The Goodness of People

(Written some time in late September)


Dear Jamaica,


You and I, we're pretty cynical. Don't deny it. I remember how often the general goodness of things (people, places, art, food) came into our discussion. I wish I could be back in your single dorm-room right now, curled up on the misplaced mattress with a carton of Ben & Jerry's palmed, because today I have a really good story about the goodness of people.


My claim for independence was denied last Wednesday. It was a panic-inducing event. I went in to the financial aid office expecting to hear good news-- nope! After nearly breaking down in-front of the poor woman managing the drop-in desk, I was given the number for the financial aid administrator. I had to put myself back in action quickly, I knew, but first I had to go have a melt down at the park.


About an hour or so later, head somewhat cleared, messages left with my counselor Z.K. at Tumbleweed, I returned to the financial aid office and asked to speak to the administrator. I'm sorry, she's in a meeting, the new woman at the drop-in desk informed me. 


"Well, that's okay. I'll just go wait over there until she has a chance to speak with me." And I sat myself down in the waiting area to spend time researching homeless college student data until I could speak with someone. 


I was waiting for somewhere around forty minutes before Nina, the administrator, came out to greet me. Back in Nina's office, she explained to me that my claim was denied. While my relationship with my mother, as reflected by the personal statement, 3 third-party letters and an e-mail from my mother outlining the conditions of my move-out,  seemed bad. It did not seem bad enough that she wouldn't give me her tax information. 


I explained to her that the FAFSA had questions specifically relating to homelessness-- specifically that if a student is homeless, they are an independent student. She told me that the Independence paperwork was probably not the right paperwork for my situation. I wasted two and a half weeks with that false start.


I have visited her once more since that initial meeting. My goal now is to receive an official "Determination." Nobody actually knows what this is, but it is given by a homeless/runaway/in-transition shelter/organization/support group and "certifies" my homelessness.


The lack of general knowledge on this subject has lead me to do a great deal of research on homeless laws. One day, I'll probably harass you to help me write something that's capable of communicating this legal mumbo-jumbo to a larger audience. I've found, officially, Homeless means lacking fixed, regular and adequate housing:  living in shelters, motels or cars, or temporarily living with other people because you have nowhere else to go. Unaccompanied means you are not living in the physical custody of your parent or guardian. Youth means you are 21 years of age or younger or you are still enrolled in high school as of the day you fill out the FAFSA. The definitions are all actually even more broad than the one's I've given, they're all outlined in the McKinney-Vento Homeless Assistance Act, which, at this point, I'm sure no one in the country but me has read. In this same act, it's stated that Financial Aid Administrators are allowed to Determine homelessness.


That's a very handy bit of information I could have used last month. 


Tomorrow I approach my Financial Aid Administrator again, with some of the information I've discovered and two new letters. One is my own, a specific statement on my current housing situation. The other is from Kydee's father, Stephan.

Here's were the goodness of people comes in: I was talking to Stephan during dinner about some of the information I had learned, my new financial aid situation and so on. I asked if he would be comfortable writing a letter about my housing situation, seeing how I am currently, temporarily, living in his house. He agreed, but asked a few minutes later if he could hear the entire situation that caused my, and by extension Kydee's, ejection from the nest.

I started laughing, Wait, you mean, I've been here almost a month, you've taken me in out of the goodness of your heart, and I haven't even told you what happened yet? 


I told Stephan a very abridged, but still accurate, always accurate, version of what happened. He wrote the letter not much later that night. 


What amazes me, is that I have walked into this man's house crying half a dozen times. He has given me encouraging words. He has helped me looked for work. He has allowed me to live in his home and eat with his family. And he never asked a single question about how I ended up in my current situation. He just helped how he was capable.

Sure, Jamaica, people are dumb. People are uninformed. People are plain mean and apathetic. But there are good people here, too. Sometimes, it just takes exceptional people to help us remember.

Best Love and Wishes,
Sonya

Visiting Mom, Interrupted

9/20
Sun Duck,

I'm sorry about dropping off the face of the earth for a while.  I hope all is well for you. I'm turning the first draft of my independence letter into a nonfic essay. My paperwork is all turned in. Hopefully, I know the results in the next three days.

