Glide Church on the edge of the Tenderloin section of San Francisco serves approximately 500 poor people breakfast, lunch and dinner seven days a week. The food’s good. The service’s efficient, and the enterprise is, it seems, non-proselytizing and non-judgmental. The clientèle is predominantly male and black, from young to old. Other agencies in SF do the same thing every day, and their efforts are replicated across the country. What does all this mean? Is this the so-called permanent underclass of America?

We are mentally and emotionally overwhelmed by the problem. Where have we gone wrong? The poor you will always have with you, someone we know once said. But in these numbers, and growing?

While the Glide Church also offers a raft of other social services, the sense is that this is a permanent,long term, chronic condition. The Haves and the Have-Nots. It’s all very depressing…..

Submitted with a note of sadness

CN

Ahoy,

I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks to the partners at the Starbucks on 22nd and Hennepin for voting me “nicest, coolest, smartest customer ever“. This award, the first of any kind in my life, entitles me to a week’s worth of Triple Grande Non-Fat Lattes, one per glorious day for a whole glorious week. More importantly it entitles me to bragging rights over nice Pat, who is gone to Costa Rica a bit too much to qualify; too cool for words David Fima;, Dr. Gary Stern, the head of the whole Federal Reserve (at least this district); the children’s doctor who looks like the actress Susie Oh, only even classier; half crazy Johnny, the darn pretty good artist; all of the cute ladies from the nail salon; Blois Frigin’ Olson and the life spring guys who never say hi and just stare every morning even though I see them, oh, 336 days a year.
Submitted with swagger
MJO

Ps

just a gentle reminder to the partners at good old 2216 Hennepin, remember to brew full batches of bold until noon each day. Thanks to each of you for the honor!

So Neerland gets first whack, it is as it should be I suppose. Even better the main content of this post isn’t even mine!

I have had the pleasure of meeting a quite remarkable fella named Garrett Ebling. Fomer reporter, current communications professional for Great Clips, Inc and I35W bridge collapse survivor, which is an honor not unlike eagle scout, once you are a bridge collapse survivor you are always a bridge collapse survivor. Garrett’s story has been well chronicled in the newspapers and on the local network affiliates. The physical experience; as the bridge fell, the heroic recuse by a Comcast Cable employee who missed Garrett’s fate by a car length and Garrett’s journey to recover his health and heal his battered body are at once inspiring and jarring. Shocking as it all may be Garrett’s physical experiences are fathomable.

It is his metaphysical journey that we may never understand. There is no “why me” in Garrett today. He is grateful that he was spared to continue his life, with his betrothed and a new job. Garrett credits his faith, his belief in an Almighty, and His master plan, for the strength he found to persevere. But still there will always be more to this story. As any good reporter would, Garrett is listing the “who, what, when, where, why and hows” but together they aren’t adding up. Probably never will. Garrett posted this poem on his caring bridge site. It is a metaphor for all of us who experience collapse and rebuilding.

“Numb”

We cascaded into the crevices

Tumbled into the darkness

Our bodies bounced and rattled

Off concrete rubble and ribbons of steel.

Some landed wet. Others dry,

Gargling and spitting blood and water.

Most were patched up like tape onto a bicycle tire,

Set free to return to the roads and bridges that betrayed us.

And like dogs who despise leashes,

We pull the other way. Who wants to go there?

We stand unbudging and hollow.

The trembling gnaws from inside out.

It settles, then swirls, like garbage in the wind.

There is no savior. No finish line.

Instead we wander with aching feet, unsettled mind,

A countenance not unlike the walking undead.

We’ve become numb.

The rug was pulled from beneath.

We collapsed with no net below.

Where is our deliverer?

For more about Garrett’s journey visit his caring bridge site your darn self; www.caringbridge.org/visit/garrettebling

Posted with humility
MJO

I’ve been somewhat traumatized and also stimulated by some of my activities recently, and I think I’ve got an idea on how I might jump into this here blog-o-sphere.

