Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Part II Day 124: June 23, 2010 (the unemployed philanthropist gets outbid by the girl from brazil, and I eat like a starving artist)

Position: Philanthropist
Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 159
EDD Check: $250 per week
Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $370

The IRC's First Things First school, where our Bhutanese family's mother goes during the day to learn English and other life and work skills, is holding a fundraiser this evening. The flier doesn't say much more than the open house at the school grounds will include two sessions, music, and food. I assume we're going to eat some great food, listen to some music, and drop $15 or so in a cash jar.

So I'm a little surprised when we sign in that we're handed auction paddles with a number on one side and a picture of a refugee child on the other, along with a list of items on which we can bid. The items aren't things you take home, but things you can buy for the school. The list includes everything from a $10,000 playground at the top all the way down to $9 worth of diapers, which is probably what I'll end up bidding on. The school has to make $25,000 worth of upgrades and improvements to gain certification as a childcare facility, which will then make them self-sufficient and eligible for reimbursements and other forms of funding. (You can read more about the school and donate here if you like.)

When we sit down, the school's coordinator talks about what the goals are, and then a couple former students, African women dressed in long skirts and black Muslim headscarves, tell their stories about getting jobs after "graduating" from the school. Before the auction begins, the coordinator tell us to help ourselves to the food table, where there's Ethiopian rice, tofu spring rolls, and Indian samosas. It's about six o' clock, and I haven't eaten dinner, so I can't take my eyes off the food table, which is on the opposite side of the event. "You always look so desperate around food. Why is that?" Etel says. I have a reputation for sustained attacks on food tables at parties––well past the point of being full. I don't know what it is about appetizers on tables, but I lose all self-control.

(Here I am caught in the act at Etel's birthday party the very next night)


When the professional auctioneer begins the bidding process with the $10,000 playground, no one is surprised that bidding paddles don't rise. People in the small crowd of about 50 even chuckle. In a reverse move on how normal auctions work, he drops the bidding price to $5,000, then $2,000, then $1,000, then $500, and still no paddles rise. He says, "How about a hundred bucks? Can I get anyone to give me a hundred dollars for that playground?" Etel raises her paddle, being the first bidder. I look at her, surprised.

"What?" she says. "I gave myself a budget of $200." Well, I had no idea. "What did you think, that you were going to come to a fundraiser and not spend any money?" I tell her I thought maybe I'd give ten to fifteen dollars. The bidding moves on, and a young man drops $500 on another item. People begin bidding hundreds here and there, and I'm impressed. I get caught up in the moment, in the spirit of the thing, and want to bid. I peruse the list and think maybe I can bid on an $85 item.

When the time arrives, I hesitate, and someone else bids on the $85 item. The aucioneer asks if anyone else also wants to bid $85, and he'll "move the money around." I decide it's too much, but I see a $50 item (a crib, I think) on the list, and decide that's more reasonable for me. He asks for bids on the $50 cribs, which they need three of, and my paddle raising is met by eight or more other people. I guess fifty was the magic number. Etel leans over and says, "Fifty dollars is pretty impressive for a guy who's unemployed."

Maybe it's not the wisest move for me right now, but in the big picture––where I spend money on much dumber things––I can afford to help the school, which does great work. Plus I feel like I scored some hero points with Etel, who finishes by bidding on bed sheets.

With the auction done, a Burmese man begins playing beautiful music on his saung, a Burmese string harp, and I head straight for the food table. I impatiently wait while some children dish rice and samosas onto their plates. I go light at first––one chicken samosa, one spring roll piece, and a little Ethiopian rice––but when I see a man putting more food out, I return for seconds. I also eat at least two of the small desserts being passed around by Somalian women. Etel looks at me downing my second helping of food and says, "So desperate."

Friday, June 25, 2010

Part II Day 121: June 20, 2010 (banks are for people with money, go out for a long "A," and grandma's bureaucratic tooth pain)

Position: Volunteer
Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 156
Hours Volunteered: 2.5
EDD Check: $250 per week
Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $320

Etel and I begin today's lesson with the Bhutanese refugee parents by reviewing the dozen or more places that they've learned in English and asking them what they do at each place. There are small pictures of buildings on the handout. The post office is one. After the mom and dad correctly identify the post office in the picture, Etel asks, "What do you do at the post office?" The mom stares at her. "You mail letters," Etel answers.