Mom was in the hospital for a week due to a month-long migraine. She came home a few days ago; all they could do was medicate her. I went to see her today between classes. She's hired a friend of mine, Kat, who helped me move, to replace her old assistant. So Kat was there, but that was nice enough. Mom was pretty good too, except for being so drugged her end of the conversation sounded like Drunk History. She didn't ask me to do much, get things from the other room, tidy this, etc;. (I have spent hours playing that game with her.) Kat and I left to get the mail from the old hours and purchase slurpees. (Slurpees are all Mom wants when she's sick.)

An aside from the story-- Kat goes and opens the door with a key to the house first when we're together. I don't open the door unless I ring the bell and am invited inside. It is so very odd for my friend to have more permissions in my old home than I do.

When we returned my grandmother's car was parked out front. In my mother's bedroom, I greeted my grandmother, henceforth referred to as Dee.

"Are you done with class?" She asked.
"I go back to class in an hour."
"Oh! Did you get my message?"
"Nope!" I replied. Dee then started to give me a list of tasks to do. I excused myself, as Mom's attention was preoccupied with Dee.

Ted, one of my mom's adoptee's who moved in shortly after I moved out, was in the living room. I had not really spoken to him since my ejection from the nest, so I sat down to have a conversation with both he and Kat. Before anything of significance happened, Dee came into the living room, asking me for a box or pan to sort things in. Thinking about it, I probably looked at her like she was crazy. I went to the kitchen.

"Y'know, Dee. I don't really live here anymore. I can't be sure where things have been put." With my mother, being a step below a hoarder and possessing no organizational skills, and my brother being a fifteen year old boy, the house was unusually chaotic. Dee responded with something about "creative solutions," but I can't be sure. I wasn't fully listening.

Thinking Dee would return to keeping my mother busy, I tried to return to my conversation with Kat and Ted. Dee had another task for me to do. She wanted me to sort through all of the mail from the old house. There was a very large bag of it. Enough mail that I'm sure the mail lady was probably a Hogwarts graduate. She was a Wizard. A real-life Tetris Champion. A quantum physics abuser. There was a shit ton of mail.

I had already began sorting the mail in the car, to have something to do with my hands. To be blatantly honest, I'm not comfortable enough with my mother to be back on terms that allow for favors, or work or borrowing. I need to figure out how to function without her attempting to take total control. But more on that later.

I made it clear that I wasn't going to finish sorting the mail. Dee has helped me through most of the transition moving away from home. She's been an amazing grandmother. I couldn't comprehend why she was suddenly demanding so many tasks of me in an environment that still set me on edge, in a situation she knew made me so distinctly uncomfortable.

Yes. Trust issues still. Big surprise?

Dee sat down at the coffee table with the bag of mail and said, "Sonya, I'm so glad you could be so flexible as to help in a situation where you're needed." She started sorting herself.

I don't reward behavior like that with acknowledgement. Obviously, this was very awkward for Kat and Ted.

"If you aren't going to help, you should just leave," Dee said.

Those, y'know, are the magic words.

"Okay. I will," I said. I stood up from the big arm chair and went to my mom's room. I told her that I had to go because I had an appointment.

As I was leaving, Dee came into Mom's room saying, "I told her to leave."

I did not stay long enough to see the reaction. Kat waved and whispered a very awkward 'bye' as I left. Ted had the odd, 'this isn't what I expected, wait, it's exactly what I expected and it's crazy' look that happens so often.

Sun Duck, I know you're familiar with motherly trauma. I have seen my mother maybe four times since my ejection from the nest. Every time I have either have cried during our meeting, left crying, or cried immediately afterwards. I have experienced no small amount of hurt.

What I wanted out of my visit today was to interact with my mother and leave tear-less. I wanted to know that I could leave her presence unharmed. As far as my mother goes, today was a success, even if her pain killers means she won't remember it.

I wish I could say something more dramatic here. Remember how I'm Being The Adult now? It doesn't lend to drama. Not the way I do it, anyhow. I had conversations with my family trifecta tonight- Brother, Mom and Dee. They were all very forthright, honest, difficult conversations. But I'm in a good place now. My effort was rewarded. Dee apologized, too.

