Vienna Waits For You...

When my youngest daughter Kaden told us she wanted to name her (future) daughter Vienna, everyone laughed.


"Like the sausages?" everyone roared.


Her big sister jumped to her defense. "No, like the country."


It's a city, Kelsey, but you were always a good sister.


"Like the song?" I asked.


"YES!" she exclaimed. "You know that song?"


Know it? I love it. That Billy Joel song was the reason I bought the 13 Going on 30 soundtrack. Well, that and the fact that it was basically an 80's soundtrack.


I'd listen to that song over and over in my car. I was past the intended age for his message, yet no-one had ever insisted that I "slow down" back then, or that I was "so ambitious for a juvenile."


My inner 13-year old needed to hear it.


A couple of years later I met another 13-year old who reminded me of my younger self. She was in Kaden's carpool, but also in my English class, so I had to tread carefully.


"I want you to hear this song," I told her one night on the way home from a play rehearsal.


I didn't say much else, just let the words speak for themselves. I'm not sure if she received them, or if she understood that I was trying desperately to shield her from the path I'd unknowingly started down at her age. She nodded her head as she got out of the car.


Over the next few years, I'd hear the song from time to time. It never again had such an impact on me.


Until now.


Today at the soup kitchen, I saw five girls, all under twenty, and all acting like experienced women of the world. They breezed in, chatted up the men, and sauntered out in clothes that barely covered their bodies. They can't wait to be grown, to be in the midst of all of the action, and their loud voices are a certain sign of overcompensating their fear.


I wanted to play the song for all of them.

Vienna

By Billy Joel

Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, then tell me
Why are you still so afraid?

Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You'd better cool it off before you burn it out
You've got so much to do
And only so many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even
Get halfway through
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you

Slow down, you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight
Tonight,
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong, you know
You can't always see when you're right. you're right

You've got your passion, you've got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Slow down, you crazy child
And take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile
It's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?
And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
Why don't you realize, Vienna waits for you
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Why I Fit in So Well in Homeless Camps

Many know my story; I've never kept it much of a secret. It is what it is and Rascal Flatts said it best when they sang God blessed the broken road that led me straight to [this].


Life for me in the 70's was a Norman Rockwell painting. Lemonade stands, catching fireflies, trips to Disneyworld. From skating on neighborhood sidewalks with my friends to reading the latest Beverly Cleary book, my life was the picture of innocence.


The 80's brought some things to my life that remain to this day. Valley girl catchphrases, socks that match your polo shirt, and scrunchies. I often look like the BEFORE picture in a fashion editorial spread. I figure sooner or later it'll be the new retro fad anyway.


But the 80's also brought about some things that took me years to overcome.


I was only thirteen when I started high school, and still very innocent. I had a menagerie of stuffed animals on my bed and still played with them every night. I had the typical plan of most suburban kids: graduate from high school with honors and spend four years at a university somewhere, followed by marriage and kids. It wasn't a plan; it was a given.


Freshman year started off great. I made lots of new friends. I loved my classes and we built the freshman homecoming float at my house. I brought home several brochures from the guidance counselor's office about colleges and I was looking at Florida State University's theater program. I don't know what I'd have done with a degree in drama but it seemed like a great career path!


I was one of only two incoming freshman on an academic team so much of my time was spent with upperclassmen. Mostly male. Not only were these guys smart, they were extremely popular around campus.


I decided to take advantage of my relationship with them and find out how I, too, could live the life spread out on the pages of my Teen and YM magazines.


Turns out, I was the one who got taken advantage of.


I started hanging out at parties with them. There was a lot of alcohol, and occasionally pot. I may have been clueless to the workings of a teen boy's mind but I knew how to Just Say No to drugs.  I'd get a drink just to fit in then pretend to sip on it until I could slip off unnoticed and pour it out.


I was completely sober, and incredibly naïve, when they told me to be popular I needed to have sex with them. They could tell I was unsure so they hit me with the clincher. "All the cheerleaders do it."


I thought cheerleaders hung the moon. I'd wanted to be one as long as I could remember and even though I was as coordinated as a potato sack, I'd dreamed that one day I would miraculously wake up and be able to do the best herkie south of the Mason-Dixon line.


I fell for it.


And I gave in.


After the fifth guy had his way with me, one of my idoled cheerleaders pulled me aside. "You really should be more discreet. Everyone's calling you a whore."


Wait, what?!!


At that exact moment, on the second floor of some house party, I realized what had happened. I'd been lied to, taken advantage of, and my reputation was ruined.


All because I wanted to be popular.


I didn't know how to handle it. I was devastated. I couldn't tell my parents; I'd just had a Smurfette party two months before.


