Story Archives 2011

So let me get this s**t here straight!!!
I should feel bad because you feel bad
but it's you who hurt me!!
God rest the dead
James Brown said
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE
and Areatha said
R.E.S.P.E.C.T!

So don't call, don't write,
don't even fly a kite
YA understand me!!!
I'll call you, when and if I
ever feel better!!
And even then you'd better
man up to a long
Love letter! 

The brain becomes a
smoldering cauldron of thought,
refining a notion
thus relieving reality; its dross.
That is,
that which is
the false of
physical inhibitions.

HELLO,  my name is HANZ HARVEY BUTTERFIELD and “I AM HOMELESS!!!”
Above is the title and lead character name of a fictional short story I’m writing based on my own, very real, 12 years spent homeless.

Having never had any formal training in creative writing, I’m appreciative to the magazine here for it’ free journalism class and opportunity towrite and publish an article thus giving me the next step in seeing if it’s a hobby I want to get more serious about. Writing over the past 12 years has been my (peace of mind) in some very trying times! From having nothing and no where to turn to but a free sheet of paper and pencil found in the city library, so as to keep track of my many homeless self help program notes, appointments and substance abuse treatment suggestions;  to... my free yahoo email notepad where, for the past 2years I’ve kept a journal about my daily routines of seeking a Lifestyle Transition from such ways.

These personal digests are also where I pour out my most deeply opinionated thoughts about me and my intended actions towards my problems when these systems of recovery fail to be a significant place to do such soul searching.

“WHHAATT!?!?!” you demand in disgust. Free substance abuse treatment for those with no money and the free homeless self help system failing him.

“IMPOSSIBLE!” Those places are free so they can be nothing less than a help to him and if he looks at it any other way then he’s just being ungrateful so no wonder he keeps falling short of his transition plans. The programs don’t fail him, he, “Fails to Work the program.”

Yeeesss, Lord; after 12 long years of seeking recovery thru these two “Revolving Door” institutions.  I’ve come to believe it’s best for me to simply focus more on being responsible in good habits practiced such as, following “MY”, daily agenda “I” put down on those free sheets of library paper which I then deftly fold and carry around in my hip pocket for instant reminders.

I also believe being “Gut wrenching honest” in my (private) journaling about what I (Really) think is going on in this [Multi billion dollar, Vicious Business] of addictions treatment and Homeless self help (programming), has been extremely helpful towards my transition as well.

These habit forming practices have renewed the belief in me needed to create my hip pocket plans and carry them out thru thick and thin until success thus becoming a child blessed because he has his own. Within them there is the earnests I simply could not have with most of my so called treatment teams and homeless case handlers do to the cold hard facts of my situations. An example of this is when...I felt I couldn’t be honest about how I really felt and thought when a social worker I once had told me I was “Ignorant” when it came down to creative writing. She said this with a smile on her face and ring tone in her voice after I, with hope, timid pride, and passion in my eyes, shakily sought encouragement from her by merely mentioning my fledgling hobby done only to fill idle time.

The conversation took place during my initial intake session, rather the 30 minute grilling about ones life that usually takes place during these roasts. At the time Iso sorely felt that I needed the food, shelter, clothing and sanitary safe haven of the program she could provide or deny with one stroke of her pen that I didn’t want to offend her by saying anything that might put that in jeopardy; so.  About my scribble and knowledge of the discouraging label she covertly tried to put on me masked as non-harm filled intent. I simply dummied up and focused on what I did come there for which was the basics... the food, shelter and clothing she was freely given to give out to people like me but without the patronizing. Enough about my sad song of humility, I’ll balance those emotions out where I can be audacious and happy about these experiences and that is in my story.

Tramp trails the short story will center on hanz and his struggle with the system. There will be all the Doo Waa-Ditty and Nasty nitty-gritty of a dope fiend seeking repentance from his wicked ways. There’ll be players such as Black the dope boy, Lily white Lillian & Fire head red the prostitute. Not leaving out any ghetto love for anyone by way of the life’s color filled nicknames. There’ll be plenty of talk about “MASSA,” Hanz’s covert nick name for his bigoted “Master social worker” thru out his journey on the trail.