We're all worried about my mom. Her sickness is too long-lasting, too awful. I am in a difficult place. I know my mom won't remember anything between the natural memory loss and the medicine. I still can't bring myself to trust her, in even the most basic of ways.

I want to step in and be the daughter. But I can't be super girl. I tried that before. It ruined me.

I miss you. You're like family, y'know. Except. Less Abusive.

I hope things are going far better for you than they are for me, Sun Duck. Especially on the motherly front.

Best Love and Wishes,
Sonya

Crude & Restless in September

9/15/11

Dear Professor Hammerhead,

I'm learning that there's a point when you have to tell the world to fuck off, tell everybody good day and flip them a good one. Though, I'm pretty sure I'm just trigger happy with my sign language.

I went to the college advisement office today and asked, "Do you have any programs for people who want to stab out their eyes with a plastic fork when they think about coming to class?" Only, I said the nicer version of those words, which sounds something like, "Do you have any alternative learning courses for people who find the traditional classroom environment isn't meeting their needs?" What can I say? I'm a pansy who needs to hide behind formality.

The counselor suggested the honors program, which adds a whopping single project to one designated honors class, a total of maybe ten hours additional work. I nearly slammed my head on the desk.

I understand life requires a certain amount of hoop-jumping, trick-doing and ass-kissing. But I've become convinced that if there is a hell, it probably is my English 102 class. I've seen my favorite subject shredded there more thoroughly than some spirits, Deadman included, could manage. I can't even blame my fellow students for the butchering-- they're too lifeless. Newts who crawl into the classroom and nod vaguely for an hour before being dismissed. Hammerhead, I've looked for fire everywhere here, for people who are doing the good work, whatever the work may be. I'm not finding them.

Instead I sit and watch uninspired teachers pass out meticulously color-coded hand-outs and turn in papers I know for a fact aren't being read. I'm considering semesters, abroad, at sea, online with a motorcycle. I don't care if I join the army, or hightail it to the land of milk and honey. As soon as my financial aid comes in, I'm finding a way out of this traditional set up. If you know any voodoo priests or shamans looking for an apprentice, let me know.

I blame you for this wild impulse. I hope the rivers are articulate enough to make you forget bureaucracy and that the fish posses more fight than my current peer group.

Your hard-headed student,
Sonya

P.S. Since writing this nearly a week ago, I've learned of your great loss. I can only imagine the caliber of person who could help make you what you are. I am so very sorry. Your family remains in my prayers.
Best love and wishes.

Because Pics or it Didn't Happen: Labor Day 11

Or: A Reminder This Isn't Half as Anonymous as it Pretends to Be

Kydee, Doctor and the Half-Horse. Doctor was freaking out over the guitar fitting with all of our things, but  I made it fit, dammit. It should be noted riding in this thing was like driving a slightly over-sized smart car. My knees left imprints on Doctor's back.

The radio refused to work, and it ate the converter tape for our ipods. So we used the cord from the converter tape to tie a portable speaker to the cup holder. There. Fixed.

To quote Kydee, "We fixed the music and broke the engine."

But then the Dolorian came to our rescue. This is also the only picture of me. Y'know, "only person taking  pictures so I'm never in them" syndrome.

Half-Horse, being pushed down the road to a safer rest stop.

The Beach and The Broke Fund, which funded a decent portion of the trip. 

At the beach, we rejoiced in usual beach-going activities, like playing guitar poorly, burying each other in sand, body-surfing, boogie-boarding and getting hella' sun burned. 

Kydee, post-burn, "The Happiest Little Lobster," on Sunset Cliffs. An ex-pat couple in a converted van lent  us a blanket because it was so very cold.

Overall, I'd say the experience was pretty awesome.

We were sad to pack up and head home.

Tumbleweed

Dear Goodie,

I returned from California safe and sound-- second degree sunburn excluded, my time with Kydee and Doctor was more amazing than I could have asked for.

I came home to a flurry of homework, but it wasn't too usually cruel. I managed to finally meet a Tumbleweed Youth Program representative. They're the people I've been trying to get in contact with for about a week now, the youth shelter/in-transition assistance/various programs for people like me organization. You would have loved to meet my, well, I don't think case-worker is the right word, but I suppose it's a good enough title for now.