"Yes, Teacher," the mom says, "I mail letters."

Somewhere down the list, after "caseworker's office" and "grocery store," we hit upon "the bank," and Etel asks what they do there. The mom stares at her, again. "What do you do at the bank?" Etel repeats. The mom and dad sit silent and smile. "You get money at the bank," Etel says.

"No money, no bank, Teacher," the mother says. We laugh. That's right. The family has had no interaction with banks, yet. They receive their welfare payments for food and living on a debit card. No money, no banks.

When we're done with the place names, Etel and I discuss how best to work on letter sounds with them. I have no idea how to teach phonics, but we decide we'll power through the first five letters of the alphabet, and move on week by week, because the parents are struggling most with reading and writing. They cannot connect the sounds with the letters that represent those sounds.

We start with "A," and I write down three lists: words with one short "A" sound, such as cat, bat, and fat; words with another short "A" sound, such as ball, call, and fall; and words with long "A" sounds, such as cake, bake, and fake, in order to use similar starting letter sounds. The lesson seems to stall in place, mostly due to my phonics incompetence. I think there is a breakthrough on the letter "B," which, out of frustration, I write seven times across the page and say, "How would you say that?" I pause for a second and then answer myself, "Buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh. Every time you see the letter B, you just make the sound 'buh.' It's that simple." The mom laughs and says, "Buh."

After the lesson is over and we're ready to go, the son tells us the mom has made something for us. Out come the customary samosas, curry paste, grapes, and over-sugared and over-creamed tea for me and over-sugared and over-creamed coffee for Etel. This is always my favorite time, because not only do I get to eat great food, the formality of the lessons falls away and we can chat. Late in the conversation, mom, sitting behind her son, quietly says something to him.

Half-embarrassed, he says, "Oh, my mom wanted to ask you about my grandma. She has a pain in her tooth." We ask if they have an assigned dentist, and he says yes. He hands us a form from the dentist, which says the grandmother's medical history is unknown and the dentist cannot perform the necessary operation without a doctors approval allowing for the use of a local anesthetic, amoxicillin, and Tylenol with codeine. I explain what the form means, and about allergies, and ask them if they have a doctor they see. They all seem a little confused. "Did someone examine you when you got here to the U.S.?" I ask. They say yes. "You're covered to see a doctor, right?" Yes.

The mom disappears into the back room and returns with a mess of cards and papers, among which I recognize yellow immunization cards. They also have green Medi-Cal cards, Social Security cards, and both Work Authorization and California State IDs. They can't find the grandma's Medi-Cal card. I tell them they should keep everything better organized, like all of each kind of IDs and cards together. I sort them out and place them into separate piles.

We ask them if they have a clinic nearby that they use, and they point out the back window and say it's far. Etel tells them to call on Monday for a doctor's appointment, and then Etel can come take the grandma, so she can get clearance for the dentist, whose office is within walking distance. Everyone seems to understand how things are going to proceed, and I tell the son to be sure to bring all of Grandma's IDs and cards, and the doctors should be able to find her Medi-Cal information. What a nightmare the grandma must be experiencing, dealing with a tooth that needs to be pulled while hoping her family can figure out the bureaucracy of our system.

At the same time, it's funny that I should be sitting here helping the poor when I don't have medical nor dental insurance (haven't had either in almost a decade), and have just signed up for three sessions of cavity fillings that are costing me $1,300. I've been plagued by terrible sinuses, a possible case of sleep apnea, and I still have that spot on my upper thigh I worry is skin cancer. I don't mention all of this to complain or beg for your sympathy but because the system only works for the very rich, who can afford their own coverage (barely, now), or the very poor, who have everything paid for by the generosity of taxpayers.

