Homelessness and Respect, Part One

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(I’ve changed the names of my friends to protect their privacy).

It’s been 39 days since I have heard from Jack. I’m assuming that his wife, Vicky, has died. I’ve called and texted him repeatedly but received no response. I’ve tried to reach our one mutual acquaintance, but she has not responded to my email inquiring if she has any news. I’ve looked online for an obituary or death record but found nothing. I’ve even considered calling the police in their town but have decided against that. Jack and Vicky are uncomfortable with the police. I doubt that law enforcement would give out any information anyway. I’ve wondered about showing up at their apartment building to see if the management will tell me what has happened.

I wanted to be there for both Jack and Vicky at Vicky’s death—be there from a distance, at least, because Jack turned down my offer to come in person. Instead, he promised he would keep me posted about all developments, and then, 39 days ago, after texting that Vicky was having a better day than she had for a long time and wondering if that signified the calm before the storm, he dropped off the radar screen.

I fear all sorts of traumatic developments. Perhaps Jack broke down after Vicky’s death, could not cope with the loss, and was hospitalized. He cared for her almost entirely by himself since her last hospital stay—90 grueling days and nights, aided only by minimal hospice support. I even imagine that he might have given her a lethal dose of morphine to end her suffering and has been charged with causing her death. I’m good at imagining the worst.

Or maybe he’s been evicted from their apartment, which they could only afford because of a Section 8[1] housing voucher issued in Vicky’s name. (All attempts to get Jack’s name on the voucher failed.) Perhaps he is homeless again, without a cell phone, so he is not getting my messages. Maybe he is even in jail. Who knows what grief may have led him to do after Vicky’s passing? Or perhaps he wants nothing more to do with me. I promised Vicky I would stay in touch with Jack after she was gone, but possibly he wants to be left alone.

Out of respect for their privacy, I’ve waited years to write about Jack and Vicky—the story of our relationship and what I have learned from them. Knowing them has been an intimate encounter with homelessness, its causes (personal and systemic), and its effects on the body, mind, spirit, and family. The story is not only theirs; it is mine also. Getting deeply involved with a homeless couple challenged and changed my life.   

I can’t pretend to know anything more about homelessness than what I have learned from Jack and Vicky. Those who work with the chronically homeless may find my interactions with this couple and my observations on homelessness naïve and simplistic. If so, my only defense is that my responses probably represent many educated white people with relative financial security and a network of friends and family who offer us support in difficult circumstances. (Jack and Vicky are white, by the way.)

So, let me begin with how they came into my life. About ten years ago, Jack was panhandling at an intersection I passed through each day on my morning and evening commute. It bordered the town where I worked and was the final stoplight before the highway leading west to my home. I met him for the first time at about 7:00 p.m. during rush hour on a dark, cold winter evening. As I inched along toward the intersection, I saw a medium-height man bundled in a bulky winter coat several sizes too large, with a wool cap pulled down over his ears. Because of the ice and snow, he shuffled slowly and carefully back and forth along the line of cars stopped for the light. He held a cardboard sign—I don’t remember what it said.

A panhandler was a familiar sight to me. At that time, I saw them regularly at any number of intersections in the Boston area. But it was unusual to see them as late as 7:00 p.m. or in such cold temperatures. Panhandlers were usually not that dedicated. I slowly approached the head of the line and rolled down my window, rooting through my purse to find a one-dollar bill.

“Hi! Cold for you to be out,” I said

“Sure is. How are you tonight?” he responded with a smile.

The light turned green, and with a brief, “Fine, how are you?” I held out the bill and then pushed the up button on the car window. He smiled again, waved, and started walking back along the line of cars.