In my real life, not only did I have one social worker call me ignorant due to my truest belief that she really thought thru her own ignorance of reasoning that I didn’t know what the word meant. I had yet another be so crass about his, degreed higher learned 23 years of Formaning the Fields of homelessness that he made damn sure I, and I suspect anyone else concerned, was made fully aware of his accreditation by noting his credentials (MSW) in the opening and closing of every note he wrote me...
“I mean damn,” do you have to sign every thing like: “Mr. Thomas (MSW) so & so here; got your message that you’d miss our monthly case meeting due to job search reasons, these meetings are very important towards your progress so please contact me to reschedule... (MSW) so & so.”

I probably would’ve never even noticed his doing this on everything he wrote me but I and our meetings got to a boiling point where I could no longer turn a blind eye to his (antebellum at best) way of speaking to me and handling my case in general.
Hey look, not all us chronic cocaine cowboys have no more intellect than the rocks were smoking.  As a matter of fact,  most if not all of us, understand full well what is going on in our lives and the need to do something about it or it very well might be the things that kills us before our time.  Therefore, it being as serious as an issue as it is for us; the last thing we need is some, pedigreed handler making a career off this unanswerable disease we suffer from, speaking to us as if we're 3rd graders.

Anyway, before I get too far into how pissed I’ve gotten at these flat out denials of mutual adult respect due to nothing more than social stigma and stereotype, I’ll relieve myself by getting back to what I’ve found that releases me from such strongholds, my creative writing.

My leading man has three last names and they respectively represent 3 major areas of life in his and my journey thru and eventually out of homelessness. I have personalized our path as “The Tramp Trail.”

Now, before you “A-HA HA HA” yourself in saying...
“Well, if he was homeless on the trail he’s writing about then he must include himself as a tramp;”
to that I would say,
“I absolutely am not a tramp!”
I’m a “PROFESSIONAL TRAMP,” there’s a difference!

You see, when your a regular tramp you do things like dummy up for the sake of getting what you think you need, but when you become a professional tramp, you may write about, but most importantly, become aware of the necessity to confess with your mouth what you really believe about “MASSA” and his outdated way of transitioning folk off the trail, but in truth are doing a much better J.O.B. at providing themselves at least a low middle class income.

Speaking of which, let’s get to the facts & figures that my story is all about and that is,
”Modern day substance abuse treatment is outdated and the Homeless self help system needs an enema.”

FACT#1 as it relates to HANZ; the 1st name of my unreal, made up man, but in my real life the name represents the vast majority of addiction therapists and homeless case managers I’ve had thru out my journey on the trail.  These folks spend maybe 2 years in college and earn an entry level $45,000 a year so they can sit on their duff behind a desk and call me ignorant because I’ve never gone to college and at my general labor most only earn minimum wage.

Or; as another one who gets paid by an institution, who pays her with your tax dollars, sarcastically said to me after I confidently mentioned to her of my revelations about the differences between lapse, relapse and how I can use that information to learn from my past as far as what I need to do in either case. She, intending to tear down my opinion said, “OH... I didn’t know there was a difference between lapse and relapse. I’ll have to speak with my colleagues about this.”

Woman, the difference is 3rd grade...
Lapse is a noun meaning people, places and things personalized, while relapse is a verb meaning action!
In all words, wino, the terms break down like this...
To lapse means me having a year clean & deciding to go down to Ray’s boom, boom, room and have a drink or two with the boy’s...
To relapse means; I hijack a beer truck and ransom the driver for guess what? ... more beer.

