REFUGEES & OTHER POOR SLOBS

“There is only one rule that binds all people. One governing principle that defines every relationship on God’s green earth: The weak are meat, and the strong do eat.”

~Dr. Henry GooseCloud Atlas

“Christine, poor people must exist, because without them, there can’t be rich people.”

~G Makela


It may have been the Morning Edition that was playing on NPR when I thought I had to have misheard this ‘expert’ of some sort talk very authoritatively about Germany’s announcement to take in 800,000 refugees. I was wondering if she, the collective national she that is, may be feeling the need to atone for deeds done past when I heard:

“These are educated people: doctors and lawyers and such. We’re not talking about the bottom of the barrel…

Those words hit me like a punch in the gut. Because these kinds of terms reflect a sickness that seems to have infected so many people – people who make judgments on others based on what they studied, or didn’t study, what they wear or how they look, or even what they eat or what they have in their possession.

I hear this type of message each and every day, on the radio, online, in my neighborhood, and even in my own family.

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People who had been evicted from their village on the east coast of Mexico camped out in the streets of Mexico City and marched to create awareness of what the government was doing. People walked right by them, barely taking a second glance.

I may have gotten a glimpse into how it feels to be treated this way. I’ve seen the sickness and apathy actually seeping out through their eyes…the same kind of apathy and ignorance I heard on the radio…

Exhausted homeless girl
SEGOB: La Secretaría de Gobernación de México. These people told me that the government evicted every person in their village.

One quiet, sunny, Sunday afternoon, I was wandering alone in Pioneer Square.

I was turning the corner at First and Washington when I came upon a woman who was sobbing in a doorway. I mean she was really losing it. She was in a very bad place.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No, I’m not,” she sobbed.

She stood up and came toward me. She had desperation in her eyes. She didn’t seem to be an addict, but I am really blind to that kind of stuff, so who knows. I got the impression that she had ‘mental’ issues, which is extremely likely.

She was a very skinny black woman who may have been in her thirties or forties, but she looked about seventy-five.

She grabbed my arms. “Please help me!” She was still sobbing and could barely talk.

I looked into her eyes and saw that she meant me no harm. She was simply a human being who had reached her limit.

“What do you need?” I asked.

She pulled me toward her and I tried to pull away. She smelled like she hadn’t bathed in many months and the odor was almost unbearable.

She pleaded with me, “Please, I’m sorry ma’am, please: may I ask you: do you have any change that you can spare?”

That ma’am nonsense always makes me feel horrible. Even though I did live in the south for a very short time…

I stopped and listened to what she had to say. She leaned toward me and whispered,

“I need to get some women things!  I won’t spend it on booze, ma’am, please believe me, I just need to get me some women things!”

I finally noticed that she was kind of bouncing and crossing her legs.

I gave her all the cash I had, which was only five or ten bucks, and she looked deeply into my eyes, then hugged me again.

She and I shared a very deep connection.

I turned to walk away and standing there, with mouths agape, was a well dressed, upwardly mobile urban family: a mom and dad with a couple of kids and a dog or two. And a baby in an SUV-sized stroller.

It was the man that caught my eye. He was staring at me like I was some kind of alien behind a window in a lab. His face wore an expression of sick fascination.

He had no idea what had taken place, but I could see that he, an educated, young, white, male, urban professional, had assessed the unusual occurrence from his narrow and entitled point of view and was already giving it a label and mentally writing his Facebook post:

“The homeless are out of control!” or something equally inane and incorrect.

He himself would have never gotten involved.

How disgusting.

I saw that revulsion as clearly as I see the clothes he was wearing as I passed him. He seemed to almost jump away from me.

I felt like he had backed away so that I didn’t infect him.

chain

It is absolutely amazing, the ability in human beings not to see the world as it is. We create nice versions of it in our minds and ignore the ugliness, unless it affects us directly.

Rather like Nazi Germany. Or any other situation in which a person commits heinous acts – or stands by and does nothing – and justifies them by saying: “I was just doing my job…

Every single one of us is capable of being inhumane and apathetic. In fact, I submit that by not doing anything, we are just as culpable as those who are pulling the trigger, or building giant walls to make sure that those without don’t take what’s ‘ours.’

I saw a meme that is staying with me all week. It stated that we should be building “longer tables, not higher fences.”

I agree wholeheartedly.


FULL STORY.

*It’s time for us to have a real representation of human being in charge so that women and people of color can earn the same wages as white men and not get arrested for no reason, or denied access to contraceptives – or even to have control over our own bodies – or raped or shot on the streets, or left homeless, which is becoming an epidemic…we need real people in charge, not the rich, corporate puppets that we currently have, who look upon the hundreds of thousands of homeless refugees as just another ‘casualty of war.’

THE NIGHT I MET MS. KITT

EARTHA KITT ON PIANO(photo of Ms Kitt by Robert Lebeck, 1960)

For more than 15 years I had been living my life vicariously through international and domestic travelers’ stories at the bar at the Warwick hotel.

Over the years, several men assumed that I was a prostitute and asked me how much I charged.

My father told me I should expect no less; what could I possibly be thinking: a single woman, sitting at a hotel bar?

I watched countless restaurant managers come and go. There were so many of them I invented a game for my favorite bartender Annie.

I would call the new manager du jour over and initiate a conversation. It only took me a few minutes and direct eye contact to give my friend and liquid pharmacist the ‘thumbs up’ or ‘thumbs down’…

I became extremely accurate in character assessment.

“You were right again, Christine! This one’s an absolute asshole!” staff would confirm.

There were some good ones – usually women – but they didn’t last long.

**

I wish I could go back and change the night that I met Eartha Kitt.

I had been talking to her drummer, who was the first one of the group to leave the club. He was sitting at the bar. I had no idea that Ms. Kitt herself would be joining him…

We chatted about living in New York, and how life there had been so colorful, before it was Disneyized by corporate greed. I thought about all the famous people I had spotted, but like a true New Yorker, I had learned to act nonchalantly and ignore them.

Then she appeared; walking across the room toward us.

She was tiny. And radiant. She was a legend standing before me, looking up at me, exhausted from her third performance in three nights, but beaming. She was eighty years old.

Her presence filled the room and beyond.

She acknowledged her drummer, then smiled and looked at me. She extended her hand as she purred,

“Hello. I’m Eartha Kitt.”

It was her one-of-a-kind, sexy, alto voice and it was surreal.

I took her hand, smiled, and said,

“I’m Christine Makela.”

She and her drummer moved to a table.

I learned shortly after that that she had died.

I wish that I had let her know what an inspiration she was, to have Made It in a white, Man’s world. And not only did she make it; she became a Legend.

I, of all people, know how difficult it is for an artist to survive, let alone thrive, in the version of life that we are living- the version created by greed and apathy and entitlement…

I should have dropped to my knees and kissed her feet.

Ms. Kitt, it was an extreme honor and joy to have met you: You were loved.

Photograph: ITV/REX

Photograph: ITV/REX at the Guardian.com

I WANT TO BE EVIL

SANTA BABY

C’EST SI BON, 1953

Eartha’s childhood, by her daughter Kitt