Friday, September 5, 2014

Excerpt: Thank You For Your Service

This excerpt from Thank You for Your Service by David Finkel first appeared and was taken from http://www.npr.org/books.
PROLOGUE

You could see it in his nervous eyes. You could see it in his shaking hands. You could see it in the three prescription bottles in his room: one to steady his galloping heart rate, one to reduce his anxiety, one to minimize his nightmares. You could see it in the screensaver on his laptop — a nuclear fireball and the words FUCK IRAQ — and in the private journal he had been keeping since he arrived.

His first entry, on February 22:

Not much going on today. I turned my laundry in, and we're getting our TAT boxes. We got mortared last night at 2:30 a.m., none close. We're at FOB Rustamiyah, Iraq. It's pretty nice, got a good chow hall and facilities. Still got a bunch of dumb shit to do though. Well, that's about it for today.

His last entry, on October 18:

I've lost all hope. I feel the end is near for me, very, very near. Darkness is all I see anymore.

So he was finished. Down to his final hours, he was packed, weaponless, under escort, and waiting for the helicopter that would take him away to a wife who had just told him on the phone: "I'm scared of what you might do."

"You know I'd never hurt you," he'd said, and he'd hung up, wandered around the FOB, gotten a haircut, and come back to his room, where he now said, "But what if she's right? What if I snap someday?"

It was a thought that made him feel sick. Just as every thought now made him feel sick. "You spend a thousand days, it gets to the point where it's Groundhog Day. Every day is over and over. The heat. The smell. The language. There's nothing sweet about it. It's all sour," he said. He remembered the initial invasion, when it wasn't that way. "I mean it was a front seat to the greatest movie I've ever seen in my life." He remembered the firefights of his second deployment. "I loved it. Anytime I get shot at in a firefight, it's the sexiest feeling there is." He remembered how this deployment began to feel bad early on. "I'd get in the Humvee and be driving down the road and I would feel my heart pulsing up in my throat." That was the start of it, he said, and then Emory happened, and then Crow happened, and then he was in a succession of explosions, and then a bullet was skimming across his thighs, and then Doster happened, and then he was waking up thinking, "Holy shit, I'm still here, it's misery, it's hell," which became, "Are they going to kill me today?" which became, "I'll take care of it myself," which became, "Why do that? I'll go out killing as many of them as I can, until they kill me.

"I didn't give a fuck," he said. "I wanted it to happen. Bottom line — I wanted it over as soon as possible, whether they did it or I did it."

The amazing thing was that no one knew. Here was all this stuff going on, pounding heart, panicked breathing, sweating palms, electric eyes, and no one regarded him as anything but the great soldier he'd always been, the one who never complained, who hoisted bleeding soldiers onto his back, who'd suddenly begun insisting on being in the right front seat of the lead Humvee on every mission, not because he wanted to be dead but because that's what selfless leaders would do.

He was the great soldier who one day walked to the aid station and went through the door marked COMBAT STRESS and asked for help and now was on his way home.

Now he was remembering what the psychologist had told him: "With your stature, maybe you've opened the door for a lot of guys to come in."

"That made me feel really good," he said. And yet he had felt so awful the previous day when he told one of his team leaders to round up everyone in his squad.

"What'd we do now?"

"You didn't do anything," he said. "Just get them together."

They came into his room, and he shut the door and told them he was leaving the following day. He said the hard part: that it was a mental health evacuation. He said to them, "I don't even know what I'm going through. I know that I don't feel right."

"Well, how long?" one of his soldiers said, breaking the silence.

"I don't know," he said. "There's a possibility I won't be coming back."

They had rallied around him then, shaking his hand, grabbing his arm, patting his back, and saying whatever nineteen- and twenty-year-olds could think of to say.

"Take care of yourself," one of them said.

"Drink a beer for me," another said.

He had never felt so guilt-ridden in his life.

Early this morning, they had driven away on a mission, leaving him behind, and after they'd disappeared, he had no idea what to do. He stood there for a while alone. Eventually he walked back to his room. He turned up his air conditioner to high. When he got cold enough to shiver, he put on warmer clothes and stayed under the vents. He packed his medication. He stacked some packages of beef jerky and mac 'n' cheese and smoked oysters, which he wouldn't be able to take with him, for the soldiers he was leaving behind and wrote a note that said "Enjoy."

Finally it was time to go to the helicopter, and he began walking down the hall. Word had spread through the entire company by now, and when one of the soldiers saw him, he came over. "Well, I'll walk you as far as the shitters, because I have to go to the bathroom," the soldier said, and as last words, those would have to do, because those were the last words he heard from any of the soldiers in his battalion as his deployment came to an end.

