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From: T.A. James
Sent: 2008-01-29 23:12:09
Subject: Message from T.A. James
IN RESPONSE TO: A VOICE FOR THE VOICELESS

A Voice for the Voiceless

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Do you really want to know what happens to children in state custody once they turn 18? This article addresses the problems associated with transitioning youth out of Child Services and into adulthood. 

 

I love your article "A Voice for the Voiceless,” keep up the great work in bringing attention to the not too stable system impact on children even to the age of what's considered adulthood.

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Thank you so much for your words of encouragement!

I was voiceless once myself-- but keep checking my site—but decided around New Years and my 35th birthday that I was silent WAY too long and decided to start putting a few pieces of myself out there…

I guess at this point in my life-- I have realized that people need to know that abuse can happen anywhere to anyone even to children "like myself" (a high school drop-out turned Ivy League graduate) should not be discounted.

Born to a wealthy, Jewish family with what appeared to be the perfect breeding ground for success— I found myself on my own at 15. At 22 I learned that my child custody and support orders had been “respectfully” terminated by the courts— and there it was. Just me. No money, no place to go, and a father who is famous for his legal maneuverings and handiwork— however unethical it may be.

People just did not get it. For years. Most probably never will. I still have days where I wonder what I did to make them hate me so much that they would allow me to live with so little— homelessness, penniless, and suffering with an extremely painful medical condition at such a young age; while they have so much.

Millions, in fact. Millions on top of millions. Nevertheless, it happens— even in “political,” beautiful, wealthy, overeducated families like the one my mother still pretends to live in. Just last night, in tears, I asked my sister, an Ivy educated attorney who lives without the burden of student loans collection agencies, and medical bills that must be paid before I can even dream of putting the trauma of knowing that I simply was not important enough to be supported financially, emotionally, or medically.

You see the money was there— the desire to spend it on a mouthy teenager was not. So my case was unprecedented— and though Pennsylvania Act 62 and Blue v. Blue made it to the Supreme Court— I will never see the inside of a courtroom despite the overwhelming evidence (and ruling from the Insurance Department and the Department of Public Welfare that I did in fact have enforceable rights— if not as a child, as a so-called beneficiary on a faulty tax return and three health insurance policies that I could not use.

Yes, there were civil penalties I could have collected, but when your father is one of the most prominent attorneys in the region and the Judge who presided over the termination order— finding representation was near impossible. My mother signed away my rights and my future when I was only 15— I sometimes wonder what I could have done differently to make them care enough to see that my basic needs were met.

However, this was not about needs, this was about power, control, and a profound oversight from every single court and agency I contacted for help. My parents underestimated me. Then again— I underestimated myself too. I think my father would regret terminating my child support order — and in effect— my childhood— if he could see me today. He might even feel a little bit proud to know that I made it on my own and I have managed to make it this long without a dime from any of his offshore accounts.

And if could he could see inside my heart— maybe he would even want to know me or undo some of the actions that have left me broken but beautiful inside and out.

I wish he could see me right now. Who I am, who I have become, and how much I have lost living in the past. Me without the pain— without the memories— and without the questions. Without the debt. Without the shame. Without the shame and guilt, without being a burden on my family or the financial burden I clearly am to society….

I may find my way without my natural born family— but the further I move away, the closer they seem….

I know in my heart that I need to tell this story so no one will ever experience such total devastation due to ignorance of the law— or fear I feel when I think of the future.

Constantly wonder how we can turn our back on any child— but I need to know how they could turn their backs on me.

I am too old too be worried that I might be discovered for the "throw-away" child I once was.

Miss Desiree and Baby Niya

I have battled for years with shame over my lost years (you know, the ones that keep me awake at night and on my toes when I meet someone new; search the internet; or find myself trapped in a place— a memory that I can never truly escape. The words never fade, the wounds never heal, but I have hope that my experience and my voice will bring services (not just comfort and compassion) but compel people to ACT!

