly, terrifying nightmare.
As small and frail and she may be, I have no doubt of her ability to kick my ass and/or turn me into a pie. And while this fact is more than a little embarrassing, it is also really terrifying. I am scared of this tiny abusive woman. And she's out there, somewhere, waiting.
I know that she remembers me, because each time she returned she kept mentioning how much she hated me to other staff. She didn't know my name, so she called me, "that skinny one who smiles all the time. She's dead!"
Which...aww. That's the nicest death threat I've received in a long, long time.
...I'm scared.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I can look homeless?
Randomest Activity of the Week:
I was pulled out of a meeting at work to act as an emergency, last-minute model for a national end-homelessness campaign. The group (which is raising funds for some very cool and innovative interagency activities) had been using our drop-in centre for a big photo-shoot, but they were unable to find enough young women among our centre’s client demographic of older and middle-aged men. Enter me, apparently. They looked me over, “I guess she’ll do.”
A social-work practicum student and I found ourselves awkwardly awaiting direction from the campaign manager and photographer.
“You need to take out your pigtails.” Me, sad, “okay.”
“Put your hands in your hoodie pockets. You need to look more tough. Wait, less tough. More feminine. No, no, try to smile, but still look fundamentally sad. Good. Oh, your scruffy running shoes are perfect!”
I doubt my scruffy running shoes and I will be used in the actual campaign- I am the least photogenic person I know, I don‘t know how to ‘smile with my eyes,’ or my mouth, really, and I don’t know how to look tough or feminine. Their quest for individuals looking street-involved, or ‘rough and weathered,’ is not exactly what people think of when they see anything to do with me - on my more attractive days, when a group of Japanese girls see me, they all squeal loudly and exclaim ‘she looks like a doll!’ and then cover their mouths to giggle. Seriously. This happens about once a month. ?!
But there remains a slight chance that my face will end up on a bus ad, or a billboard, in Vancouver or a city far away. I like to think, in my hometown Ontario, someone will pick up a paper and think, “Oh my god. I know that crystal-meth addicted single mom!” And my mom, heading to work, will be stopped in her tracks by a sizable billboard plastered across the street from the school where she teaches, “This girl’s parents kicked her out at the age of thirteen. Now she smokes crack and sleeps in a dumpster. Will you shut the door on her, too?”
The thought of that does make me smile.
I was pulled out of a meeting at work to act as an emergency, last-minute model for a national end-homelessness campaign. The group (which is raising funds for some very cool and innovative interagency activities) had been using our drop-in centre for a big photo-shoot, but they were unable to find enough young women among our centre’s client demographic of older and middle-aged men. Enter me, apparently. They looked me over, “I guess she’ll do.”
A social-work practicum student and I found ourselves awkwardly awaiting direction from the campaign manager and photographer.
“You need to take out your pigtails.” Me, sad, “okay.”
“Put your hands in your hoodie pockets. You need to look more tough. Wait, less tough. More feminine. No, no, try to smile, but still look fundamentally sad. Good. Oh, your scruffy running shoes are perfect!”
I doubt my scruffy running shoes and I will be used in the actual campaign- I am the least photogenic person I know, I don‘t know how to ‘smile with my eyes,’ or my mouth, really, and I don’t know how to look tough or feminine. Their quest for individuals looking street-involved, or ‘rough and weathered,’ is not exactly what people think of when they see anything to do with me - on my more attractive days, when a group of Japanese girls see me, they all squeal loudly and exclaim ‘she looks like a doll!’ and then cover their mouths to giggle. Seriously. This happens about once a month. ?!
But there remains a slight chance that my face will end up on a bus ad, or a billboard, in Vancouver or a city far away. I like to think, in my hometown Ontario, someone will pick up a paper and think, “Oh my god. I know that crystal-meth addicted single mom!” And my mom, heading to work, will be stopped in her tracks by a sizable billboard plastered across the street from the school where she teaches, “This girl’s parents kicked her out at the age of thirteen. Now she smokes crack and sleeps in a dumpster. Will you shut the door on her, too?”
The thought of that does make me smile.
Fruit Medley
Everyone’s a perfectionist. Some people are just better at it than others.
It had been the worst morning ever. Now, I know what you’re thinking - what about that morning my father died, and then I had to sit in the car with my socially obstinate grandmother for three hours on the way to and from getting a painful root canal. Well, that was pretty bad. But…whatever. This morning sucked, too.
I've just had a two foot cable shoved up my nose, attached to a camera, so that a doctor could tell me there's nothing wrong, and also, I have hearing loss. Fuck you, 7:30a.m. doctor's appointment in God-forsaken Burnaby.
I arrived for work, an hour and a half late. I walked in to our morning meeting near tears. My coworkers looked concerned, "Don't be upset....Nobody really cares whether you're here or not."
Editing the newsletter and printing out a sample copy should have taken me five minutes. Two hours later, I found myself on my knees in front of the photo-copier pleading “Hubert,” (I had named the photocopier Hubert), “for the love of baby Jesus, just tell me what’s wrong...” Three paper jams, three different computers, two printers, one photocopier, and a brief intervention from my boss later, I gave up. I hate technology.
Worst. Morning. Ever.
It had been the worst morning ever. Now, I know what you’re thinking - what about that morning my father died, and then I had to sit in the car with my socially obstinate grandmother for three hours on the way to and from getting a painful root canal. Well, that was pretty bad. But…whatever. This morning sucked, too.
I've just had a two foot cable shoved up my nose, attached to a camera, so that a doctor could tell me there's nothing wrong, and also, I have hearing loss. Fuck you, 7:30a.m. doctor's appointment in God-forsaken Burnaby.