I confided in a trusted "uncle". They weren't actually related but the grandmother had lived across from us since I was born and I spent nearly every afternoon at her house. All of the grandchildren were like cousins to me; their parents like aunts and uncles. This was my favorite set; they were down from Oregon.


I spent the night after playing with the kids, and was asleep in the living room when "Uncle Joe" woke me up.


"Hey," I whispered. "What's wrong?"


"Remember what we talked about," he asked. Of course, the end of my life. How could I forget?


That was all he said before he raped me.


Too stunned to speak, I lay there unmoving until the next morning. On my way out the door to the safety of my own home, he pulled me aside.


"This is your fault," he hissed. "You wanted it. That's why you told me all that. If you tell your parents, I'm going to have to tell them everything you've been doing."


This man, who I loved and trusted my whole life, was a monster. (In years to come it would be revealed that three of the four brothers were sexual predators. One is serving time for molesting several boys. One repeatedly raped a nephew, resulting in the boy's suicide. As far as I know, "Uncle Joe" is still walking free.)


Something inside me died at that point and I started a pattern that lasted for decades. I numbed myself.


First with alcohol. It was easy to get and after a few drinks, I didn't care what happened. I already had the reputation of a slut, so how much worse could it get?


I turned down the marijuana still. Alcohol, okay. Drugs, bad. Despite all, I was still a little girl.


One night I didn't say no.


My world forever changed.


I loved the feeling of being high. It allowed me to still not care, yet I could maintain control in a way I couldn't when I was drunk.


Pot quickly gave way to other drugs. Cocaine, ecstacy, pcp...Girls like me learned that to get the drugs, you dated the dealers.


In my book, there's no difference between that and prostitution.


I became a bully. I threatened people so that no-one could see how scared I was inside. I also would pick a few girls who I saw being bullied and I'd become their protector. I'm not sure why anyone was scared of a 98-lb girl whose bark was bigger than her bite, but after slashing someone's tires because they parked in my "spot" at school, no-one took chances.


When getting high is your solitary focus, nothing else matters. My grades dropped; I stopped hanging out with my friends from church. Life as I knew it had ended. My chances of a college scholarship, my hopes of finding a husband who'd want "damaged goods."


My parents tried everything. Rehab, counseling, tough love. Some of it worked. At least for a little while.


I even told my mom about that awful night three years after it happened.  It was one of our best mother-daughter talks ever.


But the problem was that I had developed a pattern. When life gets tough, numb the pain with drugs.


It was a pattern that I continued even after I'd had children. By then my drugs were legal, but the idea was the same. I'm overwhelmed with motherhood, take a Xanax to escape.


Addiction is no less of a stronghold when the drugs are in your medicine cabinet.


Not only did I struggle with addiction, suicide was a near companion. When the drugs just couldn't get me high enough to escape the turmoil I was feeling inside, I'd contemplate suicide.


There were many for-attention-only suicide attempts. The ones where you want to escape for a little while or manipulate someone.


And then there were two truly-wanting-to-end-it attempts.


Only by the grace of God was I not successful.


Even after I surrendered my life to the Lord, these two strongholds remained. When things went wrong, I wanted a pill. I would work through it, but the question haunted me. When is that not my first thought?


When things went really wrong, the suicidal thoughts would come back.


It was as if nothing changed.


I finally realized that there were hidden parts of my heart that I refused to bring into the light. They were painful and they'd been there so long, I wasn't sure I knew how to let them go. Or that I wanted to.


So many people on the streets have these painful boxes locked up so tight inside of them. They are scared to let them go because it is easier to deal with the evil you know than to face the unknown.


I spent ten years afraid to be completely free.


But the peace, and the joy, that come with breaking those chains are what allow us to walk in the promised land here on earth.


I know the pain. I know the hidden doors. I know the patterns and I know the fear.


I tell everyone on the streets that there's no difference between us.


Except that I've allowed the Lord to set me free.

STREET LIFE

It was a typical, busy day.


It was devoted to the street life.  (Misheard lyrics in my head go off every time.. "Street life, people..up and down the boulevard..." Okay, so maybe it's streetlights according to official Journey lyrics but I think street life fits better anyway...)


Don't Stop Believin' is pretty apropros after this day.


I started with Melvin. He'd landed back at another friend's house and needed to go to the Social Security Office to change his mailing address. His new card "disappeared" from his old address but fortunately it had not been accessed. He'd decided to go up north to stay with family, the wear and tear of the streets taking its toll. We had the card expedited to my house; he will get on the bus as soon as the benefits hit. I won't bring the card until we are on our way.