We repeated this impromptu rendezvous nightly for months. Whether I left work at 5:00 or 8:00 p.m., he was at the intersection, walking up and down the line of cars in worn-down sneakers, offering a smile and a greeting to everyone in the traffic queue. His eyes did not have the dull glaze of an addict, and his discipline and commitment far outweighed any other panhandler I had met. After a week or so, I made it a habit to save all my one-dollar bills and keep them ready to hand so I would not have to search for one in my wallet. Over time we exchanged first names, and he would speed up to get to my window when he saw my car approaching. I noticed he was having more extended conversations with the drivers in front of me. He’s made some friends, or, perhaps, regular clients, I thought. That pleased me.  His hard work and perseverance were paying off. I admire hard work, am a disciplined worker, and understand the toll it takes on the body and spirit. I felt Jack and I were kindred spirits, in a way.  Both working long exhausting days.

Spring inched along like the line of cars, and, depending on the traffic lights, I could keep my window open longer and have more than a two-sentence chat with Jack. Off came the wool cap to reveal medium-length curly greying hair. His mustache, oddly enough, was always neatly trimmed, though sometimes his beard showed several days of growth. He looked skinny beneath his oversized winter coat. I reckoned he was about my age, perhaps a little younger.  Even though his face was weathered, it was not wrinkled or scarred but attractive and babyish, in a way.

I don’t remember how long it was before my curiosity about who this man was and why he was panhandling overcame my shyness and reticence to pry—maybe six months, perhaps a year. I decided to invite Jack to dinner to ask him about his life. I chose a restaurant near his intersection and made the invitation. When I think about it now, he must have wondered who this weird woman was, inviting a homeless man to dinner. He seemed skeptical and hesitant. Why had I imagined he’d be enthusiastic? I guess I thought he’d welcome a hot, filling meal. Finally, I owned up to wanting to hear his story, and he reluctantly agreed on a day and time. For the next several days, I reminded him each time I saw him, but on the agreed-upon evening, I stood outside the restaurant for more than half an hour before I gave up and drove home. When I passed through Jack’s intersection, he wasn’t there.

The next time I saw him, I asked what had happened, joking about him standing me up. He looked embarrassed and made some excuse which I don’t remember. Suddenly I felt embarrassed. Perhaps he thought I was trying to start a romantic relationship. I wasn’t, though under different circumstances, I admitted to myself I might have considered it. There was something compelling about Jack. So, I gave it some time, and things became comfortable between us again—easy chatting for a few minutes each day, freely asking about each other’s wellbeing.  

A few months later, I tried a dinner invitation again, and Jack accepted readily and showed up this time. He was uncomfortable when he arrived, but I figured his curiosity got the better of his caution—curiosity about this strange woman who wanted to get to know him, of all people. We ordered, and I dug in, but he only picked at his food and ate little. Finally, I asked him to tell me why he was panhandling. When I think about it now, I am shocked at my intrusiveness. What right did I have to pry into his life? None, but I intensely wanted to understand what motivated him—someone, whose life was so different from mine but who seemed to share the same work ethic?

He told me about Vicky, his wife, who was sick, saying that they lived in a nearby motel. They had been homeless for a long time, more than a decade, since a place they were house-sitting was sold out from under them. They had both lost their jobs. I’m now unclear why, but I vaguely remember he said the company he worked for went out of business. They had stayed temporarily with friends, but ultimately, this motel was the only place they could find consistent shelter together (they hate the homeless shelters, which separate couples unless they have children.) It cost them about $70.00 a night to stay there, so Jack worked all day, every day, panhandling to raise that amount. Many days he didn’t reach the required total, fell into arrears, and they were always afraid of being thrown out. If it were just him, he said, he’d sleep outside except in winter, but Vicky couldn’t do it.

His story was rambling, and it was hard to keep him on track. He wanted to know about my life, too, so I told him where I worked and that I lived in a western suburb, was married but had no children—the bare minimum. My spouse, you see, was extremely nervous about me getting involved with a homeless person—afraid that Jack would show up at our door demanding money or break into the house. It had been the source of several arguments between us, and I knew she was anxiously waiting at home for me to return from this dinner.