I’ll save that kind of talk for my short story.  The article talk here I believe to be much more important and that is;
“If you don’t know the differences then how can you advise your clients on the proper type of therapy that’s best for him or her?!”
Like the “one size fits all” recommendations of DR...
“Let me confer with my colleagues on how to speak English.”
The “New quitter” is an article in Psychology Today magazine [July/august 2011 issue] and it has this to say about lapse and relapse.
When G. Allen Marlatt a (professor of psychology & director of the addictive behaviors research center at the University of Washington) started working in an alcoholism ward in the 60’s, roughly 70% of the clients he saw bounced in and out of hospital based treatment programs. [BUT] “Addiction counselors weren’t supposed to acknowledge the high rate of relapse.” The thinking was talking about that would “just give people permission to do it” Marlatt recalls. Frustrated, he began studying how successful quitters maintained there sobriety over time. “We found that many had slips or lapses and were able to get back on the wagon again,” says Marlatt... and I’ll stop right there.

Could it be that the 18 months abstinence I had when I had a lapse I may’ve needed to just say “O.K., no problem, I’ll simply stay away from Ray’s Tavern and think deeply about where ever else I may’ve went wrong as I continue to do what I was doing before I took the drinks; OR!!!  Do as my therapist at the time advised me.  He said that because of the slip I was in a dire situation and that I needed to “stop thinking and let someone else think for me” because “my plan had failed!” He also advised me that in his professional opinion I possibly needed to begin taking Naltrexone or Antibuse medications to stop the drinking along with a lengthy inpatient treatment stay, at least.  And if not most definitely needed to double up on my outpatient treatment, which, by the way means job security for him.

That’s the advice, I, living in a perpetual state of humility about that one drink religiously followed after a lapse for 9 of the 12 years I’ve spent homeless as a result of my disease of addiction.  But for the past 3 I’ve simply read up to date (Free) library material such as this article which validates my sacrifices for and now lived by opinions and I’m a lot happier camper about my incurable disease of addiction as a result.

Facts #2 & #3, rather my opinion about: me, my diseases (substance addiction & the social ill homelessness), what I’ve done about them, past, present, future, the pseudonym of my leading man AKA the aggregated interpretation of my real life struggle for transition from the trail they represent creatively consolidated in my “Hood Ride.” Thrill Ride of a short story about mine and his miss-adventures called “Tramp Trails.”
Whew!!! It was rough getting that out and if you don’t understand I apologize. As I said I’m new to writing this stuff and thinking about someone actually reading it, so pleeaassee, bear with me.

There’s two more reference articles [Scientific America magazine] march 2011 issue & article “Tru Grit” & no it’s not about the new movie. It’s about new research proving the routine resiliency of our minds to simply bounce back from all adversity over a routine 3 or 4 month period.  Then there’s [Scientific American Mind] magazine September/ October 2009 issue & article the “Social Cure” which validate my belief that it’s better for me at this point in my lifestyle transition to become part of groups & societies more in line with the lifestyle I want as opposed to the long time substance abuse treatment and homeless self help program grouping that’s the main suggestion to do and is the (Mandatory Minimum) of these institutions in order to get their help with basic needs.
These 2 articles I’ll tie in to the last 2 names of my made up man as facts #2 & #3 in the same way I did fact #1;  however.  These two’s will be done in a part two of my article.  That is, if I don’t get shell shocked into not doing it as a result of “whatever come may” about this one here.

In closing...
1st of all; I give condolences to the family and friends of professor Marlatt of the psychology today article in my fact #1.
I read in the Seattle Times 17 march 2011 issue he passed away recently. Being the true advocate he was for “Pragmatic Idealism” (which works) based on research, and could open the many different ways and closed doors needed in helping us addicts with our disease; them being helping us right where were at whether it be: actively using, abstinent and desiring to continue in moderation or whatever else the case may be for the addict suffering. He fought thru his career for this way of helping us in the face of tremendous opposition from his colleagues & folk in the know in general whom felt only the “Moral Model” of recovery with its, hush, hush policies about the all to true reality of relapse & “abstinence only” as the only goal that works and worth striving for, was the only way.   This man, a visionary & luminary in his field, will be sorely missed, I’m sure.  Hell, I miss him now and never met him.