His stomach hurt as he made his way across the FOB. He felt himself becoming nauseated. At the landing area, other soldiers from other battalions were lined up, and when the helicop ter landed, everyone was allowed to board except him. He didn't understand.

"Next one's yours," he was told, and when it came in a few minutes later, he realized why he'd had to wait. It had a big red cross on the side. It was the helicop ter for the injured and the dead.

That was him, Adam Schumann.

He was injured. He was dead. He was done.

Excerpted from THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE by David Finkel, published in October 2013 by Sarah Crichton Books, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright 2013 by David Finkel. All rights reserved. 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

"On Homelessness" by Frank Calisi


This is my third time being homeless. I do not like being in a shelter. It is a daily struggle. I must follow the rules and yet my fellow vets make me feel conflicted about what is right. It isn’t always easy to follow what your instincts tell you is the right path. I currently reside in the NECHV. It’s a dry shelter on paper, although many here do still drink. It’s a shell game as to who gets caught – who is more drunk than the next. I’ve only drank a few times. It is nerve wracking. I do not enjoy it – at least not here. I also go to AA meetings. To drink is like going against the grain of what I know is right, what is expected of me and what I feel like doing. I know deep inside that it is therapeutic to have these constraints. This place is a microcosm of the real world except that we are all veterans. At times, it’s like walking on eggshells around here. Don’t rock the boat. That’s my inner self talking to me. Do your KPS, deck duty, make all medical and social appointments. There’s a sub drug culture here, too. Another one of my downfalls – just the thought of being thrown out scares me into being on the straight and narrow.

I have been here five months. It’s time to move on. Yes, I have applied to various apartments. I have been rejected by three because of my past record. Today I looked at a market rate one in Lynn – kinda small, 50’s style, old, but solid. They accepted my application but I want to still look. Don’t want to jump into anything. It’s scary and hard to transition from one institution to being all free. These walls play tricks on my mind. I guess you could safely say that I am institutionalized. I’ve been doing the routine. I have become dependent in many ways on this institution. Transitioning to an apartment is scary.

I have been accepted to the bridges program. It does just that – gives you a way back onto the mainland of society. I get an outside caseworker who will visit me for 9 months, who will help make sure I fit into the community I will live in. Mental health, sobriety and physical well-being are my goals. I will follow-through. This English class keeps my mind in check. I am grateful for it. It allows me to pass the time constructively. Yes, you can say it’s therapeutic. Just writing this paper right now is therapeutic. It gives me room to write honestly and perhaps to see the virtue in life. “It’s a journey,” I heard one of the other students say. I feel like my journey stretches out in front of me into thousands of miles  -  I feel like I have covered maybe a few hundred so far. I must keep one foot in front of the other, walk the straight and narrow line of this life.


Frank Calisi is a U.S. veteran and a resident at the New England Center for Homeless Veterans, where he is a member of the Glass House Shelter Project, a writing partnership with the University of Massachusetts Boston.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Housing is Healthcare



Nowhere to Pee

Did you ever have a moment when something you already understood intellectually suddenly lands on an almost cellular level?

Last Thursday, a conversation at work did that, for me. "Robert" who endured chronic homelessness for nearly three years, was recently successfully referred into a permanent supportive housing program. He had come by our agency, Bethesda Cares, to chat, to report on his tremendous and rapid personal progress.

"I am so glad. I peed for, like, 45 minutes yesterday," he said, "because I finally could."

I thought he meant he was grateful for the "luxury" of ready-access to the toilet in his new apartment.

That "luxury" wasn't it, though. Robert was talking about the actual reason having a toilet matters: his health.

Robert has congestive heart failure, a condition that means his heart is not pumping adequately to keep his kidneys effectively processing waste. Thus, his body builds up fluids, swelling his ankles and legs. A free clinic had supplied him with diuretics, crucial for alleviating his symptoms. Yet Robert could not use his life-saving medication.

Think about it, Reader.

Diuretics, while you are living on the street. No option to just run to the bathroom when you feel the need.

Now housed, Robert has a bathroom with a medicine cabinet, and can finally properly store and take his meds.

Housing Is, In Fact, Healthcare

We all share same three-legged stool of basic needs we must meet for human survival: food, shelter, clothing. Take one leg away, and the stool tumbles. For the purposes of this post, let's look at existence without "shelter."

"Housing is healthcare" is a mantra around Bethesda Cares. Our work centers on housing as the stabilizing factor for recovery, health, and ultimately, survival. It's a model broadly known as "Housing First."

The people we serve, living unsheltered and homeless, are society's most medically vulnerable. They are routinely exposed to the hottest nights, the coldest days, blizzards, downpours, the occasional derecho. They suffer frostbite; multiple conditions from sleep deprivation; their cuts and scrapes are prone to infection; they are at risk of dehydration year-round. And yes, some of them "self-medicate" by drinking themselves into unconsciousness

All that is, of course, in addition to the ordinary illnesses and conditions we each encounter as we age.