Before we leave, we get the information about the oldest daughter's resettlement loan, so that I can call on her behalf. I tell the daughter I'll call on Monday (I will, and I'll find out that I can only extend her deadline for three months, even though she's still in job training school and has no income. I'll also find out not paying the loan will destroy her credit, which isn't good for a young person who may eventually need a car or school loan). We say goodbye, hoping the oldest daughter and son will follow through on their promises for the grandma, as we will follow through on our promises to them.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Part II Days 108-119: June 7-18, 2010 (beer bucks for charity, taking away the transportation means of the poor, and the future that could be Fresno)

Position: Researcher
Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 143-154
Hours Volunteered: 0
EDD Check: $0 per week
Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $260

I've begun thinking of the world in terms or beer. More precisely, Etel has made me think in terms of beer prices. When I'm being cheap about something, she'll say, "You won't spend $3 on fruit, but you'll pay $5 for a beer at a bar?" When I recently thumbed my nose at a large $10 jar of local honey that would last me months, if not a year, and probably help relieve my persistently bad sinuses, I thought, But I would spend that in two hours (or less) at a bar. But I still didn't buy it. I'm dumb.

My last post was about fundraising for the Bhutanese refugee family we're tutoring in English, asking for donations to repay their relocation expenses, and we've received several positive responses and one negative one ("I almost fell for your Ponzi scheme"). I'm not a natural fundraiser, nor a natural candidate for volunteer work. (My brother Joey recently said, "When are you going to admit we're not programmed for volunteer work?") So I've been encouraged by receiving messages from people saying they admire what I'm doing. The thing is, I have the leisure to do it, since I'm unemployed. I'm more amazed by people like Etel, whose undying commitment to volunteer work in the midst of a full-time job makes them inspirational super heroes.

And I've been really impressed by the donations we've received, from 10 to 50 dollars at a time, not including the money Etel and I have promised to contribute. I would never want to make anyone feel bad for not donating to the Bhutanese family's cause, since I'm a person who has rarely given anything to anyone in the past (and I was very excited to learn, through this writing project, how much and how diversely my parents contribute to social causes), but if you can afford to metaphorically buy the Bhutanese a beer, then we and they will hold up our mugs and cheers you. (I should mention that the Bhutanese family doesn't drink, and they think drinking is dumb. I should also mention we've lowered our target to pay off the eldest daughter's "loan" first, because she will be the first person from the family able to work.) You can contribute through the mail (e-mail me for mailing address: etp05@hotmail.com) or send money to Etel's PayPal account, using her email: etelga@hotmail.com.

Fresno Trip Interlude:

Being on unemployment is not as glorious and freeing as people might think: I'm not allowed to take an unpaid internship at a respected advertising firm as a copyeditor, even if that will eventually lead to a well-paying and respectable job (update––they don't want my services, even for free); I cannot take the Spanish summer school class I want to take in order to improve my chances of becoming fluent and add a valuable bullet point to my resume; I cannot leave the country at all. The EDD doesn't want you to improve your situation, they want you working full-time, now, washing dishes if you have to.

What I could, and did, do these past two weeks was take a trip to Fresno to visit family (congratulations to my nephews for their graduation and promotion) and conduct research for a book I'm writing. (If someone from the EDD is reading this, I also looked for work while in Fresno. Every day. Really hard.) But since I was in Fresno and not at home, I missed the notice the EDD sent saying I mis-filled out my unemployment form and had until June 17 to correct it. I got home at midnight on the 18th, so I may have lost a $500 EDD check in the process. Ouch!

While in Fresno, I came across a story in the news that they were considering raising the city bus fares while limiting services and cutting routes. One of the great things I love about Fresno is the bus service. You can go anywhere in town, with a little added leg work, for $1. Granted, the bus rides are usually a cultural shock to those who never ride them, because they're full of the very people who need them the most: the handicapped, the ethnically diverse, single moms talking about cheating boyfriends, the freaks, the insane, and vagrants. In short, the poor.