2nd, I don’t think I significantly explained what and where the tramp trail is, which is:
3rd & Yessler Seattle up and out at 6am from the DESC shelter. City ride free or walk the few blocks north to work source (3rd & vine)
for, an office environment viable to seek employment. 12 noon it’s Down to millionaires club (western & wall) for a free Dicky burger lunch and possible J.O.B. for the day.  But if not I can put my mind at ease with a brief break in Steinbruer AKA Native park near the market a few blocks away. There, us homeless mix, mingle & blend in withSeattle curious, ocean going, tourist, Starbuck eyed Seattleites and Seattle’s finest, SPD on horseback.  There also, humanity, we all can get along, because, the bird’s eye hilltop scene of Elliot bay is so serene that  it keeps what would normally be a Motley crew of socially illed emotions and behaviors at bay.
Then it’s on back down the way to real change magazine (1st ave & main st) where this homeless man knows he can make the change needed for a $5 stay the night, across the way at the bread of life mission.  Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention the two most important stops on the path that us homeless denizen, but the average citizen merely works at or is only a visitin.
The library; (4th ave & spring st) where information on all is @ our disposal on the, how to find our escape from the, harsh realities of homelessness when we have nothing and no where else to go.  Last but not least the greyhound bus station (9th & Stewart) where, if need be Us, nomad minded thrill seekers can blow town headed for higher ground in our transition process; or. Arrive anew in the newness of this new A.O. with new attitude of hope in tow about our sought after Real Change. Every metropolis downtown has one where might yours be in your neck of the woods.

THE HP Report this month focuses on Capitalism/ Amerikkkanism

With the disasters that have hit Pacha Mama in the last couple years, it seems to affect poor people the worst--from the earthquake in Haiti, to the oppression in Egypt and the Middle East, violence in Mexico and now in Japan.

   I was not surprised of the little coverage devoted by mainstream media to those most affected by the tsunami in Japan--Poor people. The Majority of the people who live on the coastline of Japan are Poor people who depend on fishing as survival to eat and sell. This doesn’t happen only in Japan but in other so called “Third world countries” so when tsunamis, hurricanes and storms occur, poor people who live on the coastline suffer the worst compared with middle and upper class people who live in the downtowns or higher grounds.

    Poor people who don’t work in factories like Honda, Toyota, or in the technology industries which require some kind of education, end up as fisherman or living in poor areas next to coastlines.

   In a Article I read recently released by the BBC, it was mentioned how climate change will impact “underprivileged” the most.

   "It's the poorest of the poor in the world, and this includes poor people even in prosperous societies, who are going to be the worst hit," said Rajendra Pachauri, chairman of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC).

•    75-250 million people across Africa could face water shortages by 2020
•    Crop yields could increase by 20% in East and Southeast Asia, but decrease by up to 30% in Central and South Asia
•    Agriculture fed by rainfall could drop by 50% in some African countries by 2020
•    20-30% of all plant and animal species at increased risk of extinction if temperatures rise between 1.5-2.5C
•    Glaciers and snow cover expected to decline, reducing water availability in countries supplied by melt water
   From Africa to Japan over and over poor people are on the frontlines of disasters. It is sad that even in so called independent media, little is mentioned of the suffering of our poor people, the houseless, landless, jobless the elders.

   The elephant in the room that few want to confront is the Class issue. I remember hearing stories of Katrina and how people got stuck in New Orleans because they did not have a car to leave. It seems we poor people are destined to die.
Corporate media and Governments want to keep us silent but at poor magazine we resist, fight back, speak out, and shout.

By any means possible,

Being poor is not a crime
Then why get criminalized, brutalized,
For breathing
Left behind by society
All we trying do is to make a living
Is not about the color of your skin
Is about the class you belong
So I shout am brown proud
And love my poor gente

Tom, Tom…Come in Tom. Do you read me Tom?”