I arrived for work, an hour and a half late. I walked in to our morning meeting near tears. My coworkers looked concerned, "Don't be upset....Nobody really cares whether you're here or not."
Editing the newsletter and printing out a sample copy should have taken me five minutes. Two hours later, I found myself on my knees in front of the photo-copier pleading “Hubert,” (I had named the photocopier Hubert), “for the love of baby Jesus, just tell me what’s wrong...” Three paper jams, three different computers, two printers, one photocopier, and a brief intervention from my boss later, I gave up. I hate technology.
Worst. Morning. Ever.
Friday, September 4, 2009
But What, Exactly, Do You Do?
I have removed all of the postings from seven different bulletin boards, and then replaced the same postings in a slightly more visually-pleasing pattern.
I have re-alphabetized the alphabetically-ordered names stored in two card index boxes, twice.
I have extended tenuous tendrils towards potential office gossip, so far to no avails.
I have sat, patiently, contemplating my pension plan, and the fact that I’m not really sure what a pension plan is, and that a part of me dies every time I think of myself as a person who thinks about pension plans.
I have played pool and lost.
I have played shuffle board and lost.
I have played scrabble, and would have won, but we didn’t keep score.
And…umm…there were some emails, too.
Four weeks down, forty-one years to go.
I have re-alphabetized the alphabetically-ordered names stored in two card index boxes, twice.
I have extended tenuous tendrils towards potential office gossip, so far to no avails.
I have sat, patiently, contemplating my pension plan, and the fact that I’m not really sure what a pension plan is, and that a part of me dies every time I think of myself as a person who thinks about pension plans.
I have played pool and lost.
I have played shuffle board and lost.
I have played scrabble, and would have won, but we didn’t keep score.
And…umm…there were some emails, too.
Four weeks down, forty-one years to go.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Bad Days Get Worse
Eight Hours of Work:
A woman I know, a woman named Lisa, was found, floating, in the Fraser River. She had been murdered. It was on the front page of The Province Newspaper. I wish that I could remember her clothes, or her laugh, or the sound of her voice, but I can’t.
We print out pictures, which are mug shots, and the article, which is titled ‘Downtown Eastside Sex Trade Worker Slain.’ We light a candle. We call our boss. We interrupt our boss’s father’s funeral. We tell the women.
A woman named J**** does not cry, but whispers “Lisa was my best friend,” and asks for a cigarette, and shuffles to the door. When I hug her, she is limp, and silent.
A woman named S**** is screaming in pain while I sit, quietly, sadly. Her 16 year old cousin O.D.ed this week. Two men raped her last night.
A woman won’t leave the bathroom - I just want to clean it. I work around her as she swears at me. An hour and a half later, a half hour after the centre closes, I apologize to her and phone the police. She throws a mug. She goes to the door. She turns around. She charges at me to punch me, and my coworker yells a blistering ‘no’ and jumps in her way and she stops. She leaves. I start to cry when I tell the police that it’s okay, that she left.
She comes back. She propped a door (but we shut it), and so she rings the buzzer and yells at the gate. My co-worker starts to cry, calling the police to ask for help (the say they’re very busy), and then her boyfriend if he would please come get us.
He drives around the block to make sure it’s safe for us to walk outside.
A woman I know, a woman named Lisa, was found, floating, in the Fraser River. She had been murdered. It was on the front page of The Province Newspaper. I wish that I could remember her clothes, or her laugh, or the sound of her voice, but I can’t.
We print out pictures, which are mug shots, and the article, which is titled ‘Downtown Eastside Sex Trade Worker Slain.’ We light a candle. We call our boss. We interrupt our boss’s father’s funeral. We tell the women.
A woman named J**** does not cry, but whispers “Lisa was my best friend,” and asks for a cigarette, and shuffles to the door. When I hug her, she is limp, and silent.
A woman named S**** is screaming in pain while I sit, quietly, sadly. Her 16 year old cousin O.D.ed this week. Two men raped her last night.
A woman won’t leave the bathroom - I just want to clean it. I work around her as she swears at me. An hour and a half later, a half hour after the centre closes, I apologize to her and phone the police. She throws a mug. She goes to the door. She turns around. She charges at me to punch me, and my coworker yells a blistering ‘no’ and jumps in her way and she stops. She leaves. I start to cry when I tell the police that it’s okay, that she left.
She comes back. She propped a door (but we shut it), and so she rings the buzzer and yells at the gate. My co-worker starts to cry, calling the police to ask for help (the say they’re very busy), and then her boyfriend if he would please come get us.
He drives around the block to make sure it’s safe for us to walk outside.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Liquor and Happiness
I have held a variety of jobs of mild to moderate interest, and most relied on the menial labors which are the basis of a thriving economy. One such position was at a liquor store - a position made all the more interesting due to a quirk in Ontario law, which allowed me to be hired at eighteen, an age when I could not, myself, buy the liquor which I was selling to others.
I inevitably felt like an alcoholic might, ringing in throngs of purchases of forbidden fruit, learning to recommend and describe to the most discerning of palates, having never tasted a drop. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but in the vast shelves of a liquor store it may as well have been. I performed my job well, but with an air of sadness, passing on to others everything that I could not myself possess, and sometimes reduced to red hot tears.
Bitch, cunt, stuck-up government brat…the insults rolled off the tongues of angry would-be customers, thrown over a shoulder as they stormed out the door. Flip flops smacked against the sand and they were gone, and I tried not to take things too personally. I performed my duties responsibly, erring on the side of caution, but always with a tone of respect. I suggested perhaps that they come back later if they find another, valid ID, with a more clear photo, and that should they choose to, we’d be open till ten.
These suggestions fell on deaf ears, burning with rejection and the loss of precious booze, brimming with hostility and defensiveness. We could all see through it, the bravado, the practiced smiles, and when they looked back at us, they saw themselves. Except we had the power. Their aim was to bring us down a notch.