Somewhere between the child I never was and the person I am today… I developed skills. Not just fuzzy words and warm sentiments— but I actually learned how to get what I needed. But sadly, for me, it was too late. I have the basics— for the most part— I can get anybody from here to there, so why then can’t I do it for myself?

Thanks for the encouragement-- I was so afraid that I might compromise my professionalism or my ability to be taken seriously if people knew the truth about my past-- but your words and others who have seen what I am working on give me so much strength that I can channel into my work, and the children I encounter each day.

I was reluctant at first to publish that piece because I was afraid that people may see it as transparent and know that I am really telling my own story-- but the response has been so heartwarming that it almost makes up for the silent years where all I had were my journals, my truth, and myself.

Thank you again so very much-- I cried early this morning over the past, but I thank you for giving me the strength to go forward with the rest of my day as the person I knew in my heart I could become. I am revising something I wrote a few years ago that I think you might enjoy-- my story. No holding back-- and maybe one of these days, I'll have the confidence and the courage to post it online, but for now, I think you may also enjoy you may enjoy "Good Fences."

Have a wonderful day and do not forget -- it only takes ONE person to give a child the strength they need to overcome the impossible. For me that person was my graduate school advisor but today that person is you!

My Adviser, and saving grace was Bob Crain-- professor of sociology and politics at Columbia University — and though he is best known best known for his work on the study that became famous for the title "There are no children here," he showed me that I had much more to offer than just a pretty smile.

While I was struggling with PTSD long after I left “home” he always made me feel as though I was more than what the custody papers said— and helped me to find a way to use my past, my pain, and my childhood/adolescent experience to navigate a course that seemed most unlikely and impossible alone.

I took that book title, “There Are No Children Here” and ran with it. Today you will see a sign posted outside my front door that reads, "There Are No Victims Here!"

Thanks T.A., my head is no longer in the past, and my tears have dried. I am ready for a new day— a new fight, and a new challenge.

Have a fabulous day and do not forget to remind someone in your life how they have made your day just a little bit brighter.

With sincere appreciation and gratitude,

ElyssaD

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DAILY HEALTH CARE NEWS 1/28/2010


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Answering the Call in Nashville, TN

Answering the Call: Is there anybody listening?

Post From Ned V:

“Hey, sounds like me! I’m headed towards ruin quick. Hope all is well.”

Post From Ned V:

“I’m not good, Elyssa. Very depressed. I was such a different person when I knew you. But maybe I will be different soon.”

Reply from ElyssaD:

God, Ned, I wish we could talk. Based upon what I’ve read through your interviews and posts online it seems you are going through the same emotional chaos I was experiencing that first year we met in New York.

A friend just checked himself into a psych ward after a suicide attempt, and I feel so helpless. I care and respect you both so much. It is funny because I always thought if I could just finish that damn book I was working on ten years ago… or law school, my Ph.D.- any number of things- everything would be okay. I’m confused because you finished your book, Rob finished law school… yet I finished nothing.



A few weeks ago I “lost my shit”, so to speak. Then I read your interview and was completely blown away. I used to be the crazy one! Now I have my sanity back, but nothing else.



Having been through several crises myself, I formed the philosophy that when you see someone in crisis they become so overwhelmed and confused they do not know what to do, or how to dig out of the hole they have dug for themselves. I decided rather than asking, just figure out their first step and give it to them, no questions asked, no thank you necessary.



How many people have said, “Call if there is anything I can do!” and when you actually call, you receive nothing but disappointment and regret. I decided never to ask somebody what they need, mostly because even they don’t know.



When I came to the realization a few weeks ago that my transient existence is so tangential no one would notice if I never took another breath, I tried to figure out what I needed. I started going through my old journals to see if I could identify the missing element of my life. That “thing” that would simultaneously make it all goes away and come together so I could be a whole person again.



That thing is a figment of my imagination. I used to think it was being loved by a man. I had that, and it wasn’t it. Then I thought it was having money. I had that, but it wasn’t it either. I thought it could be having health insurance- still, no. Perhaps it would be having that “oh-so-critical” Ivy League degree. I have that, and it still wasn’t the solution. None of those things could have been “it.”