I still laugh at my father’s reaction the moment I informed him—with unprecedented pride—that I’d been hired as a door attendant at a high-end apartment complex in the city. I had started off as a security guard at the same complex greeting the high end residents with a high end greeting (such as “well good morning sir”…followed by an under the breath “you son of a bitch”), high end nod, and of course, a high end—albeit chickenshit—smile.

I always pictured a door attendant as wearing one of those outfits with a wide shouldered jacket and captain’s hat—like the door man on that classic TV show, “The Jeffersons”. I was given a pair of tan pants—Dockers—a light shirt and well made, high end leather shoes. I slipped into the outfit and began to feel high end. My end had never felt so high. Anyway, it’s getting higher with every passing minute. “Hey dad” I said. “I got a new job…a house negro job, a doorman. Aren’t you proud of me? You think grandma and grandpa are proud, having braved the stormy seas to come to America like George Washington and John Wayne, in hopes of providing a new life, new opportunities to their offspring and their offspring’s offspring. Dad paused. He’s a native San Franciscan living in Hawaii. I heard the waves pounding the shore through the static of his Metro PCS cell phone. He finally spoke: You ain’t got no house negro job…you got an uncle Tom job. I listened to the waves and the sound of the ocean over the phone. My dad, working years and years as a janitor in San Francisco; he’s got the Hawaiian beaches now. Let him have that beach, he deserves it.

I stand by the door waiting. I look around. The building is big and spotless and I hear the calls of ravens outside. They sometimes call out to me. “Hey Uncle Tom, you think you can throw us a few breadcrumbs…at your convenience, of course”. I go to the lobby kitchen area and look for breadcrumbs but all I find is expensive gourmet coffee. I see a resident walking to the door. I step on it, moving with the swiftness of a gazelle, reaching the door and opening it with much class. Sometime the residents say thank you, sometimes not.

I am 90 days into my Tom-Hood.  I am doing a decent job but I have some concerns.  One of these concerns involves an old white man in a terry cloth robe--let's call him T.C. (short for Terry Cloth).  "T.C" comes down every morning to the lobby for his morning paper and coffee.  He is pleasant, and his robe is befitting of the terry cloth prince that he surely is.  He requested a cart from me to move a few items into his apartment.  Like the good Tom that i am,  I complied.  He came back with the cart 30 minutes later.  Put it there, he said, producing a fist.  He inched his fist close to me.  "Give it up" he said.  I looked at my hand.  "T.C" took a hold of my hand and formed a fist.  He then, in a beautifully choreographed moment, bumped his fist into mine--a "Brotherhood of the fist" of sorts--not predicated upon race, economic status, education or various other chickenshit requirements and/or sensibilities.  It's tough being a Tom, for you forget how to make a fist and must rely on older white men to give you an occasional refresher course.

 Sometimes I find myself dozing at the desk and at the door. I think of the neighborhood outside. Not long ago, my grandparents were prevented from moving here. It was in the 1950’s. Grandpa was a black man from Louisiana, grandma was San Francisco Irish. Nobody in this place knows this. I open the door and the ravens cry out. I step back inside and see another resident approach. They all look so important, all making so much money. What do they do to make so much money? I open the door and smile. “Have a nice day, sir”. I don’t earn enough to live in this place, yet I grew up in this neighborhood. Nobody knows this.

A coworker stops by. His name is “J”. We talk about the job. He mops the floor and changes the toilet paper consistently and with much expertise. He speaks of the former doorman, a fellow named Kissassman. Kissassman lasted a couple of months. “J” explained that Kissassman was running around every second, attending to every need. “Kissassman get me an umbrella, Kissassman make more coffee, Kissassman call me a cab, Kissassman arrange to have my dry cleaning picked up, Kissassman, kissassman Kissassman...etc, etc., etc. 

One day kissassman left—kissed it all goodbye like a snake shedding some unfamiliar skin. His last words, “I’m tired of being Kissassman. I’m going to have my name changed…legally. 