I'm glad Fresno has people like Alexander Vallejo, who understands how short-sighted these proposals are, and who is willing to write a letter about it in the Fresno Bee. It's easy to cut services to those who most need them, because they are the marginalized people of society who don't have a voice, who don't attend city council meetings. (How could they with the bus services as infrequent as they already are? Some are every half hour and others are every hour, and when a bus driver decides not to see you, as one did to me when I was there, you lose a half hour of your life waiting for another bus. If I was depending on that transportation for my job, I would have been fired for being late, again.) Raise the fare if you must––$2 for a cross-town ride would not be unreasonable––but don't hurt the people that need the service the most.

The point I would make, when it comes to the poor and the future of cities, is one Thomas L. Friedman makes in his book Hot, Flat, and Crowded: cities need to quit subsidizing the wrong, short-sighted things––highway expansions, traffic lights, city halls that look like Star Wars spaceships, etc.––and invest that money in the city's future, creating a green economy and "green-collar" jobs for the unemployed and under-served communities, which the Feds would probably be willing to pitch in on––see Alexander's letter to the Bee above. (The mayor of Fresno can contact Green For All in Oakland to find out how this works.)

Cities, such as Greensburg, KS, which was destroyed in a 2007 tornado and decided to rebuild "green," now calling itself "Green Town," are leading the way into an economically viable future where they don't have to make ill-advised cuts in budgets. Not only is the city planning to be carbon neutral by 2017, they have become an eco-tourism destination, have put people to work, are trying to attract green industries, such as a bio-diesel plant, and will eventually be able to outsource their expertise to other cities for even more cash. They are hoping to retain the cities most valuable resource: it's youth, who have been leaving the city because of the lack of jobs.

As Van Jones, Green For All's founder, says in Freidman's book, "In a real green economy, you don't have any throwaway resources––you don't have throwaway species and you don't have throwaway neighborhoods and you don't have throwaway kids either . . . I have not met a white person who would not support [this kind of approach] if they thought it could work. A green agenda brings us all together again, because the hope at the core nourishes everybody."

I wish my hometown would take the lead. The people there sure do need leadership and a brighter, cleaner future, especially if they want the violence and waste and throwaway people and neighborhoods to stop, not to mention better air. OK, I'm off my soapbox now. You can return to your regularly scheduled lives.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Part II Day 106: June 5, 2010 (nerves on wheels, mobile home future, and unravelling marriage and debt while dreaming of samosas)

Position: Volunteer
Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 141
Hours Volunteered: 4
EDD Check: $250

Morning:

My hands sweat even more than usual, as I switch from one to the other on the steering wheel while I drive. I blather on about nothing. "Are you nervous?" Etel asks. Yes, I am. "Why?" Because this is my first solo Meals on Wheels delivery day and I'm afraid I might get lost or mix up the orders––say a diabetic gets a regular lunch and a low-sodium gets a diabetic lunch––or I might forget someone's meal and end up with an extra one in the cooler when I'm all done. Unlike delivering for the Pizzeria, people's lives are at stake here. They might literally be starving instead of figuratively. I can't screw this up.

Etel's along for moral support and as a co-pilot/map reader. God, am I glad she's with me. We arrive at the church parking lot, the official rendezvous point, early and read our books, while I continuously glance in the rearview mirror looking for the white food van. When the van arrives, I get the five coolers of food loaded into my car, go over the checklist to make sure every thing's here, then we're off.

Etel reads the directions, but I keep a Thomas Brothers map on my lap, making sure I know exactly where I'm going. The first two deliveries are in a retirement community that wasn't part of my training run, so it takes me a minute to locate the first house. The SUV parked in the carport is decked out in U.S. Marines stickers and license plate frame. I find an elderly man, slouched in a deck chair, reading. "Oh, it must be lunchtime," he says. I take the food inside and place it on the counter, then ask if there's anything else I can do for him. He says no, so I touch his shoulder and tell him to take care.

The man who answers the door of the second place has food stains all over his collared shirt, his face is sunken and unshaven, and the cluttered apartment smells like an ashtray. In a gravelly voice made deep and harsh from years of smoking, he thanks me for the food, and when I ask him if there's anything else I can do for him, he says, "There's plenty you can do for me. But it's not within the scope of your job." Ouch. I laugh it off and say goodbye, before running to the car for the next delivery.

