39 Turn 'round quick and start to run Part 1

How did I get so far from what the nuns taught me? I mean really far. I told you a bit about the church I went to. Pretty intense. The symbolism and iconography was probably as deep as anything you'd see in the US. There were wooden tunnels between different chapels. Little rooms of prayer with rosaries and crutches. Every chapel and nook was built like a grotto. Stone walls. There were even large outdoor cages with exotic birds. Sometimes the peacocks roamed the grounds. We had an underground chapel that burned in 1960. I snuck in there and saw the wreck of the remains. Fallen timbers. Broken imported statues of saints. We had missionary day every Wednesday at school. Out studies were short and had films of those in need around the world. But really what everyone holds in their memory were the films of dreaded diseases (elephantiasis) and parasites. On occasion a missionary priest visited to give us a little talk about how we were compelled to be of service at all times. Give of ourselves.

The priests were a distant breed to me. They lived in the rectory. They got a new car every year and we heard tales of too much wine. Actually, they had a feast of St. Anthony. You've seen it on the Sopranos. There would be a procession where the statue of St. Anthony would be carried. Yeah. There was the money all over the statue. I guess it was supposed to bring good fortune. I always thought "Wow. We're supposed to live conscientious lives, frugal. Give money to the poor." It didn't make sense to me. The priests got their car. Oh well. A carnival. But my mom didn't stand for it. On more than one occasion she called out the hypocrisy and gave the priests a direct tongue lashing. I heard it was yelling.

The nuns were a different story. They really did take vows of poverty. Not one car at the convent in those days. Here's where I tell you how deeply thoughtful I was, in the sense I was always wondering about why we exist. God. Life. The why of everything. In religion class, we would go over parables and stories out of the New Testament. Never the Old Testament. These were progressive Dominican nuns. Not into the fire and brimstone stuff. Not always, but I did ask questions they couldn't answer and I'd get a thump on the head with a heavy book. I remember one of the boys would sass back "Hey, stop hitting her on the head." The boys used to get some severe slapping across the face. There were some real rebels. I remember the principal, Sister "Rose Marie" would attend to the most brutal beatings. The accused was called bold and brazen. I would get nervous and sick from it. I even had medicine to help with queasiness, but I refused to take it. Sister "Rose Marie" would call me into her office. "Please take your medicine." Real nice. I defiantly refused and said "I just want to go home. I don't want to eat lunch."

But the nuns loved me. I would trudge through the snow to bring them bread. They invited me to lunch at the convent a number of times. I saw them in their own chapel. Praying. I'm pretty sure they were hoping I would go into the convent. (evil laugh) Well... there was one lunch in particular that I remember. A couple of the novices were at the table. I don't know how it got onto the subject, but they were beyond giggling talking about boyfriends they once had. Their faces were all shades of crimson, but the talk was of the most innocent variety. I sat there and thought how sad this was. I already was questioning so much, I had no intention of becoming a nun. Especially after this. I was already a gad about town. A real jokester. A disciplined, quiet female class clown. That did it.

Ok. I had to get that Catholic stuff out of the way. It's not an excuse, but just showing how I could make a transition into exploration that went deeper. I was already out of Catholic School for a couple of years or so and getting into hedonistic delights by the time Black Sabbath hit the airwaves. I don't know where I first heard it. Their influence hit me with deep, dark sonar waves.

Just a little while before that I found a book at Levin's Pharmacy. Same place I stole "Steal This Book." They put anything out on the rack. If those hippie kids wanna buy it, they would sell it.

 Wow. Us ex-Catholic School kids had something to get interested in.

38 Smoke-filled room in a corner basement Part 2

So here I was needing another job again. Or at least people convinced me I needed another crappy job. Oh, I hated all those crappy jobs but I guess I "needed" one. I have no idea about the communication between "E" and her father, but I heard from "I" one day. "Hey, "E's" father needs help at his nursing home. I'm guessing "E" asked "I" but she was still living at home. Why work at that crappy job? And why did the dad think it was a good idea for a friend of the daughter work there? I'm guessing the reason... a nice Catholic school girl. There will be devotion. And no thievery. Really Dad? Maybe they noticed when the pills stopped disappearing. I'm sure a worker was blamed. Better get those goody two shoes Catholic girls.

So I go into the office. I think it was Island Park. I sit at the chair across from "E's" dad. There basically was no conversation. I remember distinctly. "You're E's friend. You have the job." Ok. I guess you could call it friend, Dad.

A few days later I walk into the place. They made us wear dumb white dresses and those shoes you wore if you were a nurse or waitress. Servant shoes. I probably got them from my mom. She was a lunch lady. A favorite of the high school kids. She got them.

Not mine, but like this.

Right into the fire. There was a mean boss lady. They stuck me with a nice lady that just really needed the job. She always had a look of sadness on her face. Fairly young, probably late 20's, but sad. Brown hair pulled back. She took me around a little bit. There was a hallway with elderly people that I was going to work. Hardly any common areas because they drugged everyone so hard they just stayed in bed. 

In the early 70's there was a psychiatric reform. So called reform called Deinstitutionalisation. (Whew) But it really wasn't. All that happened was that people were thrown out of mental hospitals and onto the streets. We had different names for them then. Let's get real. Some of the wealthy of course had their own places. I'm thinking Margaret's environment wasn't quite as bad. Or at least I hope. They weren't wealthy but maybe upper middle class.

Let's get real. We called them nut houses back then. Just the facts.

I knew all about this because I lived in Long Beach. The shittiest town around for miles in the 70's. Collapsing abandoned buildings. Criminal elements. Hippie pot users that couldn't afford more rent. And the place that the state housed many, many of the people released from the institutions. These weren't just depressed people. These were severely schizophrenic people. Walking the streets. I wasn't a fearful person but it was a trip. A crappy, decaying city with quite a number of people in the population that needed help. What I really want to say is that they walked the streets talking and yelling. Sometimes not just things that didn't make sense, but violent things.