In the meantime, i stand by the door. I catch myself dozing off. My cell phone rings, a text message from good old dad. I read it: “Tom, Tom…come in Tom…do you read me Tom?”

San Francisco has a “Housing First” policy. The (very extended) Patel

family, which owns the vast majority of SRO hotel (Single Room

Occupancy: a.k.a. Poor People Housing) properties in the city, is

spitting in our faces by leaving SRO’s vacant for years. There is one

in the Mission (22nd and Mission, above the Ritmo music store, with 40

units), and one in SOMA—the already earthquake code-improved 100-200

unit four-story Chronicle Hotel (across the street from the

newspaper!) and the retail space under it.

Housing in the city translates into money spent in the city, including

jobs for people staffing SRO hotels; of course, getting the empty

Patel spaces clean and useable as living spaces would also generate

those oh-so-wonderful short-term (a.k.a. temporary) jobs the “job

creators” love to talk about (contractor stuff, construction…) too.

The SRO in the Mission only needs $500,000 (current costs) to be

returned to service. The electrical wiring is up to code. Sinks and

bathrooms would need to be installed. The SOMA space, abandoned for 20

years, used to have a blood plasma donation center on the ground

floor. Bruce and Thornton remember it well. A lot more money would

need to be sunk into it to make it liveable.

City services, funded by local, state, and federal taxes, would not be

strained by an effort made to maximize housing for poor people, the

tax base would be improved by it. This modest proposal would take

approximately 200 people off the streets. More would be better.

Photo of the Franciscan Towers

Photo Credit: Charles Pitts/PNN

I live in Twitter town where its not safe to be poor, black or brown...I live in Amerikkka where poor peoples and peoples of color are displaced, criminalized & incarcerated EVERY (pinche) DAY ….

“Tiny, my room is burning down”, I got one of the most terrifying calls of my life last night from a disabled elder and poverty scholar friend who lives, or rather used to live, at the Franciscan Towers, a poor people housing complex in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. The most terrifying part of the call was not only that her life was in danger but that my recently displaced and evicted body was miles away,  without money for transportation to go and help her.

The elevator was also out of service in the 105 unit residence, a property of Tenderloin Neighborhood Development Corporation (TNDC) and there were several people that were injured and narrowly escaped with their lives. Happily, my friend got out safely, but sadly, as of now, she has nowhere to go.

"Twenty-two people were injured in the fire,  including four who required hospitalization, but none of the injuries were considered life-threatening," said Deputy Fire Chief Pat Gardner

“A lot of us tenants think there was foul play, we just don’t know by who,” After my friend managed to get through the craziness of last night she and I spoke about the possible cause of the fire, “ but we have been worried about something like this happening for a minute,” she concluded ominously.

When I heard her speak about the possible arson of the hotel which supposedly started in the garbage shute, I was haunted by the reminders of the Gentrification By Fire series of 1998-2000 re-ported and personally felt by many of us poverty scholars at POOR Magazine. This extensive insider investigation focused on a series of arsons started by slumlords so they could qualify for insurance pay-offs and redevelopment funds. The series and the deadly fires culminated with the tragic fire in the Hartland Hotel, also in the Tenderloin at Geary and Larkin streets.

I have lived through slumlord perpetrated evictions by fire, twice, once in an Single Room Occupancy (SRO) Hotel, not even as nice as the Franciscan, and once in a sub-standard apartment building. In both cases, the landlords had made multiple attempts to intimidate us out of the buildings before they resorted to out and out attempted murder.

Oddly enough, I got another call last night, one from a friend who told me that the Mid-Market/Twitter Tax give-away had passed, a tax giveaway which will increase the shortage of affordable housing, un-criminalized streets and services for poor people which led me to think the kinds of things I am inclined to think, maybe “they” are trying to burn the rest of us poor folks out of this increasingly rich and white town.