That night when we parted, I handed Jack five twenty-dollar bills, explaining that I had kept him away from his work for over an hour and he would have lost income. This cash was to make up for that deficit. He seemed shocked and flustered but accepted the cash. We said goodbye, and he shuffled off toward the intersection. I got into my car to drive home. On my way, I passed the motel he had mentioned and looked at it for the first time. It was a fleabag. I was appalled they were charging that much per night.

Jack and I continued to see each other through the car window on my daily commute. I learned that he had to arrive at the intersection early in the day to claim his turf before some other panhandler did so. He told me that some of his colleagues were not homeless, and many were addicts. Fights sometimes broke out over turf. Jack stayed all day at his intersection in all kinds of weather and as late at night as necessary to make the nightly motel fee.

He told me people gave him all sorts of things through their car windows: food (from fresh sandwiches to canned soup), bottled water, clothing, shoes, cigarettes (he didn’t smoke, but Vicky did), and money. The food could be pretty bad sometimes, he said. From time to time, I would see him talking on a cell phone. I learned later that it was a burner, and he could only use it when he could afford to purchase a phone card to activate it. That’s how he stayed in touch with Vicky during the day.

I began to tell him when I would be away on vacation and to give him a little advance cash to help in my absence. Once every so often, I would give him a twenty instead of a one. I’d ask about Vicky, and he’d tell me about her health. Sometimes he’d look exhausted, but no matter how slowly, he kept going. He was just as committed to his job as I was to mine for the same reasons.

Our relationship went on this way for several years, two or three at least. And then, it came time for me to retire. I told Jack this was coming and that I would miss seeing him regularly. He didn’t complain, though he would lose a client and a regular income source. Instead, he focused on me—my retirement plans, the things I would enjoy about it. He seemed truly happy for me. I struggled with wanting to stay in touch and whether to give him my phone number. In the end, I did so against the better judgment of my spouse. He, however, did not offer me his. [TO BE CONTINUED]

[1] The housing choice voucher program [Section 8] provides assistance to very low-income families to afford decent, safe, and sanitary housing. Housing can include single-family homes, townhouses and apartments and is not limited to units located in subsidized housing projects. Housing choice vouchers are administered locally by Public Housing Agencies (PHAs). A family that is issued a housing voucher is responsible for finding a suitable housing unit of the family’s choice where the owner agrees to rent under the program. A housing subsidy is paid to the landlord directly by the PHA on behalf of the participating family. The family then pays the difference between the actual rent charged by the landlord and the amount subsidized by the program.

Two Tales About Respect

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One – Self-Respect

I’m trying to help someone hard of hearing fill a prescription for her asthma inhaler. First, I call the pharmacy to see if the refill order we submitted several days ago has been filled. The pharmacist tells me the inhaler is ready for pick up, so I send S off to the pharmacy to get it. She returns and says that the inhaler costs $50 more than it did the last time she refilled it; insurance has refused to pay for it, and the pharmacist recommends calling the insurance company. I sigh because this has happened before, and sorting it out has not gone smoothly, but I make the call.

The customer service representative tells me that, oddly enough, for this script, the brand inhaler is less expensive ($50) than the generic, and the doctor has ordered the generic, which costs $100. Still, he says, there should be no problem because he can see on S’s record that the pharmacy placed a claim yesterday for $50 for the brand inhaler. So why I ask, is the pharmacy now trying to charge $100? He says he doesn’t know; I should call the pharmacy back.

I do. The pharmacist says the insurance company is wrong; the doctor prescribed the $100 generic, but the patient refused to accept it, so they canceled the order. The calm tone in my voice deteriorates, and its pitch rises. I am frustrated. The insurance company is saying one thing, the pharmacy another. I try again to explain what the insurance agent has said and ask the pharmacist why a claim was made yesterday for $50. The pharmacist denies this. Why can’t they just give us the brand version, I ask. The pharmacist repeats, slowly, as if talking to a child, that she can do nothing more to help except call the doctor’s office on our behalf, or I can call instead. I ask her to stop and listen to me. I say I’m not stupid, and she responds that she didn’t say I was stupid. I counter, “You are talking to me like I am stupid.” Suddenly, a light goes off in my head, flashing neon red – DISRESPECT! 