“I love this job,” a coworker said, genuinely, as he restocked a beer cooler. “Because people are so happy to buy liquor, and I get to take that happiness away.”
For me, it was never quite so sadistic - I was merely playing my part in a complicated societal play. Their role was that of an underage drinker trying to purchase bad booze with a bad fake ID. My role was to make their lives slightly more difficult, so that they would need to employ a friend, or get better ID, or steal and then water down their parent’s booze; it’s a Darwinian principle, really.
But I admired the pleasure my coworker lapped up as he turned them away and back to the street, cussing and empty handed. There was a sparkle in his eyes that never appeared in mine, and sometimes I see it in others - in bus drivers pulling away from a stop (just before a screaming pedestrian reaches their door), in McDonald's employees who respond to rude customers by diligently salting the cholesterol-laden fries. Somehow, I think, they may have discovered a slightly perverse definition of True Happiness.
I inevitably felt like an alcoholic might, ringing in throngs of purchases of forbidden fruit, learning to recommend and describe to the most discerning of palates, having never tasted a drop. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but in the vast shelves of a liquor store it may as well have been. I performed my job well, but with an air of sadness, passing on to others everything that I could not myself possess, and sometimes reduced to red hot tears.
Bitch, cunt, stuck-up government brat…the insults rolled off the tongues of angry would-be customers, thrown over a shoulder as they stormed out the door. Flip flops smacked against the sand and they were gone, and I tried not to take things too personally. I performed my duties responsibly, erring on the side of caution, but always with a tone of respect. I suggested perhaps that they come back later if they find another, valid ID, with a more clear photo, and that should they choose to, we’d be open till ten.
These suggestions fell on deaf ears, burning with rejection and the loss of precious booze, brimming with hostility and defensiveness. We could all see through it, the bravado, the practiced smiles, and when they looked back at us, they saw themselves. Except we had the power. Their aim was to bring us down a notch.
“I love this job,” a coworker said, genuinely, as he restocked a beer cooler. “Because people are so happy to buy liquor, and I get to take that happiness away.”
For me, it was never quite so sadistic - I was merely playing my part in a complicated societal play. Their role was that of an underage drinker trying to purchase bad booze with a bad fake ID. My role was to make their lives slightly more difficult, so that they would need to employ a friend, or get better ID, or steal and then water down their parent’s booze; it’s a Darwinian principle, really.
But I admired the pleasure my coworker lapped up as he turned them away and back to the street, cussing and empty handed. There was a sparkle in his eyes that never appeared in mine, and sometimes I see it in others - in bus drivers pulling away from a stop (just before a screaming pedestrian reaches their door), in McDonald's employees who respond to rude customers by diligently salting the cholesterol-laden fries. Somehow, I think, they may have discovered a slightly perverse definition of True Happiness.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Traded Sex
From the Ivy Donegal Encyclopedia of Opinionated Knowledge, I proudly present The Traded Sex, a series examining Vancouver’s sex industry, the legalities of the sex trade and their personal ramifications, and the untimely closure of the MAP Van, it’s impact, and what you can do to save it.
Please bare in mind that I am not a lawyer, or a legal expert of any kind. I am not a representative for sex trade workers, or workers who work with sex trade workers, or any group of people, anywhere. I am an opinionated person with a blog where I talk about boys and puppies. I also happen to work, in one of my jobs, with survival sex workers in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, and have an uncanny memory for facts presented in lectures heard two years ago in my Psychology of Human Sexuality class, among other relevant material. If you feel that parts of this series are incorrect or misleading, please inform me of such and I will do my best to correct them.
Also, I happen to be sick. So the original majesty of this series has died, a little bit, along with my lymph glands. Articles are less edited and complete than they normally are, and I would be sorry, except I need to go vomit, and that's taking up most of my attention.
You may now read on…
The Traded Sex - Working With Women In Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside
The Traded Sex - What’s Legal, What’s Not, and What It All Means
The Traded Sex - The Decriminalization Debate, and why yelling with your fingers in your ears isn’t solving any problems
The Traded Sex - The Map Van: how saving one small ambulance can save the world
The Traded Sex- Save the Map Van: what you can do
Future Articles:
The Traded Sex - When Universal Health Care is Not Universal
The Traded Sex: ‘Whores,’ ‘Prostitutes,’ and sometimes even ‘People’
Also of Interest:
Ode to the Cookie Man
Watching the Little Girls Dance
Prework Ramble
“One of my favourite girls at work is currently on methadone and told me today that she is no longer working - she is trying to get her act together and is considering going into rehab. This thrills me to no end - I know that her odds of staying clean are slim, and that addiction is cyclical in nature, but having the willpower to consider ending that cycle...Huge.
This girl is nineteen - she is one of the youngest women to use our centre. People are quick to note how a traumatic street life can age people, but the reverse is also true. When you are living day-to-day and in the throws of addiction or violence, you don't meet your developmental milestones in the way that regular children and young adults do; you can remain stuck, a time capsule of your former self.
To me, this girl is barely thirteen - she is negotiating life the way that your average middle schooler would, and trying to make the best of it. You don't become a heroin addicted sex trade worker overnight - the average age of entry into the sex trade is fourteen, and I think perhaps she was ahead of the curb.
I am amazed by her optimism and strength - I hope things work out. She could have an amazing life.”
Please bare in mind that I am not a lawyer, or a legal expert of any kind. I am not a representative for sex trade workers, or workers who work with sex trade workers, or any group of people, anywhere. I am an opinionated person with a blog where I talk about boys and puppies. I also happen to work, in one of my jobs, with survival sex workers in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, and have an uncanny memory for facts presented in lectures heard two years ago in my Psychology of Human Sexuality class, among other relevant material. If you feel that parts of this series are incorrect or misleading, please inform me of such and I will do my best to correct them.