How is the homeless woman with diabetes supposed to refrigerate her insulin? The man with high cholesterol, but no kitchen, to cook himself low-fat meals? People coping with both the frenetic uncertainty of life on the street, and with constant exposure to the natural elements are at abnormally -- and avoidably -- high risk of physical suffering, and premature death from treatable causes.

It's a disgrace.

You Don't Need to Be an Economist to Do the Math

If the humanitarian aspects of housing don't move you, consider the economics of "housing as healthcare." They are stark.

Where do people experiencing homelessness go for emergency care? To the nearest hospital ER, of course, maybe ferried there by a local rescue squad who intervened. In fact, people experiencing long-term homelessness are among the highest consumers of costly emergency medical interventions. A hospital must, by law, "stabilize" a person suffering an emergency even if the person cannot pay. The hospital then absorbs that expense.

(I'm just spitballin' here, but you think maybe hospitals pass on those costs on to other consumers, like, say, your insurance company?)

So after perhaps an overnight stay, and tens of thousands of dollars of services later, the patient is released... back onto the streets. Maybe the condition that sent him to the ER is permanently alleviated. Probably not. Regardless, returning to sleeping on a park bench will not speed anyone's recovery.

Even in pricey Montgomery County, Maryland, the cost of housing a person experiencing long-term homelessness is thousands of dollars less, per annum, than allowing that person to remain homeless.
Any third-grade readers out there get that mathematical calculation?

No?

Any adults?

One Other Wrinkle

Emergency service costs are incurred only if someone seeks treatment; for people living unsheltered, that is not always the case. Why wouldn't someone want to go to a free clinic or check in to a hospital, if need be?

You ever see someone you think is experiencing homelessness, because he carts around a lot of "stuff"? That's everything he owns. Those bags and shopping carts might look like they are filled with detritus, but they are items of no lesser a personal value than are our own photo albums, laptops and favorite coffee mugs.

When you and I leave our places of residence, we lock the doors and expect our belongings to be there on our return. A person living at a bus stop, however -- I refuse to call a bus stop a "home" -- knows that his stuff may have vanished by the time he returns from the ER, either into a dumpster, or scavenged by someone else in need.

Seeking treatment is not a slam-dunk of a choice.

In the End

The reasons that people experiencing homelessness are tremendously medically vulnerable are both physical and psychological, the factors quite complex.

But there is that solution to the equation: Housing as healthcare. I have long understood that. Now I get it, too.

Amy Freeman wrote this article.  She is a staffer at Bethesda Cares, the organization leading the 100,000 Homes Campaign in Bethesda, MD.  100,000 Homes Campaign is a partner of Give US Your Poor in the American Music Project: Voices for Veterans. Amy recently reflected on an experience that drove home the importance of housing in personal terms. (This piece was originally published at HuffingtonPost.com and again on the 100,000 Homes website. You can view the original story here.)

Monday, July 29, 2013

Mario Frangoulis Concert

 
On June 6th Give US Your Poor partnered with world renowned Greek Tenor Mario Frangoulis at his concert at the Berklee Performance Center in Boston.  Frangoulis has been a friend and supporter of Give US Your Poor for many years.  He has performed in benefit concerts for Give US Your Poor in the past, as well as appearing on our album.

At the show we set up shop in the lobby of the venue.  We were there to spread awareness about our new initiative (American Music Project: Voices for Veterans) which aims to engage musicians and their fans in the attempt to end veteran homelessness by 2015.  We were able to talk with over a hundred of Mario's fans about the issue of veteran homelessness. 

Mario put on a wonderful show, seamlessly weaving together classical and modern pop music.  The concert also featured beautiful performances by the Women of the World and the Berklee Balkan Choir.  Throughout the show, Mario wore his heart on his sleeve, speaking about the recent tragedy in Boston and poverty among the children of the world. Mario also spoke about his work with Give US Your Poor and his friendship with the organizations director John McGah.

After the show we were able to go backstage and talk briefly with Mario. Mario is as friendly and charming in person as he is on-stage.  He kindly welcomed us and thanked us for what were doing to end homelessness.  He also posed for a photo with some of the Give US Your Poor staff.  Mario has been a great friend to our organization for several years now and we hope to continue that relationship for years to come.





Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Music as a Tool for Healing

Image from makingmusicmag.com
The New Directions Choir is an acapella group that sings in a range of styles and is comprised of men and women who have served in the United States Military.  Besides their love of music and their military service, one other trait  draws them all together.  All of the members have experienced homelessness.  According to George Hill, the choir’s director, the group hopes that through music they will be able “to let veterans who may be suffering know that there is hope for them.”  Through music the New Directions Choir wants to help others heal just as music helped them heal their own wounds.