Now I am angry. I snap at the pharmacist, “Never mind. I will call the doctor’s office and sort this out myself.” We hang up, and I do so. I try to explain calmly to the medical assistant that I’m frustrated and need to talk directly to a human being about a prescription refill—no voicemail, no leaving a message. This is an emergency. The patient has asthma and needs her inhaler right away. I explain the cost differential between brand and generic. The assistant gets it, takes the matter in hand, puts me on hold for a couple of minutes, then returns to say it’s all set. They have sent a script for the brand inhaler to the pharmacy. I hang up and feel relieved. Then S comes to me holding her phone, which transcribes voicemails into texts. She shows me a text from the pharmacy, received while I was on the phone with the doctor’s office, saying they have sorted everything out, re-run the prescription for the brand version, and it’s ready for pick up. No apology and no recognition that there had been any previous confusion. “OMG! Why didn’t they do that in the first place?” I scream.

Later, I reflect on this incident. First, I am embarrassed and ashamed of my childish and rude behavior toward the pharmacist. Second, I realize that the moment I felt disrespected, my controlled frustration turned into boiling anger. Then I ask myself why feeling disrespected disturbs me so much. Suddenly I have a flash of insight; someone else’s disrespectful treatment triggers my lack of respect for myself—my deep-rooted sense that I am stupid, inadequate, and unacceptable. So, besides working on breathing and calming down when disrespect provokes anger, I must also work on respecting myself. And that is a really tall order! But, if I can do that, perhaps it will help me genuinely respect the others I encounter in pharmacies, doctor’s offices, insurance companies, and everywhere. 

Does this ring a bell, touch a nerve, or resonate with you?

Two – Other Respect

It’s 11:00 a.m. on a hot summer day. I pull into the parking lot of a memory care facility where I am visiting a patient. When I exit my car, I notice a small dog in the car parked next to mine. Alarm bells go off in my head as I remember all the warnings about leaving children and animals in closed-up vehicles in hot weather. The driver cracked all four windows about two inches, but it must still be sweltering inside the car. What shall I do? I decide to go inside and ask the receptionist if they know who owns the vehicle. They don’t. I’m pretty worked up by this time, wondering what to do, so I go back to the car and try the passenger side door. To my great relief, it opens. The little dog, looking forlorn but okay, lays on the front passenger seat and looks up at me with sad eyes.

The dog is no longer the problem, but I know the owner will be one. So I decide to wait until they return and confront them about leaving the dog in a hot car. I wait about 10 minutes, petting the dog on the head, talking soothingly to it, and looking around for the owner. I worry about what to say to them but can’t settle on anything that feels comfortable, so when he arrives, I haven’t decided what to say, and I’m not ready.

I begin badly. “This is terrible; it’s too hot to leave a dog in a closed car!” His back goes up immediately, and he defensively explains that he is taking care of an elderly father who lives in this facility; he takes excellent care of this dog and doesn’t need my interference to add to his stress load. Besides, it’s not that hot, and he’s only been gone 15 minutes; the dog would have been fine. He slams the passenger door, gets in the car, and drives off. I’m angry and embarrassed and know I have handled the situation poorly, but I try to put it aside and visit the patient I’ve come to see.

Later, as I reflect on the incident, still feeling uncomfortable about my reaction, I try to rationalize my behavior. Probably the dog would have been okay, but how was I to know how long the owner had been gone or when he would return? What if the door had not been unlocked? Would I have called the police? That would have made an enormous scene. Should I have suggested that the next time he leaves the dog in the car, he should leave a note on the window saying how long he would be gone? Should I have expressed sympathy about his stress? However disrespectfully I behaved toward the owner, I still did not regret my intervention on behalf of the dog.