Also, I happen to be sick. So the original majesty of this series has died, a little bit, along with my lymph glands. Articles are less edited and complete than they normally are, and I would be sorry, except I need to go vomit, and that's taking up most of my attention.
You may now read on…
The Traded Sex - Working With Women In Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside
The Traded Sex - What’s Legal, What’s Not, and What It All Means
The Traded Sex - The Decriminalization Debate, and why yelling with your fingers in your ears isn’t solving any problems
The Traded Sex - The Map Van: how saving one small ambulance can save the world
The Traded Sex- Save the Map Van: what you can do
Future Articles:
The Traded Sex - When Universal Health Care is Not Universal
The Traded Sex: ‘Whores,’ ‘Prostitutes,’ and sometimes even ‘People’
Also of Interest:
Ode to the Cookie Man
Watching the Little Girls Dance
Prework Ramble
“One of my favourite girls at work is currently on methadone and told me today that she is no longer working - she is trying to get her act together and is considering going into rehab. This thrills me to no end - I know that her odds of staying clean are slim, and that addiction is cyclical in nature, but having the willpower to consider ending that cycle...Huge.
This girl is nineteen - she is one of the youngest women to use our centre. People are quick to note how a traumatic street life can age people, but the reverse is also true. When you are living day-to-day and in the throws of addiction or violence, you don't meet your developmental milestones in the way that regular children and young adults do; you can remain stuck, a time capsule of your former self.
To me, this girl is barely thirteen - she is negotiating life the way that your average middle schooler would, and trying to make the best of it. You don't become a heroin addicted sex trade worker overnight - the average age of entry into the sex trade is fourteen, and I think perhaps she was ahead of the curb.
I am amazed by her optimism and strength - I hope things work out. She could have an amazing life.”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Postwork Ramble
It is midnight, and I am off work.
My coworker offers to walk me to my bus stop, and I offer to walk her to her own. We each refuse, politely, and then offer again, until we finally admit that we just aren’t that scared standing alone on the street corners. We’ve each been working downtown for over a year - we are over the novelty of the addicts, and the men who occasionally solicit us, and the people in various states of consciousness. It’s old news, and we are no longer scared.
After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
(I don’t know if those words were spoken out loud, but I certainly thought them. This will prove to be ironic, though I’m not yet in on the joke. I will be, shortly, and then come to realize I am living as a character in a dark, predictable play.)
I walk past the Number Five Orange, which is a strip club, famous and seedy. I walk past the community courts, which are full of dark nooks and crannies for people to hide. There are cameras mounted out front, though this always makes me feel much less safe; I’m sure no one’s watching, but their presence tells me that someone probably should be. I cross in front of the police station that leads the way to Main and Hastings, the ‘open air drug market,’ the centre of the Downtown Eastside, and the epicenter of where I should not wander, alone, at night (according to knowing friends in my freshman/first year).
This is the location of my bus stop.
I used to feel comforted by the reasonable lighting and abundance of people; the corner is always, tellingly well populated, no matter what time of day or night. But then a schizotypic caretaker of my old building warned me that bystanders here would not help me, should something go horribly wrong, and I have now seen enough to know that this is, largely, true. People can be seeped in so much violence, so much yelling, so much personal weight to lug that it is much easier to look the other way.
I know this and still my bus stop does not cause me concern.
Tonight, there is something different. The strip in front of my bus stop is unusually crowded, and I can’t make out a single familiar face. A large group of ten or so skinny figures stand there, at the centre, facing inwards, and it reminds me of the hive of rabid monsters Will Smith encounters in I Am Legend, feasting on a carcass in the dark. (I feel I should mention that the movie is not good.)
I’m not sure how to navigate the way to my regular spot, near the road, by the pole listing the bus numbers. My throat is full and tight, and I realize, suddenly, that I’m scared.
I pause for a moment, too long. I’m spotted and instantly swarmed. This is how I die in the zombie apocalypse.
In this life, people are pushing in, and it occurs to me that they are trying to talk, whispering, but with looks that are desperately friendly. Someone is saying something which I finally understand to be ‘down,’ or heroin. No, I stammer, finding my voice under twenty-three layers of anxiety. Other people are offering me rock, and then asking, in frustrated tones, what I do want to buy.
“I’m just here to catch the bus.” I stammer, once my brain becomes capable of complete sentences.
“This isn’t exactly a bus stop.” The first guy snarls, but I can see my way to the post where I usually stand and walk there, quickly, keeping my head down. Two women haven’t understood, and proceed to approach me and try to sell me crack. I say no, thank you, and spot my savior.
Valentine smiles at me and rolls her eyes.
“How you doing?” she says, completely at ease, the anti-Me. At this point I’m standing two feet off the curb, which she notices with a laugh. “What, you're scared? Come stand by me, kid. I’ll be your body guard.” She is incredibly warm and cool simultaneously, which I know to be impossible, from a thermodynamic perspective. That statement, in itself, is enough evidence: I will never be as cool as Valentine.
A third woman moves in close. Valentine laughs, without menace, and tells her where I work. The woman looks embarrassed and edges away. I can feel the adrenaline leaving me.
Valentine is beautiful, intelligent, with spunk and social skills. She breaks the heart of every staff member, myself included, and so many nights I ache, wanting to take her home. It’s mostly her age - she is twenty, and small. She is so young. She is a baby.
She regards me, I think, in a similar way - the baby of the staff members. She is younger, by three years at least, but tonight I don’t care. The role reversal is welcome, and I wait for the bus, Valentine at my side - calm and collected, keeping me safe.