The concept of music as a means for healing has been around since the days of Ancient Greece.  Plato once spoke on the mystical power of music saying:

Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, and life to everything

While abstractly seen as a way of soothing the soul for centuries, music wasn’t formally recognized by western medicine as a means of healing until the 1900’s.  During this time musicians played in hospitals to help heal WWI and WWII veterans suffering from physical and mental trauma.  The doctors noticed physical and mental improvement after these visits, leading them to request that the hospital to hire musicians.  Since then music therapy programs have grown in strength and popularity.

One area where music therapy has been shown to be particularly useful is with veterans, like the members of New Directions Choir.  Due to the high stress and traumatic situations they may experience during their tours, soldiers are highly susceptible to certain mental conditions.  According to the National Council for Community Behavioral Healthcare, mental illness is the second-largest illness area effecting veterans from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.  There is a wide range of different mental illness that affect veterans, but the most prevalent of those are depression, anxiety, and PTSD. 

Mental illnesses, beyond just being a health concern, can also affect a veteran’s family and work life.  In severe cases, the mental illness can make it almost impossible for a person to make connections and form relationships with the people around them, leaving them in a state of social poverty.  This social poverty is huge risk factor for homelessness. 

Research has shown the music therapy is a helpful tool in combating the social poverty that often leads many veterans to become homeless.  In a study in the Tennessee Medicine Journal, researchers found that music therapy was useful in “ensuring trust and moving individuals from isolation to community so that services can be provided” among a homeless veteran population.  Music often allows people to connect and communicate with others in a way that they are unable to simply with words. 

Bob Marley once said, "One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain."  While music therapy may not, in fact, take away all of a homeless soldiers' pain, it may ease the hurt and make it easier to connect with the people around them.


Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Breaking the 4-Minute Mile & Ending Veteran Homelessness















Marilyn Paul and David Peter Stroh of Bridgeway Partners in their coursework tell the story of the British competitive runner, Roger Bannister.  The story goes something like this:

For centuries runners had been trying unsuccessfully to break the 4-minute mile.  Most people believed (their mental model) that doing so was simply beyond the limits of human capability and may, in fact, be unhealthy for humans. 

But they forgot to tell Roger Bannister it couldn't be done.  He focused his energies and preparation in meeting that very goal.  Race after race, he kept getting faster and closer to the breaking the 4-minute mile.

On May 6th, 1954 at Oxford University, he did what what experts for centuries had said was not possible: he broke the 4-minute mile.  In doing so he smashed the mental barrier that said, "Impossible."

But perhaps even more remarkable, just 46 days later, the mark was broken again by another runner.  Since 1954 the 4-minute mile mark has been surpassed 1,192 times and counting.

It's a remarkable example of not listening to the experts when you believe something is possible.  It's also an example of the Law of Attraction.  As Matt Frazier wrote in his blog, "When you become certain of something, when every part of your makeup believes it because you focus on it every single day, something “magical” happens...When you have a clearly-defined purpose, a mission, and when you live every moment in a state of certainty that you’ll achieve it...you pay special attention things that help you achieve what you’re after, things you otherwise would have never noticed."

It reminds us too that so many of our limits are perceptions.

I believe ending veteran homelessness is a 4-minute mile.  It is within our grasp.  We see the path, we just need to execute.  The political will is in place like never before thanks to lessons from Vietnam in how we treat America's war veterans, and best practices in combining housing vouchers with support services (whether treating mental, physical, or other issues) are working.

And once veteran homelessness is ended, we might just say, "Hmm. We did it.  Turns out it was possible.  Now what?  How about we end, say, youth homelessness next..."


Sunday, December 16, 2012

A Woman Sings a Song for a Soldier Come Home (a poem by Wallace Stevens)
















The wound kills that does not bleed.
It has no nurse to kin to know
Nor kin to care.

And the man dies that does not fall.
He walks and dies. Nothing survives
Except what was,

Under the white clouds piled and piled
Like gathered up forgetfulness,
In sleeping air.

The clouds are over the village, the town,
To which the walker speaks
And tells of his wound,

Without a word to the people, unless
One person should come by chance,
This man or that,

So much a part of the place, so little
A person he knows, with whom he might
Talk of the weather-

And let it go, with nothing lost,
Just out of the village, at its edge,
In the quient there.

Wallace Stevens was a poet born in Reading, PA in 1879 and who died in Hartford, CT in 1955.  This poem is taken from the book, The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play by Wallace Stevens (Vintage Books, 1972).  Robert Coles turned me on to Wallace Stevens.  This poem, which I found yesterday in a Western Mass. bookstore, was published in 1946.