In truth, the thing I need most I lost long ago.



Hope.



Perhaps I never really had it at all. I guess some things can’t be bought, learned, earned, or acquired.



I think of the long twisted road, and I remember one of my favorite childhood movies with a girl named Dorothy so determined to find her way home after a great storm. Disillusioned and distracted, Dorothy would not yield to the many obstacles that had been placed in her way. Determined to meet the great Wizard, she stuck to one path.



Yes, there were detours, obstacles, and the Wicked Witch of the West. Each of these obstacles may have taken her, yet she never once lost sight of the road home. She believed in one thing: The Wizard, and his ability to bring her home. Having great faith and determination, she never strayed far off the path of righteousness. Dorothy had a clearly defined goal, a means to get there, and a bright yellow brick road to guide her. Through her determination and unyielding faith, Dorothy never once doubted she was on the right path.



In the Wizard of Oz, the yellow brick road may have been Dorothy’s path, but her determination and blind faith was able to bring others along the road to enlightenment. The lion found his courage; the tin man got a heart. The scarecrow got some brains. Even Dorothy got what she needed most.



Dorothy began her journey looking for one thing: To get back to where she began, to find her way home. Dorothy teaches us a valuable lesson. Yet she was lucky enough to know what it was she so desperately longed for... home.



I can’t click my heels three times to find my way home, for sadly I know not where home is. They say, “Home is where the heart is”. Perhaps that is part of the problem. For some of us, our childhood homes were not places of happiness for which we’re nostalgic. They are places from which we run, endlessly seeking our own magical place, hoping we come across a road that clearly guides us toward our destination.



Of course we will encounter challenges that take us off course, and it is up to us to find our way back to the path. Unfortunately, if you stray from the path too long, there is a point at which we lose our direction and faith. As I grew older, I realized my feelings of detachment went far beyond a dysfunctional childhood or a broken family life in which my sister and I never even lived in the same house for more than a year, only in the summertime.



No matter how long I have been in Nashville, in many ways I am still a stranger. A stranger, because homeless is a state of mind. In my mind, I think home is a place of acceptance, shelter, forgiveness, comfort and recognition. For most, going home means to reconnect in a way you are reminded you have something or someone, who will always have your back. Home represents more than a structure; it represents a strong foundation always available whenever you need to safety and comfort, and protection.



So this is my home. I don’t necessarily feel safe here, but I do feel consistent. I do not have to worry that I will be forced to switch schools, neighbors or friends every six months because my parents could not get it right. What they failed to realize is just how very wrong it really was. Changing schools, friends, siblings… even myself- just enough to fit in each time. But after 16 years of constant change, I never got the opportunity to find out anything real about myself. Even my name was changed when I moved--- my dad called me “Liz,” and my mother called herself any number of last names as she desperately sought to hold on to her youth, beauty and delusional fantasies of entitlement and sacrifice. I think she may actually believe her lies to be true.



I never had plastic surgery- couldn’t afford it anyway- but I do have a clear memory, vivid nightmares, and a place of my own. I also realize that until I can live free from fear and dependence I will never be able to know what it feels like to be at home. If home is where the heart is, homelessness is just a state of mind. Today I have some hope I might someday no longer feel as homeless as I do at home. Now I know more than ever that home is far more than a concrete structure or family property.



I will always feel a bit homeless at home. Knowing you are that which remains constant, regardless of any dreams I may have, I will never feel constant enough to bring a child into this world, despite my desire.



I envy those who feel they have so much in their lives they can trust without reservations that the world is a loving enough place to share with a child of their own. My mother told me long, long ago that I can never have children. She also told me last year I could not have a dog. My own mother does not think I am capable of raising a puppy.