My coworker offers to walk me to my bus stop, and I offer to walk her to her own. We each refuse, politely, and then offer again, until we finally admit that we just aren’t that scared standing alone on the street corners. We’ve each been working downtown for over a year - we are over the novelty of the addicts, and the men who occasionally solicit us, and the people in various states of consciousness. It’s old news, and we are no longer scared.
After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
(I don’t know if those words were spoken out loud, but I certainly thought them. This will prove to be ironic, though I’m not yet in on the joke. I will be, shortly, and then come to realize I am living as a character in a dark, predictable play.)
I walk past the Number Five Orange, which is a strip club, famous and seedy. I walk past the community courts, which are full of dark nooks and crannies for people to hide. There are cameras mounted out front, though this always makes me feel much less safe; I’m sure no one’s watching, but their presence tells me that someone probably should be. I cross in front of the police station that leads the way to Main and Hastings, the ‘open air drug market,’ the centre of the Downtown Eastside, and the epicenter of where I should not wander, alone, at night (according to knowing friends in my freshman/first year).
This is the location of my bus stop.
I used to feel comforted by the reasonable lighting and abundance of people; the corner is always, tellingly well populated, no matter what time of day or night. But then a schizotypic caretaker of my old building warned me that bystanders here would not help me, should something go horribly wrong, and I have now seen enough to know that this is, largely, true. People can be seeped in so much violence, so much yelling, so much personal weight to lug that it is much easier to look the other way.
I know this and still my bus stop does not cause me concern.
Tonight, there is something different. The strip in front of my bus stop is unusually crowded, and I can’t make out a single familiar face. A large group of ten or so skinny figures stand there, at the centre, facing inwards, and it reminds me of the hive of rabid monsters Will Smith encounters in I Am Legend, feasting on a carcass in the dark. (I feel I should mention that the movie is not good.)
I’m not sure how to navigate the way to my regular spot, near the road, by the pole listing the bus numbers. My throat is full and tight, and I realize, suddenly, that I’m scared.
I pause for a moment, too long. I’m spotted and instantly swarmed. This is how I die in the zombie apocalypse.
In this life, people are pushing in, and it occurs to me that they are trying to talk, whispering, but with looks that are desperately friendly. Someone is saying something which I finally understand to be ‘down,’ or heroin. No, I stammer, finding my voice under twenty-three layers of anxiety. Other people are offering me rock, and then asking, in frustrated tones, what I do want to buy.
“I’m just here to catch the bus.” I stammer, once my brain becomes capable of complete sentences.
“This isn’t exactly a bus stop.” The first guy snarls, but I can see my way to the post where I usually stand and walk there, quickly, keeping my head down. Two women haven’t understood, and proceed to approach me and try to sell me crack. I say no, thank you, and spot my savior.
Valentine smiles at me and rolls her eyes.
“How you doing?” she says, completely at ease, the anti-Me. At this point I’m standing two feet off the curb, which she notices with a laugh. “What, you're scared? Come stand by me, kid. I’ll be your body guard.” She is incredibly warm and cool simultaneously, which I know to be impossible, from a thermodynamic perspective. That statement, in itself, is enough evidence: I will never be as cool as Valentine.
A third woman moves in close. Valentine laughs, without menace, and tells her where I work. The woman looks embarrassed and edges away. I can feel the adrenaline leaving me.
Valentine is beautiful, intelligent, with spunk and social skills. She breaks the heart of every staff member, myself included, and so many nights I ache, wanting to take her home. It’s mostly her age - she is twenty, and small. She is so young. She is a baby.
She regards me, I think, in a similar way - the baby of the staff members. She is younger, by three years at least, but tonight I don’t care. The role reversal is welcome, and I wait for the bus, Valentine at my side - calm and collected, keeping me safe.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Prework Ramble
What if someone mistakes you for a Prostitute?
This possibility occurred to me in a hushed, self conscious tone, shortly after I’d been hired. Oh my god. Some one might think that I, Ivy Donegal, respectable citizen, am a Whore…the inhumanity! I was aware of my brain’s bigoted histrionics and tried to hush them, though the question remained, nagging, persistent.
I was reminded of a time when a similar question had troubled me, deeply: what if someone mistook me for a Homosexual? This was the problem, you see, of consorting with gays. I had posed it to a friend describing an outing to a gay bar. My tone was self-righteous and vicariously indignant: “But what if you were hit on by a Lesbian?”
She responded, slowly, as if I were a particularly stupid redneck, which indeed I was: “I would say that, sorry, I’m not interested.”
This conversation was, for me, a memorable one, marking the moment when I realized that homophobia was, outside of my God-fearing, incestuous town, nothing to be bragged about. I hushed up, which is an important first step towards discovery, learning, and left wing zealotry.
The inevitable happened about two weeks into my employment, working almost exclusively with sex trade workers in the poorest part of a very rich town. I was running to the nearby market to purchase bread, two hours before our drop-in opened, and a young man on the sidewalk, watching my exit, emitted a coughed but unmistakable: “Whore.”
My first reaction was of the man’s poor timing…yes, this building housed sex trade workers, but not for another two hours, stupid. Get your bigotry straight. Asshole.
I suppose my lack of personal offense was because I had already discovered what few others do: that sex trade workers don’t look or act remarkably different from any other women (except possibly when they’re soliciting customers, and even then not by much). The only identifiable feature in the women using our drop-in was that they looked poor. All ages, all races, though a great number of aboriginal women formed our ranks, and several dying of various diseases, but mostly cancer or AIDS. Thinner than the regular populace, mostly due to malnutrition. Short skirts and high boots were indeed popular, but the high heels eyed suspiciously; most women need footwear that they can stand on all night and run in, quickly, should their date turn ugly.