From here on out, it's exactly like my training run from my Part II Day 78 post––the diabetic lady who has a freezer full of our meals; the dying couple in a mobile home (he was alone this time); the little old black woman in the gangsta rap apartments; the legless, mute biker/veteran with the snack-covered coffee table; and the deteriorating housewife widow––with the exception of another mobile home park delivery in between.

"What are these places?" Etel asks. I make the mistake of calling them trailer parks, but then self-correct and explain that they're mobile homes. "You can move them?" I tell her it's actually a major job to move one, that I've seen them on trucks on the freeway, and it looks crazy.

"They split down the middle," I say and point to the seam on one.

Etel falls in love with the mobile homes. "These are great. This is where I want to live when I'm old." To her defense, we're in a really nice mobile home park, complete with a series of meandering ponds and well manicured lawns when she says this. I try to explain that they don't have the greatest reputation in the U.S., but she's right, it's not a bad way to live, especially when you're older. I tell her they're popular among the poor and they're really only a bad idea in the Midwest, where tornadoes have a habit of tossing them around and shredding them to bits.

We make it back to the church around 12:30, only an hour and a half after we left. The truck driver woman tells me I was fast, that I'm the second one back, which makes me feel good and heroic and think my earlier nervousness was unwarranted. No one's going to die. And the truth is, I think most of the people probably have refrigerators with at least some food in them.

Total mileage driven: 47 miles


Afternoon:

Etel and I stop to buy potatoes, peas, and flour so that we can make samosas with the Bhutanese family today (but we can't find raw peas). Etel also buys some yogurt covered pretzels and Gummy Bears for the youngest daughter. When we arrive, the quilt comes out and we all gather on the floor in the center of the room. The youngest daughter already has the Uno cards out and says she wants to play. We play a couple rounds, then I shift to reviewing how to read prices with the parents––$576, $785, $1,200, $2,500––which the mother is learning in school, while Etel has the youngest daughter writing in the past tense.

When we finish, I ask if they're ready to make samosas. They look at me with blank stares. "Remember, we were going to make samosas today but in English? We brought potatoes and flour." They're not prepared, and say they don't have peas or cauliflower, but they can run to the store real quick. "That's okay, we can make them next time." I give them the potatoes and flour.

I've brought pictures of my family, and try to explain who each person is in relation to me. The mother points to one of the bigger group photos I brought and says, "Good people?" Yes, I tell her. In Bhutan, divorce is pretty much unheard of, so they're a bit confused about who my step-mom and step-dad are. I try to explain Alzheimer's and why my step-dad is in a special home. I point to my niece and tell them she was adopted. Adoption, they understand.

This leads to talk about marriage. The mother tells us she was married at 13 to her husband when he was 20. She had never even seen his face before; it was all arranged by the families. Etel and I don't tell them we've both been married and divorced as well, that this is how things go in our country if things don't work out.

At one point, while we're all talking, the oldest daughter brings me a piece of paper and asks me to explain what it means. It's a collection notice, saying she owes the U.S. government $1,460 in travel expenses for her transportation to the U.S., and it says she hasn't registered her new address and hasn't paid. She has 42 months to pay the expenses back in full, with the option of $39 per month payments. "I don't think they know I'm in school," she says. I suggest she calls them Monday and explain her situation. She'll be in school for two years, which would only give her 18 months to pay it back once she has a job, if she can find one.

"That's for the whole family?" Etel asks.

"No. Fourteen hundred for me; twenty-four hundred for my parents and brother and sister (I guess since they're minors); Fourteen hundred for my grandma; fourteen hundred for my grandpa, but he died, so he doesn't owe anything." Holy crap, we think, the family somehow has to come up with over $5,200? We wonder if they understood this before they came. What a way to start your new life: in heavy debt with no job prospects.