Maybe she’s right- she put her fears into action when she donated my cat of 14 years to an animal shelter under someone else’s name. I adopted him back from the animal shelter 40 miles away after learning of her use of another person’s name so I could not find him on my own. I was without any ties, and here we are again.



Only a few days left to come up with a plan to take the two of us far away, to a place where we could be safe and live free.



I will not look elsewhere to find the essentials things healthy children receive that makes them healthy adults. I will never be “healthy” but I do wish I could give more than that which I’ve received. I regret not being the kind of community member I believe I could have been, and I’m not sure I will get over the sheer humiliation of having to live this way for so many years when I could have been doing many great things for society that I believe I could have accomplished.



I can’t regret needing constant reassurance, recognition, or validation. However, I will always question if things would be different if just one person took the time to show me I was worth it. To say I deserved more than that I could afford and recognize I do give so much in so many other ways.

Ways people cannot calculate, or see how badly the recipients needed my gifts. It’s the little things. It’s Cody, its Desiree- but above all, it was me.
Setting goals. The feelings knowing I was no longer subject to biannual custody disputes. The realization that homelessness is merely a state of mind. You see, it is that I doubt myself; I just don’t trust people won’t do horrible things, even if that simply means doing nothing at all.

I do have much love to give, perhaps too much. So much it often pours out of me in inappropriate sentimentality. I know when I need to keep to myself, when my anxieties start rub off on others and make them a bit anxious. I know from seeing the reactions to my anxiety, and it only makes me worse. It can be a curse; can be one of my worst attributes, but sometimes that sensitivity is a wonderful and god given gift.

Should that prevent me from getting out into the world? Just because how other people think I should be take a disliking to me? That’s not my job. I have spent more than half of my life in self-imposed isolation, and the other half wondering how I can be less annoying and high strung so others would want me around. The truth is, I am annoying, but I am also perceptive and very aware. Sometimes it is even on purpose.

I should not have to live in isolation because I have nervous tics or sometimes say the wrong thing. But regardless of what people seem to think about welfare recipients being lazy bums, guess what? Fuck you. Because of attitudes like that, I have chosen to keep to myself in case I really am so horrible to be around. So horrible my own parents think I would be better off dead.

It would be easy to withdraw. To leave everything behind and simply go live an isolated life, dismissing those around me and the constant judgment by societal standards from those who have no understanding. But, where would I go?

Ten years “down the road” and now more than ever, I realize I am truly and deeply “homeless at home.”


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Writing at Will: Read at Your Own Risk

No time to edit- so don't bitch to me if there are typos-- I don't care right now. If your cool with a few gramatical errors for now, then so am I. THAT is progress... so read at your own risk. I've got hundreds of these memos and I don't feel like going through them all... Twanks May 31, 2009

Many things in the financial world do not make sense. Such as having my tax return rejected from the IRS because someone had filed a tax return using my social security number.

Countless calls to the IRS, and although they were able to identify the person who had used my number fraudulently, they would not release that information to me so I could file a police report for identity theft (as I was instructed to do by regulatory authorities.) It took the IRS 9 months to send my refund, something that most people receive in less than 2 weeks.

Therefore, after about a decade of this situation, and going through the motions year after year, to provide alternative forms of Income verification, I think I am well within my rights to be a little agitated.

This year I will be fling for an extension, as other related issues are currently under investigation.

Now I do not have much money, in fact, I do not have any, but I find white-collar crime despicable and repulsive.

When taken into account the substantial cost to society, not to mention the havoc it wreaked on my life, I respectfully think that maybe you should not assume that someone is making false claims just because you do not think it sounds "right."

Many things do not "sound right" however, that does not mean they are not true. Gotta go now, I have a date with eBay too auction my social security card to the highest bidder. Clearly, it is not worth anything to me so long as the authorities fail to do their part in ENFORCING the laws associated with Identity theft. Sure, it is easy to blame the victim as being irresponsible or somehow negligent in these situations, however I will refer you to some fascinating research that has been done on the emotional consequences of Identity theft. The cost is far more than just an issue of financial discomfort; it is something that can ultimately leave you questioning your own identity.