After more self-examination, I realized that I spent the entire ten minutes waiting for the owner’s return stewing about how to confront him. Instead, I could have paused, identified the roots of my feelings and calmed them, opened my mind and heart to the owner’s perspective, and chosen a kind, non-aggressive approach to intervention. One takeaway—if you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. I knew nothing about the life of this dog owner, but I chose to judge him and find him unworthy of respect.

I still don’t believe he should have left his dog in the car, but I hope I will respond less self-righteously, more courteously, and skillfully in similar future situations.

Does this ring a bell, touch a nerve, or resonate with you?

What Is (Noticing Respect)

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It’s a chilly day in June, Sunday afternoon, drizzling, and I am going grocery shopping. My sister and I dislike shopping in the rain—something about getting ourselves and our purchases wet, I suppose. 

So, I start out slightly annoyed, but remind myself, as I swing my backpack over my shoulder, walk away from my bright yellow Kia Soul, and pop up my vibrant lime umbrella: This is what is. Or, as my stepdaughter would say: It is what it is—no point in wishing for something else or resisting it. Open to it.

The first cart I extract from the queue makes a thunk, thunk, thunking sound as I roll it toward the produce section. Nuts to this! I turn around and take it back to the entrance. As I approach the line of empty carts, a man pulls up behind me and offers, “This one is quieter; take this.”  I say he’s lucky, and the next one I choose will be quieter too. It is, and we laugh.

I park my cart out of the way in the produce section and walk in all directions, list in hand, picking up the things I need and crossing them off one by one. I’ve discovered that if I touch a moist vegetable like a cucumber before I open one of the plastic bags to drop it in, my damp fingers will make it easier to open the bag. I’ve also remembered that I have hand sanitizer in my purse and could use it to moisten my fingers. Pre-COVID, I used to lick them. Yuck! Now I have more respect for germs and other people.

Near the gourmet cheese section, I notice a display of Effie’s Oatcakes, which I haven’t been able to find for months. I’m overjoyed and snatch up two packages. I want to buy more, but they’re expensive, and I don’t want to be a hoarder. Others might like them too.

As I pull out of produce and into the grocery aisles, I notice a family shopping together—a man in a motorized wheelchair, a tall blond boy, and two or three younger girls—no mother in sight. One of the girls is pushing their cart, and the others are all over the place, pointing to things and asking if they can get them. I’m trying to get raspberry jam, and a surge of impatience rises in me. 

The man in the wheelchair says, “Sorry, ma’am. I try to keep them out of others’ way. Thank goodness their older brother is here to help.” 

“No worries,” I smile, feeling my impatience ebb away. One of the little girls moves aside, and I slip the jam into my cart. I meet them again in practically every aisle. They are cheerful, patient, and polite to one another and the shoppers around them.

Halfway through my shop, I still have not found the sun-dried tomatoes I am looking for, so I stop a name-tagged employee and ask if he might know where they would be. He pauses, stares into space, and goes inside himself. Slowly he says as if the words are arising from somewhere deep within, “If you are looking for the ones in the jar, they’d be with the pasta sauce.” And then, from deeper within, “The packaged ones are on an end display near the garlic in produce.”  I am impressed. “Okay, thanks. I’ll look in both places.” Again, I park the cart out of traffic and backtrack. Sure enough, they are exactly where he said they would be, and I score the last package in the store.

When I get to the checkout, every open checker is backed up. So, I choose the shortest line and settle in for the wait, noticing an older woman in front of me. When it’s her turn to unload, I see that every single item in her cart is store-brand: cereal, milk, crackers, bread, the whole lot. I wonder why. Prices are dramatically higher these days; is she trying to economize?

When it’s my turn to check out, I have a little tussle with the bagger. He wants to put my toilet paper and paper towels in the cart first. A seasoned shopper, I know those lighter items belong on top of the full bags once they are wedged tightly into the small cart. (I insist on using the smaller one because I am an older woman and find the large ones unwieldy.) He protests that he needs space to pack, and I temporarily move the paper products to the floor. So, he acquiesces, and I achieve my desired arrangement. Near the end, he holds up a loaf of brioche that slipped out of its wrapper during the checkout. 