The first time I was actively solicited, I was wearing sneakers and old, ripped jeans. The zipper on my jacket was broken, but I loved it, because it was large and I was small and it made me feel tough as I walked down the deserted streets of Chinatown towards my bus stop. I looked rough.
The driver of the speeding car was visibly excited to have spotted me, and I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t respond, because I didn’t want to come very close to the doors of his vehicle, so I simply looked busy and walked away.
He drove off a few seconds later, emitting another round of the familiar adage: “Whore.”
This possibility occurred to me in a hushed, self conscious tone, shortly after I’d been hired. Oh my god. Some one might think that I, Ivy Donegal, respectable citizen, am a Whore…the inhumanity! I was aware of my brain’s bigoted histrionics and tried to hush them, though the question remained, nagging, persistent.
I was reminded of a time when a similar question had troubled me, deeply: what if someone mistook me for a Homosexual? This was the problem, you see, of consorting with gays. I had posed it to a friend describing an outing to a gay bar. My tone was self-righteous and vicariously indignant: “But what if you were hit on by a Lesbian?”
She responded, slowly, as if I were a particularly stupid redneck, which indeed I was: “I would say that, sorry, I’m not interested.”
This conversation was, for me, a memorable one, marking the moment when I realized that homophobia was, outside of my God-fearing, incestuous town, nothing to be bragged about. I hushed up, which is an important first step towards discovery, learning, and left wing zealotry.
The inevitable happened about two weeks into my employment, working almost exclusively with sex trade workers in the poorest part of a very rich town. I was running to the nearby market to purchase bread, two hours before our drop-in opened, and a young man on the sidewalk, watching my exit, emitted a coughed but unmistakable: “Whore.”
My first reaction was of the man’s poor timing…yes, this building housed sex trade workers, but not for another two hours, stupid. Get your bigotry straight. Asshole.
I suppose my lack of personal offense was because I had already discovered what few others do: that sex trade workers don’t look or act remarkably different from any other women (except possibly when they’re soliciting customers, and even then not by much). The only identifiable feature in the women using our drop-in was that they looked poor. All ages, all races, though a great number of aboriginal women formed our ranks, and several dying of various diseases, but mostly cancer or AIDS. Thinner than the regular populace, mostly due to malnutrition. Short skirts and high boots were indeed popular, but the high heels eyed suspiciously; most women need footwear that they can stand on all night and run in, quickly, should their date turn ugly.
The first time I was actively solicited, I was wearing sneakers and old, ripped jeans. The zipper on my jacket was broken, but I loved it, because it was large and I was small and it made me feel tough as I walked down the deserted streets of Chinatown towards my bus stop. I looked rough.
The driver of the speeding car was visibly excited to have spotted me, and I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t respond, because I didn’t want to come very close to the doors of his vehicle, so I simply looked busy and walked away.
He drove off a few seconds later, emitting another round of the familiar adage: “Whore.”
Friday, May 1, 2009
Me of the Day
Current Mood: Bleak.
Current Activity: Thinking of leaving the house. Maybe. Probably, no.
Incredibly Brilliant/Stupid: I was painting my nails (Pink! So pretty!) and had a thought...why don't we paint our teeth? Er...not pink, and not with Nail Polish, probably...but why don't dentists coat our every tooth with some sort of bright white, shiny substance that hardens and gives our teeth a layer of protection against cavities, acid, stains, etc.? I demand such a substance, hopefully before Diet Coke wears away the last of my natural enamel. If you are brilliant enough to make this happen, I ask only 15% of royalties.
And on to the Four Swine of the Apocalypse:
I believe I am all alone in wishing the media would talk more about swine flu - or whatever decidedly unromantic name it is going by these days. I want it to saturate life’s every moments. I want panic laden suburbanites to be duck-taping their windows, and every person over the age of sixty-two wearing government issued masks. Mostly, I want the government to be focused on what will happen next, not what happened a week ago. By the time any person in sick enough to get tested, they have had the illness and been spreading it to others for about ten days (the incubation period is about a week - longer than most flus.) Unless we start restricting people’s activity now, every single person is going to be sick in about…ten days. I except the government to catch on in approximately two week’s time.
My fear’s aren’t totally born of a sick desire to see the world erupt into chaos - most days, my life is interesting enough. I am, however, wary of everyone who notes that this flu is just another flu. It is, of course, but what makes pandemics so special is that they tend to be especially deadly - no one would have noticed or cared if hundreds of people in Mexico hadn’t already died from the thing. They kill hundreds, thousands, or even millions of people who otherwise would have, um, Not Died.
I work with an especially vulnerable population - the most vulnerable population, probably - and, odds are, we are going to lose a few of them to this. HIV-positive women with Hepatitis C and one lung who don’t get nutritious food and sleep on the streets…they are going to die. And yet the news will only say that there are ‘3 confirmed cases in the Lower Mainland of BC’…where? Vancouver or freaking Whiterock? The Downtown Eastside in a crowded hotel, or a farm in Aldergrove? Should we be getting our women proper masks, or stop serving communal meals? Should I stop going to work (I have allergies and therefore cough)? Tell Me What To Do You Useless Twenty-Four Hour Media of Ineptitude! Gah….
Current Activity: Thinking of leaving the house. Maybe. Probably, no.
Incredibly Brilliant/Stupid: I was painting my nails (Pink! So pretty!) and had a thought...why don't we paint our teeth? Er...not pink, and not with Nail Polish, probably...but why don't dentists coat our every tooth with some sort of bright white, shiny substance that hardens and gives our teeth a layer of protection against cavities, acid, stains, etc.? I demand such a substance, hopefully before Diet Coke wears away the last of my natural enamel. If you are brilliant enough to make this happen, I ask only 15% of royalties.