It should be noted that Identity Theft is a criminal matter, so whatever costs associated with such events, the victim is not reimbursed for any of the monies that they have lost in as a result. Sure I could file a civil suit, but the IRS does not tell you who is using your Soc even when they find out.

It would be nice to be reimbursed for the costs of having your life hijacked for 14 years out of 36. To have your world stop and completely disrupted by something that is ultimately completely beyond your control.


I do NOT have an external locus of control by nature, however for those who believe you are the master of your own domain, let me assure you that shit happens. Seligman, learbed helplessness, like a rat in a cage, or pecking away on an intermittent reimbursement schedule just hoping to find a pellet.

It happens more often than you think, and it is a complicated, intricate, and time intensive to resolve such crimes. It is like trying to unravel multiple sets Christmas lights only to find that after you have put the time in, the damn things don't even work; and 2. Having to test each and every mini bulb in the chain to find the weakest link.

Now I don't fuck with Christmas lights, one I'm a Jew, 2. I think they're tacky as hell, and 3. I have OCD OCD OCD- with fear of fire at the top of the list!

I once waited two years after moving in to along the one. They don't work the details only to find yourself in more complicated... To be continued...

Edd, Ed.M.
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Is Equal Opportunity Just A Myth?

Is Equal Opportunity Just a Myth?
America claims to be dedicated to equal opportunity, yet equality is not sufficient in urban communities. These kids need more. We need to think about equity, not equality. It is not enough to hide them away. These are visions we should never forget. [[click below to link to full text]]
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In Amazing Grace: The lives of children and the conscience of a nation, Jonathan Kozol paints a vivid picture of the conditions in the poorest sections of New York City. During the early to mid 1990’s, Kozol made several visits to Mott Haven in the South Bronx. As he describes in Amazing Grace, the South Bronx is one of the most severely segregated and poorest Congressional Districts in the United States.

The members of this community have been segregated into a hell plagued with sickness, violence and despair. Kozol argues that this strategic placement serves to isolate the rich from the realities they have thrust upon their fellow man. New Yorkers do not stroll through the streets of Mott Haven, and taxicabs take no short cuts through Beekman Avenue. Many taxicabs will not even venture past East 96th Street. Out of sight is out of mind.

As I was reading Amazing Grace, I remember thinking back to my days living in Manhattan, coincidentally around the same time Kozol conducted his interviews in the South Bronx. I lived in what Kozol refers to as Manhattan’s “Liberal West Side,” an area that was undergoing rapid transformation and gentrification at the time Mayor Rudolph Giuliani took office.

There is no excuse for the conditions in which these people must live. No person should be forced into an apartment that has a higher ratio of cockroaches and rats than human beings.

In 1995, the American Sociological Association (ASA) held its annual conference in New York City. Prior to that meeting, they sent out a fact sheet that may be of interest to ASA members. In this sheet, they too described the same social conditions and asked their members to take note of the changes that occur at 96th Street. I can assure you that the conditions Kozol describes in his book were not exaggerated.

These children are desperately in need of the best schools, yet we give them the worst. They have few libraries, few safe havens, few doctors, and few role models. They have every reason to believe that they are throwaway children and we have certainly not shown them anything else. The social services we have provided are a bureaucratic nightmare. People in need are treated as sub-human, and made to feel ashamed of being poor.

These are among the sickest children in the world. Americans claim to be dedicated to the children and fool ourselves into believing that we are doing them a favor by providing them with medical care, public education, and public housing. Yet, the quality of their neighborhoods speaks volumes of our sentiment and intentions.

Shortly after Amazing Grace was published, managed care rapidly moved onto the New York scene. Around the same time, the Mayor announced he would be closing some of the hospitals that served the poorest of the poor because of financial problems associated with payment and large trauma departments.

