Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Many years ago, I was walking down the hallway of an elite women’s day spa. I had already changed into my plush robe and slippers, and savored a cup of chamomile tea in the cozy lounge. I was heading to a treatment room when a woman pointed at me and doubled over in shock. She kept screaming:
“It’s you, Oh my Lord! It’s you!!!”
It took me a minute because the whole scene was so out of context, but I soon realized the woman was “V”.
“Oh my God! V! You look amazing! How are you?”
I hugged her tight as she began to cry in earnest. There was an avalanche of emotion coming from her, as if she was keening. Doors began opening as women, who were sporting green goo masks and such, responded to her cries and made their way into the hall. We all stood around her and tried to soothe as she explained our history.
I had met V when I was a member of the “City Light Women’s Rehabilitation Program Celebrity Action Council,” which is a name that only a bunch of well-meaning “celebrities” could come up with. A giant, ridiculous word salad of a title, but that’s what the committee decided on.
You gotta love a committee. I held my tongue.
The program was, and most likely still is, an outreach effort by the Los Angeles Mission in downtown L.A. Women were/are offered a place to stay and food to eat if they are willing to undergo rehab and religious education, then, of course, job training and life-skills classes, etc. All of this was designed to help the residents begin or return to productive lives. This was the late late 90s, early 2000s, and the homeless problem was not as enormous then as it is now, but it was sizable. The streets of most of America’s cities have always been temporary campgrounds for folks with nowhere else to go.
This points to the fact that all of our efforts to contain and curtail the issue have profoundly failed, but that is a topic for another day. The one thing all of the experts will tell you is that nearly every person on the streets has experienced serious trauma, and most began to self-medicate for lack of any other way to cope.
V was exactly such a person. She was a single mother with three kids and had been employed as a low-ranking health care professional for many years. She was coping, working hard, and raising her children as best she could when the unthinkable happened. Her oldest child was caught in the crossfire of a gang dispute and gunned down while at play in front of their apartment building. She got the call at work. She never returned to that job.
V spiraled into despair. She took to living in her car a block away from her former home. She could not face going back to the apartment or near the scene of the crime. She drank and took whatever drugs she could find. The two youngest kids were taken in by relatives as she could no longer care for them. This went on for over a year, before she found her way to the Mission and secured a residency there. She was a star. She cleaned up from the drugs and alcohol quickly and studied hard. She was with us for 8 months with one to go before “graduation” when Sara (not her real name) approached me. Sara was on the “council” with us and was very proactive and practical. She would have most likely voted with me to shorten the group’s ridiculous title, but we were both content to leave that be. There were bigger fish to fry.
“V wants to go to beauty school. I want to help her, but I cannot do it alone. Can you chip in?” Sara asked me one day.
“Yes. She is amazing and she deserves a chance. How much is it?”
Sara explained the parameters and costs, and I wrote a check for half that day. Done and done. What was the point of all of our efforts if I could not help someone achieve their dream?
This was a question I often asked aloud before writing checks in those days, much to my financial manager’s dismay. I bought cars for people and paid for all manner of things that folks needed. I long ago had a trainer who was short the 10 k required for a third round of IVF. The young woman was desperate to have a child of her own. When I gave her the money, there were of course all manner of assurances that it would be paid back. The good news is that the third time was the charm! The bad, from my accountant’s point of view, was this meant she would not be able to take care of a baby and also pay me back. I honestly never gave it another thought. She had a happy healthy child, and to me that was worth every damned penny.
I am not applying for Sainthood here. I also spent money on ridiculous things. Beach houses I never had time to go to, clothes I never wore, shoes that hurt, My parents were terrible with money and I dutifully followed their lead.
When I first met Alec Abbott, the man who would try hard to steer the ship of my savings for many years, I declared:
“I believe in the philosophy of abundance.”
Alec sat back and gazed at me; his face expressionless.
“I am a financial planner from Orange County. I do not believe in that for one second. I believe in…planning! “
Thank God for him. He applied gentle but even pressure and somehow hornswoggled me into a successful retirement. A good man.
Back at the day spa, V finally recovered long enough to step back and catch her breath.
“You believed in me. You believed in me!” she said over and over as tears kept falling.
“Well,” I said through tears of my own, “I had faith in you, and you proved me right. I am so happy to see you.”
There were more tears and hugs all around as I learned about what had transpired since we last spoke. She had her kids back, and they were thriving. She had moved out of that terrible neighborhood into a place nearer to the spa with decent schools. My faith was just one small part of her journey to recovery. It was her willingness to learn, her determination to build a life for herself and her children, that sealed the deal. In the end, V had rescued herself. Brava!
“Thank you, thank you,” she said
“You have just given me all the thanks I could ever want or need. You take care, okay?” I replied.
Then it was time for V to apply her trade and for me to submit to the beauty regimen I had come to indulge in.
A NEW MISSION.
I parted ways with the Mission when it came to my attention that they would not provide services for anyone who identified as gay or who was not or could not be a “Christian.” This meant they would offer no help for anyone who was Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist if they could not be persuaded to denounce their origins. This also meant immediate expulsion for anyone who was thought to be gay or bisexual. This infuriated me.
I saw so much of that type of bigotry during my years on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the 80s, when I co-founded “Momentum” in New York city with a handful of other volunteers. There was fear and prejudice everywhere as alarm bells were sounded about the spreading of a new disease, originally called Gay Men’s Cancer. A lot of people behaved very badly in response, but the worst to me was just how devastating religious intolerance could be. Many families abandoned their children, left them to die alone in New York City because they were deemed by the good church to be “sinners”. It was f’ing heartbreaking to behold. A lot of these very young people died with only a volunteer to see them to the gates of heaven, which is where I absolutely believe they went. I cannot, will not, believe in a God who would deny them.
For the record, we had tremendous support from some religious orders. The Catholic Church answered our call, as did the World Lutherans, who allowed for our program to take place in the basement of St. Peter’s in NYC. Many synagogues, too, opened their doors and hearts and offered what they could.
Still, I spoke at too many funerals which were attended by not ONE family member. Terrible stuff that, for the young men (and yes, women) who died frightened and virtually alone, as well as for the families who left them to that fate. In doing so, they made a choice which must surely haunt them to this day. A tragic situation for all concerned.
So, I left the LA Mission, and have spent the past 34 years working with the Good Shepherd Home for women and children in need. It is a Catholic organization, but their doors are open to any woman or child who is without a home. They welcome all and see each of us as beloved of the lord and blessed in the eyes of God.
There is not one of us who has made it into adulthood without help. Without that teacher who saw our potential, the parent determined to provide, or the friend or counselor who held us while we cried.
I have told Fairness, my new rescue pup, this and many other stories about people and pets who found themselves in desperate need and were offered a chance at a new beginning. He had his last treatment this morning, is on the mend, and growing fast. He is brave, full of love, and is really trying hard to learn how to be a proper dog.
When I’m holding him in my arms at night, my anxious mind finally at ease, and ready to drift off into a soft sleep, I smile and wonder just whom it is that is being rescued. If you are reading this, then I will bet that you can guess.
On we go …
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Two: "V"