First, the visit to the Social Security office. We weren’t the only white people there, but we were in the  minority. Which is probably good for our humility. Something’s wrong though. There was just this rumble of bad attitude and minor bad behavior; two armed guards searched us at the door and hovered over us. I guess I was thankful. There was a certain clubiness to it all, with a lot of the service/money seekers (yes, ourselves included) obviously at home, like they were at one their regular neighborhood stops, bitching about the stupidity of the government and the bureaucrats who served them. Outside, in the cold mist, the beneficiaries of the system stoked up on their smoke of choice and continued the negative commentary. No one seemed to have a job to go to. I heard myself ranting on the drive home. I was shocked by myself. Where did I go wrong….Later I read a well-done piece put out by the Center for the American Experiment, A Kitchen Table  Conversation about Minneapolis and its Future. Mitch Pearlstein led the Mayor, Peter Bell and Gary Cunningham in a conversation about the  intractable  problems on the north side. The “sides” of the argument seemed to be what government should/could do–with the Mayor listing the efforts–and what was personal or community responsibility–the Bell tolling on this theme– and Cunningham weighing in on both sides. The conversation, or at least its rendering, was civil and interesting, and there were some areas of agreement that jarred me, and some insights–Bell’s mainly–that provoked me, like his notion that because somone says something–rap music or falling down pants– is a cultural thing doesn’t mean it isn’t disrespectful and counterproductive. This publication should be read by all..,

And I didn’t top it all off with a stroll down (up?) the Nicollet Mall to replenish my pique and angst about such falling down pants and the misbehavior of those off whom they are falling ,or the drunks waiting happily for a ride to detox or suburbanites driving through our red lights because our red lights don’t really mean anything from a cultural point of view. I ask you, can we rank these various forms of thuggishness as anything but equal? No, I didn’t take my stroll from 12th Street to the River, but my wife did and she came back and did a little ranting herself….

And now, finally, the idea. I once ,somewhat patronizingly,  explained to Citizens League head Sean Kershaw that ideas trumped process, particularly process that involved drinking beer and pondering the big picture. I suppose I was wrong. But I’m still devoted to ideas and doing things that work, and, even as a nearly extinct species, I am frustrated and concerned about the desperation and defeat that characterizes a major portion of what is my city and the depression that sets in when nothing seems to work and when fair-minded men like Cunningham, Rybak and Bell can only call for more government efforts and at the same time say nothing will really work unless the community takes charge. Both sides are right, of course, and maybe something coming in from left field could help generate progress and hope……..

The idea: every church, mosque and every cultural institution on the northside should form Citizen Anonymous groups, open to all on a weekly basis, based on the AA model of service, unity and recovery–and the primary requisite, anonymity. The only requirement for membership, young or old, is to admit that one’s life has become unmanageable, in a community and cultural sense, and that the only responsibility of the group is to help others in the community to acknowledge the poison of  family dysfunction, crime and ignorance and a willingness to work together as living antidotes to that environment. Everyone gets to tell his story, his or her community-a-logue or bad environment narrative, and no one judges anyone, and everyone gets to go home having had a chance to share the experience in a place that doesn’t demand gang colors or  tired social service strategies. The only expense of this operation is a few bucks tossed in a coffee can to pay for the heat and light. No picnics, no rally for Christ or Allah, just a Circle of Friendship, and then everyone says a prayer for peace. I suppose the parallels aren’t perfect but you get the idea.

I had another idea about Charity a few years ago. i couldn’t quite articulate my take on the subject, which makes me  think that possibly I didn’t have much of a take. Reading my new idea here, I am afraid I may be grasping at straws in my own concern and desperation. But I’ve seen miracles worked by people who just talked about themselves and hoped that they could lead a better life. Better than complaining about the bureaucrats, I say.

Submitted with gusto,

C.N.