Etel decides on the way home we should try to raise the money ourselves, but I'm skeptical. We post announcements on our Facebook pages, but the only response I receive is from a friend who says, "I almost fell for your Ponzi scheme." I tell Etel that people have their own problems, that they probably won't give anything, but she rejects my negativity. "I'll throw my own fundraisers," she says. "People can bring wine and five bucks. We can make this happen." I'm down with her idea, I tell her. (I will eventually post a Paypal button on this blog, so you, dear reader, can give a few bucks if you feel moved to help.)

Before we leave the Bhutanese family's apartment, we're talking about how we'll make samosas when I return from a visit to Fresno, and the youngest daughter comes out of the kitchen holding a classic bag of white flour. We bought our flour at Henry's, so it came, rather suspect, in a clear Henry's bag. I wonder if they'll even use it. "Gold Medal," she says, and points to the logo of her flour, as if it were a real medal, "it's good."

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Part II Day 100: May 30, 2010 (Bhutanese photo exchange, does this one make me look fat? and trading in your low-carbon lifestyle for an American one)

Position: Volunteer
Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 135
Hours Volunteered: 2
EDD Check: $250 per week

We bring the beach day photos to the Bhutanese family's house, and they each take a turn riffling through them. The photos prompt them to bust out a small photo album of their own. We go page by page, and the family explains who each person is in the various group photos, taken mostly in Nepal. "This is my grandma's sister and her daughter," the youngest daughter says. I tell her that would make the woman her mother's aunt, and the daughter her mother's cousin.

In many of the photos, the youngest daughter has really short hair and the brother has his hair combed down over his dot-marked forehead, not spiked up like he wears it now. In some pictures they stand in a lush, green forest of broad-leafed plants and sparse, tall trees, or they stand by their refugee camp houses. The mother points to the wall of the house in the photo, and says with embarrassment, "Our house, um, bamboo."

"That's cool," I say, trying to make her feel less embarrassed, but also projecting a long-time simpler-life fantasy of my own. "I would rather live there."

As we flip through more group photos, the mother says, "This sister––New York," and then points to another woman, "Her––Chicago." Etel brings up the possibility of the mother visiting the sister in New York, where her parents will soon arrive from Nepal. "No, Teacher," she says. "Daughter in school. Son in school. I no English. No, Teacher." She smiles only because she's uncomfortable speaking English, but inside her heart must be crushed like ours. "Someday, maybe," Etel says.

The older daughter comes out from the back bedroom and sits down to look through the album with us. She looks beautiful in the photos, as she does in real life, but she points to a picture of her and a friend and says, "I was fat then." I ask her if it's because she ate a lot, but she says she doesn't know why she was fat. Maybe just growing pains, since they ate pretty much the same diet there, minus the Cokes and Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos.

I still can't help but wonder if they weren't better off in Nepal, even if they lived in camps. They had their family, which the mother may never see again now that they're separated in America. No one looked to be starving in the pictures––the oldest daughter was even heavier than she is now. Not only was the landscape beautiful, but they had a planted ornamental garden between the bamboo houses that the youngest daughter said is where they would sit and talk. Like most immigrants, they want a better life for their children, whatever that may look like.

Maybe it's because I've been reading books on sustainability, such as Auden Schendler's Getting Green Done and Thomas L. Friedman's Hot, Flat, and Crowded, but in the Energy Climate-Era, as Friedman calls it, moving people from low-carbon producing lifestyles to an American lifestyle, where our carbon footprint per person is 20 tons of CO2-equivalent per year, or 5 times the rest of the world's average, just seems short-sighted. Overall, we want the trend to go the other way, if we are to survive as a species. (Bhutan, according to this article, is struggling to stay "carbon neutral"––but they're also the assholes who booted the Nepalese from their country.) What is it they say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?

I don't want to minimize the suffering the family endured in being moved from Bhutan to Nepal and living in a refugee camp, but the suffering they have endured and will endure here––not only from living in abject poverty and being separated from the rest of their family, but from the loss of respect the parents will endure from their children, who, during our intense game of Uno today, slapped cards out of their parents hands and treated them like children––may not be an even trade.