I walked into the small complex of Phoenix office buildings to a sight I pretty much expected. Charity programs don't have fancy interiors, but they have linoleum floors and glassed-off secretary desks. I'm sure the two guys behind the desk, not much older than myself, were/are assisted by tumbleweed. Don't ask how, I'm a people-watcher and the idea seemed to fit.

I didn't know what to expect. I hadn't met Z.K, my "caseworker," in person before. I was 90% sure she was black. (Remember the summer I spent interviewing people over the phone? Speech says a lot about a person). I was looking forward to the woman who greeted me with, "Hey, what's up Momma?" when she returned my call.

So I wait in the lobby for Z.K. to come and get me, and in walks this curvy like a San Diego highway, nearly six foot in her heels, "I don't take no shit" black woman. We go back in her office, I tell the story all over again, or a good portion of it anyhow. She calls my school's financial aid office on the phone, gets the information I've spent the last several weeks asking for in all of seven minutes, turns to me and goes through the process step by step.

In Z.K.'s opinion, I've hit the ground running and I'm on my way. With her help, I'm nearly finished with the Independent paperwork. I've also talked to her about finding work, so she's helping me with that as well. I'm glad to have an advocate who has done this before, who knows the ins and outs.

What I'm struggling with now is just. Well. Writing the personal statement. It's supposed to be an in-depth description of my relationship with both of my parents. Specifically, what lead up to my ejection from the nest. That's a solid eight years of information to filter through-- all the way back to my parent's divorce. You were right when you said my situation, the conflict it resulted from, isn't something that happened over night.

Oh, hopefully there's a job on campus heading my way. Still sending out applications, though. Everything's in process.

Best Love and Wishes,
Sonya

Road-tripping with Kydee and Doctor, Part 2

James,

You won’t believe what happened once Kydee, Doctor and I started on our way to California yesterday. Doctor’s car is a small thing. I call it the Half-Horse. It could barely fit all of our luggage; Kydee’s guitar was wedged between the trunk and one of the lowered backseat cushions, crammed against the cooler, smushed up against me, my knees were jammed up into the Doctor’s back no matter how I sat. But space didn’t concern us for very much time, as less than eight miles from Doctor’s abode, the engine started doing scary-I-might-explode things in the nature of smoke and grinding noises. So, like logical young adults, we pulled over, called Doctor’s parent’s and stared at the engine like it’s an alien life form.

“When his dad said he wanted to run the engine hot, I don’t think this is what he meant,” Kydee said.

Nobody stopped or really rubber-necked to look at us on the side of the road. Luckily we were only eight miles and Doctor’s parents were able to come and rescue us. We thought our trip would be canceled, but we were allowed to take the Doctor’s family mini-van, henceforth referred to as The Dolorian. We hit the Indian Reservation highway just half past seven, twenty four hours after we had the idea to leave.

You’re probably not familiar with the drive from Phoenix to California. There isn’t much to be familiar with, it’s mostly desert and highway until Yuma, where there are some casinos and late-night pit stop restaurants along the highway. We grabbed breakfast at 10pm there, before  I got behind the wheel. I drove us through the canyon—I’m almost glad I couldn’t see far off the road. I had the feeling of driving through a dark tunnel the entire time.

At 2 am we arrived at the Doctor’s aunt’s, where we quietly walked inside and went to our assigned sleeping areas.  By nine the next morning we were on the beach.

Kydee doesn’t really know how to swim, just how to not drown. The water was too cold to go in at first, so we played guitar on the beach, grabbed breakfast. By lunch we were pulling each other into the water, being attacked by giant blocks of kelp and teaching Kydee to body surf.

I now sit back at Doctor’s aunts home, thoroughly crispy from a day of play and sleeping in the sun. You and I never went to any of Michigan’s lakes together while I was there. I really think you’d enjoy the beach.

Best,

Sonya.

P.S. After writing this I on an adventure where I walked the gardens of the big Mormon Temple in San Diego, was loaned a blanket on Sunset Cliffs by a ex-pat traveling couple staying in a converted van, found the best aloe vera lotion this side of the country and ate more "southern" food than I ever thought $5 could buy at Newport Kwik Stop, which looks suspiciously like a gas station and has a patio filled with homeless people, but was still some of the best food I've eaten. You would love this. I miss you.