On the way back, we saw a girl walking on crutches. I gave her a ride. She rode around with me for about an hour, just to rest, since there was no home to go to. I had to drop her off at a gas station. I knew who she was, having seen her mugshot multiple times, and I was able to initiate a conversation with her. She isn't ready to leave that lifestyle, though streetwalking will be considerably hampered on crutches. She has my card; when she gets tired she now has a way out.


I met a couple looking for apartment assistance at the local soup kitchen. I hung out at lunch, with many of the regulars. Some I knew in passing; others I knew well.


There was Jax, who will look at me and swear his shoes are green when I can see they are bright red. He'd had a severe brain injury after having his head kicked in at the local jail ten years ago. I don't know if the lying is part of the brain injury, a spiritual problem, manipulation, or a combination of all three. Probably the latter. It was still good to see him. He brings out my maternal side more than most, even though he's only a decade younger than me.


Mr. Raleigh was there, after his physical therapy. He's come a long way since his stroke two months ago. I got him in an apartment two months ago and he needed help paying the second month's rent. I told him today to call me if he needed me to come get his check when it came in. I had twenty years experience in handing out allowances and find it to be a useful tool on the streets. Even those not struggling with drugs have trouble managing their money.


I met Pocahantas, a name that comes up every time a scam goes down. And got to hold DJ, a 3-yr old who comes with his grandparents, aunts, and in-and-out mother every day to the soup kitchen.


I watched those around me as they ate. There were those who ate with the heads down. They seemed thankful, but ashamed. There were those with pride. They acted as if they were doing the kitchen a favor by being there. There were ladies who loudly complained about how horrible everything tasted. Some told jokes as the lone meal served each day was their only interaction with others. Some drive; others walk.   Most know each other; many know me. Some even well enough to ask why I wasn't eating because today's menu included pizza and most know my theory: even bad pizza is good because it's PIZZA!




Frances barely ate. She had a broken tooth. I called a free dental clinic and made an appointment to take her next Tuesday. Most of us wouldn't dream of waiting five days with a broken tooth, but when you are dependent on free clinics and goodwill transportation you don't have a choice.


It works out pretty well. I can drop Frances off in Ocean Springs, then get Melvin to the Biloxi bus station.


When the administrator at the V.A. called to see if I could bring Eric to Biloxi next week, I was able to work it into next Tuesday as well.


Eric has been trying to get his VA benefits since last November and is finally nearing the end. He had a local organization helping him, but they are short-staffed and what should've taken weeks actually took months. I'd taken a backseat in his care, not being an official employee of any agency, but when I went to visit him earlier this week I saw a man who was literally wasting away. 4% body mass index, the doctors said. I was horrified. Maybe a little jealous because I secretly yearn for the abhorred Barbie doll dimensions, but horrified nonetheless. I'd just seen my second homeless friend die in three months and I refused to sit by and watch it happen again because of bureaucratic red tape.


This is where it comes in handy that I DON'T work for a government agency. Two phone calls later and a bypass of the understaffed organization, his vouchers are ready for us to come get him. By Wednesday he will have a home.


I got a shock today when I found out that Darla, a young girl who looked like she could model for Abercrombie & Fitch, was the daughter of Belinda, a local prostitute.


The first time I met Darla she was hanging out at Tent City. I called my husband and had him meet me right away. We thought she was a runaway; she couldn't have been more than 17. I wanted to bring her home. Cute as a button and intelligent, I didn't want her to get caught up in the world of drugs and prostitution.


She declined our offer to take her out, saying she wanted to smoke her pot. I encouraged her to go home to her family or call me if she wanted to get out.


I saw her twice after that. Both times she wanted no help.


Today I found out that she was Belinda's daughter. I was almost sick.


I've been helping Belinda for about a year. I've taken her up to two hours away to stay with friends before. I've visited her in jail. We've talked about her church upbringing and falling away. She can't break the meth addiction and prostitution is her life. I knew she'd lost custody of a child but until today I had no idea that child was Darla.


I was trying to prevent her from a life she'd been born into. No wonder she didn't want out. It's all she's ever known.


After I completed paperwork for the new couple, my phone started ringing off the hook. Between the apartment (about 30 minutes) I had seven calls, all from people in the motel where that couple is staying, all wanting rental assistance.


Most won't qualify but I'll sort through the applications with them this week-end.


I'd forwarded the church phone to my cell today so it rang more than usual. 37 calls in all. Including my dad, whose voicemail said "Yes, I'm homeless and looking for an apartment. Is that what I need to say to talk to my daughter?"


Very funny, Dad.


The truth is, we talk every day. My dad has always been there for me. Even when I was doing things no parent should have to experience. His love is unconditional and always has been.


Sometimes I would take that for granted.


But not today. Days like this, I realize just how blessed I am.


For some of these people, I'm the closest thing to family they have left.


I try to give them the unconditional love my dad gave me. No matter what.