Kozol makes the point that people could attempt to gain admissions at a better hospital than Bronx-Lebanon; yet, the privatization of Medicaid has now made this completely impossible. Further restrictions on medical care are inevitable as the result of Medicaid managed care. The law is not designed to protect these people, and this was made obvious in a recent conversation I had with a friend who practices medicine in New York.

My friend John works as a board certified trauma physician at a private hospital on the Upper East Side. The last black patient he treated at Beth Israel was famed rock singer Michael Jackson. I asked him if he ever gets any asthma patients in his ER. He knew immediately of whom I was speaking. “You mean the kids from the South Bronx?” he asked. He told me that they know better than to show up at Beth Israel. “But if they do?” I asked, and he replied, “We ship them back.”

This is the reality. The best doctors treat the wealthiest patients rather than the sickest. Schools educate the best students rather than the neediest. It is no wonder that these children perform poorly in school. By every measure, these children are destined for failure. Their home life is less than enchanting, and they do not benefit from enriched environments and educated parents.

Certainly, there are many dedicated parents who care about their children, but is that enough? When I was in school, children frequently asked the teacher, how will this help later in life. In my class, there was an unequivocal reply, but it could be argued that what children in the South Bronx need to learn couldn’t be taught in the classroom.

There is no doubt that the prevalence of violence in urban neighborhoods affects the ability of children to perform well in school. There is a large body of empirical evidence that demonstrates the effects of chronic stress on memory and the learning process. Rather than taking the children out of these communities, we have constructed prison like buildings for them to attend school. They routinely have gunfire drills reminding them that danger is never far behind.

Children cannot learn in this environment. This constant stress triggers “hot-memory.” Hot memory can be thought of as learning with your heart and not your mind. It is no wonder children perform inadequately in this environment.

It is bad enough that children live in such conditions, must we educate in them too? If we want underprivileged children to learn and grow spiritually, we must create an environment that allows their cool memory systems to take over.

It is only under these conditions that children will permit themselves to learn and develop their intellectual strengths. We have failed to create a safe home environment for urban children, but we can give serious thought to creating a school environment outside of the community so they have fewer fear-driven hours each day.

Studies consistently report lower academic achievement in urban neighborhoods like Mott Haven in the South Bronx. Children growing up in urban neighborhoods have a much higher incidence of posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Most researchers believe this to be the direct result of living in stressed communities plagued with street crime and violence. The potential impact of chronic stress on academic performance and achievement is not known, but reading scores in neighborhoods like Mott Haven certainly seem to indicate some type of causal relationship. There is virtually no research on looking at the long-term effects of this inflated incidence of PTSD among urban populations. It is important to develop an understanding of the effects of fear on the academic performance of urban adolescents so we can begin to dismantle the myths regarding school performance and minority children.

Under these conditions, it is not surprising to learn that students also report pervasive feelings of fear and do not feel secure despite the added presence of security personnel on school grounds. For these students, school is a mere extension of the violent communities in which they live.

Since urban communities have many different sources of stress, it is important to examine how school policies contribute to the learning environment in public schools. The quick response has been to install weapons detectors and hire school security for urban schools. The presence of school security certainly affects the climate of American public schools by establishing school environments that focus more on student behavior than student achievement. Together, the urban public school and the community it serves are a constant reminder of the poor living conditions and social reality of urban America.

The secured environment is an indication of the roles students are expected to play later in life. This is a lesson they will not soon forget.

Kozol makes it quite clear that there are several exceptional children in this community. There are probably as many exceptional children here as every other community around the country, yet, so few of them will make it out of the South Bronx. Kozol is careful not to dwell on the exceptional cases of children who successfully navigate their way into the main stream of society. Kozol does this so we do not develop a false sense of hope. If we cling to a few exceptional cases, we may come to believe that what we are giving enough to children like
Anthony or Anabelle. Clearly, we can do more. Failure should be the exception—not the rule. Success should be the norm, and until it is, we should not give up hope for these children.

America claims to be dedicated to equal opportunity, yet equality is not sufficient in a community like Mott Haven. These kids need more. We need to think about equity, not equality. It is not enough to hide them away. These are visions we should never forget.