You probably can't read this but I'm not paying the NY Times. Article was from 1978.

The nice lady showed me the one area where a few congregated. But these weren't old people. They were younger and mean looking. I'm telling you, this one guy had the most fierce, violent look on his face. She said stay away from them. Huh? Why are they here? They're criminally insane. The state threw them out of the institution they were in and paid medicaid funds. She said "Stay away from them. They'll stab you. They carry knives." I knew better than to make direct eye contact. They also walked up to the medication window to get their pills.

The nice lady was very busy and I'm sure under a lot of pressure and treated like crap. She told me to just start going around to the rooms in my hall and help. I'm not good with bed pans. God bless people that help people like that. I was good with other things. I did my best to help cheer them up. I don't think they got much of that. I'm sure the other workers were told to not hassle me because I was a "friend" of the bosses daughter. I did my best but it was dreadful. Those people were basically locked in a dingy room waiting for the inevitable. I don't even remember TV's in the room. They were drugged so heavily it's not like they could even read a book. I'm sure their eyes were neglected, like everything else. If they could sit up and they were clear headed without drugs, I'm sure they didn't have proper eye wear to read. I spent a little bit every day I was there reading to an old fella a book he had by his bed. Don't remember what it was. It wasn't a classic, just something. I don't know if he was comprehending, but I think he just liked to have a human pay attention to him. I swear to you, I cried every night.

There was an old lady that I favored. She was one of the ones in better condition. I don't know what she was doing there. She needed help with things but she wanted to live. She laughed and told me stories. An old black woman with a genuine attitude of gratitude for her life. I'll never forget one day I was looking through her clothes and helping her pick something out. Most of them never got out of bed to change their clothes. Found something. Kind of a burnt orange with a few colors around the collar and sleeves. I said, "Let's try this! Nice colors!" So we did. I helped her get into it. Hmmm. As soon as it was on. I noticed it was really a tunic top like Maude used to wear. Without pants, it was more like a really short mini dress. Oh no. But she liked it. No matter what, I couldn't get her to put pants on. She decided to take a walk around down the hallway. She visited the old fella across the hall, like she did on occasion. Boy, the grouchy boss lady was mad. I couldn't get pants on her. I'm sure after I left a mean worker went in there and forced her to change clothes.

 

The next day, she was laying in bed again. Not too happy. Sad. The hospital gown was on her. I tried to lighten her mood again. I guess I was causing trouble. I should have just let her drift away with no trouble to anyone else. The nursing home was collecting medicaid money for her and that's all it was about. Anyway, I saw a basket in her closet with dirty clothes. The ones she never wore. I told her I was going to do her laundry. That brought a little smile to her face. I asked someone where the washing machine was. Down in the basement. Go down there, there's a big industrial machine. Baskets of sheets. No one's clothes. Throw the clothes in there. Ok. Where's the soap? (We still had Ivory Snow back then. 1974) One of the workers points to a box of Spic N' Span. "Spic N' Span?" That's for floors. "Don't you have anything else? This will hurt their skin." Grumpy look. No. Use that. Jesus Christ. They must have had a deal on the Spic N' Span. They used it on the sheets, I guess. Well, I used it. Bastards. This time I wasn't crying. I was mad.

It wasn't just let's open the window and let the sunshine there. I honestly don't remember windows, except in the front reception area. It was artificial lighting and people moaning, yelling and crying. A bold education for me. "Why is that man yelling?" This was the man across the hall from the old lady I liked to help. She was crying. You should have heard her sobbing. We had to restrain him. "Restrain him? Why?" They were having sex. They liked each other. You should have heard the yelling and crying. They just let her cry, but the orderlies were in there strapping the man down. It was brutal. It was mistreatment and torture. I don't care. You can tell me this or that. They're human beings. They weren't hurting each other. For god's sake they still had feelings.  They were trying to grasp what little life had to offer. It was one of the worst things I have ever experienced. The nursing home was using them as pawns to collect money and make as much profit as possible, with little effort to offer any kind of humanity in return. I went in to comfort the old lady and she was inconsolable. It was beyond terrible. She said she loved him.

These nursing homes were completely corrupt. New York had notorious scandals throughout the 70's of Medicaid money going to heartless, filthy, incompetent places of torture. One of my duties was to take a tray of medication down the hallway and hand it to the elderly. Whether they needed it or not. Just to keep them quiet. Lower their resistance. Fade into the void the least amount of trouble. I had a tray of lithium to hand out. The first time I said "I'm not qualified to do this." In shock. The mean boss lady said "Just do it." I asked the old people if they wanted it. I knew them as able to choose. If they didn't want it, I threw them out. Hidden, wadded up in paper. Some of them wanted it. Judge me if you want, but I know I did the right thing.

I tried, but I wasn't a saint. I couldn't last there. I was turning into a nervous wreck. It was one of the unhappiest times of my life and no amount of pot helped. Maybe made it worse. I was in such a condition, I couldn't function in my own life anymore. Some people could deal with it. I quit. I told the mean boss off. I told her how they were so wrong with what they were doing. Maybe I'm not conveying it properly, but it sucked there. Those poor people. I only could help myself at that point. I wasn't there forever. Again, maybe like 6 months. Just couldn't do it anymore. You think... well you should have stayed and help. I just couldn't do it. I'm hoping that it set off a chain of events. I'm hoping more people spoke up. It has happened. Maybe. All I know is that I heard through "I" that the guy was never going to hire one of "E's" Catholic school friends again. Uh, maybe we got a little bit of that right and wrong stuff.