And on to the Four Swine of the Apocalypse:
I believe I am all alone in wishing the media would talk more about swine flu - or whatever decidedly unromantic name it is going by these days. I want it to saturate life’s every moments. I want panic laden suburbanites to be duck-taping their windows, and every person over the age of sixty-two wearing government issued masks. Mostly, I want the government to be focused on what will happen next, not what happened a week ago. By the time any person in sick enough to get tested, they have had the illness and been spreading it to others for about ten days (the incubation period is about a week - longer than most flus.) Unless we start restricting people’s activity now, every single person is going to be sick in about…ten days. I except the government to catch on in approximately two week’s time.
My fear’s aren’t totally born of a sick desire to see the world erupt into chaos - most days, my life is interesting enough. I am, however, wary of everyone who notes that this flu is just another flu. It is, of course, but what makes pandemics so special is that they tend to be especially deadly - no one would have noticed or cared if hundreds of people in Mexico hadn’t already died from the thing. They kill hundreds, thousands, or even millions of people who otherwise would have, um, Not Died.
I work with an especially vulnerable population - the most vulnerable population, probably - and, odds are, we are going to lose a few of them to this. HIV-positive women with Hepatitis C and one lung who don’t get nutritious food and sleep on the streets…they are going to die. And yet the news will only say that there are ‘3 confirmed cases in the Lower Mainland of BC’…where? Vancouver or freaking Whiterock? The Downtown Eastside in a crowded hotel, or a farm in Aldergrove? Should we be getting our women proper masks, or stop serving communal meals? Should I stop going to work (I have allergies and therefore cough)? Tell Me What To Do You Useless Twenty-Four Hour Media of Ineptitude! Gah….
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tales of a Me Who Cries at Work
4:15 I love work! It is sunny! I am so happy to be here…it’s going to be such a great night! Life is a wonderful adventure full of meaningful connections with interesting people!
4:30 My coworker seems stressed out, but that’s okay! I am in a great mood, nothing can bring me down!
4:45 I’ve gotten all of my prep work done for opening at six, because I rock! Now I will help butter bread in the kitchen.
5:00 I just cut my finger on a butter knife, through gloves! That’s not good! I’m a klutz, but that’s okay, cause it’s sunny outside and I’m in a good mood.
5:15 Okay…still buttering bread…no volunteers have arrived. Coworkers are all stressed out or sick, and no other work is getting done. Oh my god…we’re not going to be okay. There’s so much to be done in the kitchen. We open in 45 minutes. How are we going to do this? MOTHER FUCKER! OW! I just cut myself again and it really freaking hurts.
5:30 I HATE LIFE! I HATE EVERYTHING! Sob…sob…sob…Why is life such a cruel joke? How do you cut yourself so painfully when all that you have it a butter knife? Why am I freaking out and crying? Why am I here?! Oh god…so much to do…must get act together!
5:45 Oh. Six volunteers have arrived now. The kitchen work is all getting done. I am the most stressed out person here. Well, I feel stupid now…why am I so stupid? Why do I freak out over the smallest of things? Gahhhd.
6:00 Sure, I’ll go talk to that woman who has a history of emotional outbursts that turn violent, in order to tell her that she needs to be banned from the centre! That is certainly a good idea! I am so on it tonight!
…
And that is the story of how I cried at work. Three freaking times, which is a personal record. I clearly deserve an award.
4:30 My coworker seems stressed out, but that’s okay! I am in a great mood, nothing can bring me down!
4:45 I’ve gotten all of my prep work done for opening at six, because I rock! Now I will help butter bread in the kitchen.
5:00 I just cut my finger on a butter knife, through gloves! That’s not good! I’m a klutz, but that’s okay, cause it’s sunny outside and I’m in a good mood.
5:15 Okay…still buttering bread…no volunteers have arrived. Coworkers are all stressed out or sick, and no other work is getting done. Oh my god…we’re not going to be okay. There’s so much to be done in the kitchen. We open in 45 minutes. How are we going to do this? MOTHER FUCKER! OW! I just cut myself again and it really freaking hurts.
5:30 I HATE LIFE! I HATE EVERYTHING! Sob…sob…sob…Why is life such a cruel joke? How do you cut yourself so painfully when all that you have it a butter knife? Why am I freaking out and crying? Why am I here?! Oh god…so much to do…must get act together!
5:45 Oh. Six volunteers have arrived now. The kitchen work is all getting done. I am the most stressed out person here. Well, I feel stupid now…why am I so stupid? Why do I freak out over the smallest of things? Gahhhd.
6:00 Sure, I’ll go talk to that woman who has a history of emotional outbursts that turn violent, in order to tell her that she needs to be banned from the centre! That is certainly a good idea! I am so on it tonight!
…
And that is the story of how I cried at work. Three freaking times, which is a personal record. I clearly deserve an award.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday
A Week's Worth of Monologues: Tuesday
The Evidence:
Coworker: “So how are you liking it here, Ivy?”
Ivy: “It’s been great! Everyone's been so nice and friendly, and I feel like I've made some good connections. I don’t want to seem cocky, though. Everyone could decide to hate me today. It could be bad. I could get punched.”
Coworker laughs: “What? No staff member's ever been punched!"
Ivy: “Seriously? No one's been punched, ever?”
Coworker (slightly concerned): “…Seriously.”
Ivy (incredulous): “…What’s the worst thing that’s happened to your staff here?”
Coworker: “I don't know...Oh, a few years back, someone was really mad and threw a mug at somebody’s head. It was pretty bad.”
Ivy: “Did it Hit them?”
Coworker: “No.”
Ivy (quietly, to self): “…Somebody threw a plate at my head two weeks ago..."