Welcome to America. The Wealthiest Nation in the World.

Reference: Amazing Grace: The lives of children and the conscience of a nation. (by Jonathan Kozol)

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1251493/is_equal_opportunity_just_a_myth_.html?cat=2

Charity Begins at Home: A Call to Action

Charity Begins at Home: A Call to Action

The last several days, I found myself thinking about a statement I made several years ago. In this modern era of communications, it is difficult for a freelance writer like myself to make retractions- and correct myself given that I only have a small stream of frequent readers. However, I often make mistakes whether it is an ampersand instead of a comma or an opinion statement that could be easily misunderstood. I would like to correct one such statement and set the record straight. Not just for my readers, but also for myself.

This weekend marks the beginning of what I consider one of the greatest tragedies in American history: Hurricane Katrina. This is further compounded by the potential devastation that awaits New Orleans residents when they return to the unknown losses that await them as Hurricane Gustav looms of the Gulf Coast and inches its way closer and closer to the Louisiana border.

Several years ago, I made an online statement that Nashvillians in need of benefits should apply “before the Louisiana people utilize whatever resources we have left.” In retrospect, that statement seems crass and insensitive. Now that several years have passed, I would certainly blame this disgusting war as the main culprit of domestic waste. Unfortunately, I cannot turn back the hands of time, and that statement exists— floating around for all eternity in the magical world of cyberspace. All I can do now is try my best to explain what prompted that statement and hope that those who read my previous piece will also see this retraction.

I would like to take this opportunity to explain what prompted such an apparently callous, insensitive comment and set the record straight.

We live in a country that rallies together when faced with domestic and international crises. We open our hearts, our homes, and our wallets for disaster relief here and overseas. We also live in a world where smaller crises exist everyday albeit poverty, hunger or homelessness. Such domestic problems tend to be chronic in nature and often slip under the radar. The battle lines have been drawn and we lost. We are losing. With every day that passes the casualties grow to astronomical proportions. We failed.

After Katrina, Tennessee residents took in many refugees. The local papers printed countless ads offering shelter, financial assistance, and job opportunities to “Survivors of Katrina.” After calling some of these people in response to their apparent act of altruism, I learned that these offers were only applicable to survivors of Katrina and not to local residents. I was angry.

I was angry because in the months before that devastating storm hit the Gulf Coast, there was an urgent call for people to open their homes to the 30,000 children and adolescents in desperate need of foster care. Children without a home. Children without a safety net. Our city did not respond. Our residents did not rise to the occasion and countless children continue to live in uncertain conditions without the necessities they need to thrive in this complicated, fragmented society.

After considerable thought, I came to the conclusion that the media and current policies that allow such unfortunate states of existence are partly to blame, but so too are the American people and the residents of this fine city that I like to think of as home. So why is it that we are so generous in times of urgent need by allowing pervasive states of poverty for our local residents and out children? Are they damaged goods? Are persons in poverty to blame for their circumstances? Are they too week? Are they somehow supposed to magically lift themselves out of the dark and somehow find the path into enlightenment of financial security? Is this the ultimate act of Social Darwinism where survival of the fittest means people who are fit to survive against all odds? Is it just a coincidence that the words indigent and indignant sound so similar?

As Hurricane Gustav approaches, I call upon our local residents to do more than just welcome the fleeing victims to open their hearts and their homes. I challenge each and every one of you to continue this charity after the storm has cleared. Even after the storm in the Gulf has moved past the coast and becomes another chapter in history, there is much to be done right here, right now. Do we accept the indignation of indigence and poverty with indifference? Or do we act?

We can do so much on the home front before our indifference creates a storm of domestic disaster. It is unfortunate for us that people have been too blind, too indifferent, and too complacent they do not even see such a storm brewing. But if you look, and if you listen, it is not hard to see how such a storm is brewing just beyond the horizon.

Elyssa Durant, Ed.M.
Nashville, TN