Road-tripping with Kydee and Doctor, Part 1

Excuse me while I experiment with form.

Dear Moony,

Kydee and I have been trying to decide what to do for Labor Day weekend, what with living together and both being  two weeks post-ejection, we wanted to do something crazy and fun. A friend of Kydee’s, hereby referred to as  Doctor, was visiting for dinner. The Doctor had a wonderful suggestion: why don’t we go to California?

“It’s a hundred bucks in gas and I have an aunt we can stay with. Let’s go to the beach.”

And the crazy thing is, Moony, we decided to follow through. As I type this on Kydee’s miniscule net book, I am sitting on a worn pull-out sofa mattress which belongs to Doctor’s aunt. A little more than 24 hours after the idea was even conceived, I am in California.

Moony, we had an extended conversation once about run bags, or bug out bags, or whatever you call them. That single bag, easy to carry, loaded with all the essentials you need to leave. I have a secret about run bags. Since fourth grade, the first time my mother . . .  “invited me” to go live with my father, I’ve kept a run bag in the back of the closet, in case such a situation ever actually came to pass. Eight years later, what do you know? A week ago I moved all of my possessions, furniture included, in less than 12 hours work with help from some friends.  In the process of packing, I became fully acquainted with just about every item I own.  After today, grabbing my run bag and leaving on a whim, I know most of the stuff I have boxed up isn’t necessary. I fantasize about selling it all and buying a motorcycle or something like that. Maybe next semester.

It really is too easy to dismantle one’s space. Or to just bug out of town. It might be something I try to do more often. Please come visit and adventure with me.

Best wishes and love,

Sonya

18/F/?

Alternatively, Dealing with White People Problems while "Homeless"

 I was kicked out of my house two weeks ago.

I figured I should get that particular detail out of the way before moving on with the important part of the story. I'm sure the actualities and particulars of the explosive event that my ejection from the nest became will come out over time. That's not what I want to focus on now. I want to talk about White People Problems.

At eighteen years old, a student falls under an awkward situation where they really, really are not adults, more like children patronized with the right to vote, fight in wars and buy cancer packs. (Ah, those prized attributes of adulthood.) An eighteen year old cannot rent a car, a room on the Vegas strip, or most apartments, for that matter. Important to my situation, an eighteen year old still under their parent's tax umbrella cannot take out student loans on their own.

The only way for a student to get out from the influence of their parent's income is to file for independence. In Arizona, only weird and usual circumstances can get you that shiny title, "Independent." It doesn't matter if your parents won't give up their tax information, or if you demonstrate total self-reliance, or even if you're effectively estranged. You need to file paperwork, have letter(s) from third party source(s) and jump through hoops for cookies. (Beware, they're government issued and loaded with preservatives.)

Alternatively, as the FAFSA claims, if you have a "directive," official paperwork declaring homelessness or at-risk homelessness, you can file for financial aid independently. The problem with this little loophole is that nobody this homeless youth could seek out knows what a directive is how how to get one. In fact, the only thing this homeless youth has received from any Homeless/ In-Transition Organization/ Help Hotline/Shelter is a dozen phone numbers for every number called. It's an exponential growth of organizations, all interlinked to give phone numbers and not much actual information unless you're In Crisis. I have a temporary roof, so I do not qualify for the kind of emotional action In Crisis typically receives.

Thus begins an endless line of White People Problems. I would have expected fewer, now technically being of some small minority status, but there it is. I have to keep calling people to get help, explain part of my story in every step of the process, assure people I'm job-seeking, hand out resumes, smile, say thank you, dial more numbers, wash and repeat.

What frustrates me most is that I know I'm a capable individual, and I know not everyone in my situation has similar skills. If it's this difficult for me to find assistance, how impossible could it be for someone without internet access, phone usage, work experience, a high school education or the networking opportunities I have? I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm thankful I am where I am, even if I'm constantly attached to a phone. (White People Problems.)

Tomorrow I begin a small impulse adventure in the nature of a bum-road-trip.
Pictures and stories will be forthcoming.

I want it to be known for those not up to date: I'm okay, I have a place to stay for now and I am a full-time student. I have some work, with more on the way. I'm making it.

Love,
Sonya
Professional Vagabond