I met Orokobix about 5 years ago at the National Day of Mourning Protest in Plymouth, MA. I met him there, and ever since then we have remained connected. So when I went to visit Hartford, CT I had to see Orokobix and his partner Coabey and got schooled on Taino Indian culture. We talked much about the similarities in our culture and ways we were interconnected. PEEP the Video!

The African-American community suffers disproportionately from both mental health and mental health treatment.  This article is a journey through the struggle of African-American males and mental illness in Amerikkka.

I walked down a hall that smelled of medicine; vicious screams resonating in my ear. I was on the 6th floor psychiatric ward at San Francisco General Hospital. The nurse with her glasses peaking over her nose, “How may I help you?“ “I am here to visit my husband Jerome,“ I replied. Fear and sadness struck me as I thought about the mental complexity that he and so many other Black Brothers experience in this racially oppressive society called America.

“One of the greatest and most under treated threats affecting African American men today is mental illness,” according to blackpressusa.com. “Four hundred fifty million people are affected by mental, neurological or behavioral problems at any time. African Americans make up more than half the mental illness cases world wide.”

After being married to my African-American husband for 5 years, I too was experiencing the effects of dealing with an African-American man with a severe mental disorder. My mind could not help but wonder what shape my husband would be in as I noticed the people running down the hallway rocking back and forth in their invisible chair--screaming sounds of terror and talking to people that only they saw.

My heart jumped with fear; it felt like a rubber band being pulled back and forth. “Down the hall to the left room 609,” the nurse replied to my question. I walked carefully down the hall not wanting any sudden moves to be misread by the psychiatric men and women roaming the floor. I wondered if the beatings and injustices that the police had done to my husband had led him to the mental catastrophe that he was enduring while being locked up in this mental institution. “African Americans are disproportionately exposed to social conditions considered to be important risk factors for physical and mental illness,” according to Glen Ellis of blackpressusa.com.

I continued my journey down the hall and my legs felt like they were being captured by quicksand; chills of horror ruffled over my body in uncontrollable waves. As I got closer and closer to the room my mind could not help but wonder what shape my husband would be in. I stopped slowly outside the room. I could see the dark cold room smelling of stale must and I could see my husband from afar sitting on the bed rocking back and forth. His hair was woolly and a knotted mess; his facial hair was wild and rugged. The clothing looked as if it was a week behind on being washed. Don’t look like he brushed his teeth in weeks.

There is a dearth of providers of color and culturally competent providers. Lack of insurance coverage and inadequate means of financing care often leads men to forego care. Finding care that is affordable, respectful, and accessible is a major challenge for African American men,” according to the Black Mental Health Alliance. My mind pondered on the financial cost of this institution, wondering how in the hell were we going to pay for the medical bill. As far as I am concerned institutions are not designed to really help my husband. It is a financial money-making society and they are committed to making money off of the African American to this day. The biggest way that they make money off of the African Americans who are suffering with mental disorders is by keeping them doped up on medications so that they really have no way of fully functioning and being fully alive.

I walked in the room. “Hi,” I said. He looked at me as if he had saw a ghost. “How you doing,” I replied with the perkiest voice I could muster. Trying to keep the conversation afloat I said, “So they treating my boo o.k. in here?” Stillness remained in his face. I began to wonder if he lost his hearing. “What did you eat today?” Still no response. “Did you eat?” Still no response. As I heard no response from my husband question after question I grew more in pain. How could I get through? Do I need to stay, leave; does he know who I am; what kind damn medication do they have him doped up on? As the questions rang in my mind I became more and more sad. Finally I could not take it any longer. I had been watching him rock back and forth, looking through me as if I was a glass window. I felt that I had no choice but to do what I figured would shake him into reality. I stood up and I got arm distance from my husband and with the most powerful strength I had, I slapped the shit out of him. He stood to his feet with swiftness and said “ouch” in a loud voice. “Woman what in the hell is wrong with you?” I thought to myself, that’s my husband. I gave him a kiss. “I love you. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.”