The Conclusion: I don't know if I'm going to fit in here.
The Evidence:
Coworker: “So how are you liking it here, Ivy?”
Ivy: “It’s been great! Everyone's been so nice and friendly, and I feel like I've made some good connections. I don’t want to seem cocky, though. Everyone could decide to hate me today. It could be bad. I could get punched.”
Coworker laughs: “What? No staff member's ever been punched!"
Ivy: “Seriously? No one's been punched, ever?”
Coworker (slightly concerned): “…Seriously.”
Ivy (incredulous): “…What’s the worst thing that’s happened to your staff here?”
Coworker: “I don't know...Oh, a few years back, someone was really mad and threw a mug at somebody’s head. It was pretty bad.”
Ivy: “Did it Hit them?”
Coworker: “No.”
Ivy (quietly, to self): “…Somebody threw a plate at my head two weeks ago..."
The Conclusion: I don't know if I'm going to fit in here.
Monday
A Week's Worth of Monologues: Monday
Five ways of getting to my new job this morning which would have been faster, easier, and safer than taking transit:
1. Walking
2. Riding my bicycle, without skill or experience, through the snow-laden streets
3. Hitch-hiking
4. Looking up how to teleport online, building a teleportation device powered by aluminum foil and prayer, trying and failing to use said teleportation device, walking
5. Assembling a dog sled with my enthusiastic but untrained three puppies at the helm (net weight: 25 lbs) while a squirrel carrying a hot dog runs in the opposite direction.
The city of Vancouver announced today that it will be preventing people from driving cars during the 2010 Olympics on major thoroughfares, in the hopes that they will responsibly choose public transit instead.
Well…fuck you.
Five ways of getting to my new job this morning which would have been faster, easier, and safer than taking transit:
1. Walking
2. Riding my bicycle, without skill or experience, through the snow-laden streets
3. Hitch-hiking
4. Looking up how to teleport online, building a teleportation device powered by aluminum foil and prayer, trying and failing to use said teleportation device, walking
5. Assembling a dog sled with my enthusiastic but untrained three puppies at the helm (net weight: 25 lbs) while a squirrel carrying a hot dog runs in the opposite direction.
The city of Vancouver announced today that it will be preventing people from driving cars during the 2010 Olympics on major thoroughfares, in the hopes that they will responsibly choose public transit instead.
Well…fuck you.
Sunday
A Week’s Worth of Monologues: Sunday
Crap…I feel like crying. I’m such a girl. I hate being a girl. Except, I like the not having body hair…Eww, or facial hair. And I like being pretty...er...non-manish. Oooh, and doing my nails. But I hate crying. There is no excuse for it…so somebody yelled at you. So somebody else called you a bitch and a cunt and then threatened to hit you. So you left work at 12am in the bad part of town, and when you walked down the middle of the street to avoid a creepy man staggering on the sidewalk, a car up ahead did a U-turn to pull up beside you because they thought you were a hooker… Hmmm….well, okay, that part wasn’t great.
Work is angsty…why is work so angsty? Is it me? Am I burnt out? How does one know if they are burnt out…I don’t FEEL burnt out. I imagine that I would feel more dark, or bitter, or crispier…? But I guess the analogy only goes so far.
Maybe I’m realizing that, with my new job starting tomorrow, that my relationship with this job can only take me so far…and so I’m finding excuses to get upset so that the inevitable parting will be less painful, much like a teenager getting into screaming matches with his manic depressive mother before announcing he‘s ditching this dump to go live with his girlfriend Cheryl in her grandmother‘s basement…much like that.
Well, if that is the case, it’s a very nice thought of the part of my subconscious, but preparing to leave is a wee bit premature. I haven’t started the new job yet, and I’m only starting as a casual. There’s no guarantee of becoming full time…and who knows if I’ll actually like it, or be good at it, or if it will in any way be better than my old job…so, No. If that is what you’re doing, subconscious, then you are being ordered to cease and desist. I am repressing you. You are henceforth repressed.
...No, thank you, sir, I would not like any heroin. It was kind of you to offer, though.
Crap…I feel like crying. I’m such a girl. I hate being a girl. Except, I like the not having body hair…Eww, or facial hair. And I like being pretty...er...non-manish. Oooh, and doing my nails. But I hate crying. There is no excuse for it…so somebody yelled at you. So somebody else called you a bitch and a cunt and then threatened to hit you. So you left work at 12am in the bad part of town, and when you walked down the middle of the street to avoid a creepy man staggering on the sidewalk, a car up ahead did a U-turn to pull up beside you because they thought you were a hooker… Hmmm….well, okay, that part wasn’t great.
Work is angsty…why is work so angsty? Is it me? Am I burnt out? How does one know if they are burnt out…I don’t FEEL burnt out. I imagine that I would feel more dark, or bitter, or crispier…? But I guess the analogy only goes so far.
Maybe I’m realizing that, with my new job starting tomorrow, that my relationship with this job can only take me so far…and so I’m finding excuses to get upset so that the inevitable parting will be less painful, much like a teenager getting into screaming matches with his manic depressive mother before announcing he‘s ditching this dump to go live with his girlfriend Cheryl in her grandmother‘s basement…much like that.
Well, if that is the case, it’s a very nice thought of the part of my subconscious, but preparing to leave is a wee bit premature. I haven’t started the new job yet, and I’m only starting as a casual. There’s no guarantee of becoming full time…and who knows if I’ll actually like it, or be good at it, or if it will in any way be better than my old job…so, No. If that is what you’re doing, subconscious, then you are being ordered to cease and desist. I am repressing you. You are henceforth repressed.
...No, thank you, sir, I would not like any heroin. It was kind of you to offer, though.
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