“Sorry,” he says, “it slipped right out of the bag. I’ll get you another one. “Oh!” I look around to see a checkout area inundated with people and humming with activity. It’s a busy time for him. “Do you want me to do it?” “No, it’s not a problem. I’ll be right back.”  I park my cart and put my wallet in my backpack while I wait. 

Behind me is a father with his gawky nine-ish-year-old daughter in the checkout line. She wants a helium balloon as a treat, and he keeps showing her one option after another. She whines, “No, not that one! No, not that one!”  Finally, he says, “You’re getting this one!” and hands it to the checker. The girl is still whining.

In a few moments, my bagger returns, triumphantly bearing a fresh loaf. I thank him and turn my heavy cart toward the exit. In front of me is a short, stocky woman pushing a bigger, equally overflowing cart. She’s shuffling slowly toward the sliding doors, and again, a surge of impatience rises in my chest.

I pause and take a breath as I wait for her to get up some steam. People of all sizes and shapes, dressed stylishly and slovenly, pushing carts piled high or carrying single bags, mill around me. Each of us has some large or small impediment, some secret or obvious affliction, blemish, or limitation. Yet, here we are, going about our lives on a rainy Sunday afternoon. This is what is, I remind myself. Open to it.

As I emerge into the rain, the nine-year-old is skipping behind her dad, happily gripping the string on her bright red balloon. It floats above her head amid the raindrops and proclaims, “Best Day Ever!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Afterthought: My perspective is unquestionably western, white, and middle-class. When I finish writing the above, I wonder what is for Ukrainians amid war. What is for Uyghurs in Xinjiang, China, undergoing forced sterilization and labor, or for black parents in American neighborhoods afraid of gang and police violence? What is for survivors of climate disasters that destroy their homes and livelihoods or for children trapped in a schoolroom with an active shooter?  

How does a person engage, cope, deal with, or enter into reality, however benign or horrific? Can it possibly be the same interior process of pausing, breathing, noticing, and opening that I experienced at the grocery store? Can we practice today for the ultimate challenge that may come to each of us one day soon? I leave you and myself with that question.

Respect In Extremis

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In Extremis definition: at the point of death, at death’s door, breathing one’s last, not long for this world.

When I launched this series in January, I said I wanted to notice “simple, modest, authentic examples of respect among people I interact with daily.” Here’s what I have been noticing.

######

I stand outside the closed door, leaning against the opposite wall, halfway down the corridor in a skilled nursing facility. Soft light, quiet female voices, and the occasional deep moan escape into the darkened hallway from behind the door. It is midnight; a passing nurse pauses before me and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“I’m a hospice volunteer waiting to sit with, uh, keep vigil with Mr. X.”

 “They’re changing him, giving him his meds, and making him more comfortable.” 

I nod. “I’ll wait here ’til they’re finished.” Nurses handling one’s naked body, even at the point of death when we imagine inhibitions have dissolved, is one thing. Having one’s wasted body exposed to a perfect stranger, whether or not you are aware of her presence, is another. I assume modesty does not dissolve at the end of life and do not intrude until Mr. X is dry, clean, settled, and covered up to his chest with a light sheet and warm cotton blanket.

When I step into the room, the remaining nurse gently touches the unconscious man’s shoulder.

“Does that feel better, Sir? I will give you a little more medicine to help you breathe more easily. I’ll just put a couple of drops inside your cheek. That’s it.” She positions the dropper inside his gaping mouth and slowly rubs his throat below his jaw. “Good, now swallow if you can.” He does.  

Before leaving the room, she fills me in on what she knows about her dying patient—his former profession, family members who kept vigil earlier, and his interests. Then, she points to various objects in the room—the essential things his wife wants him to have near at the end: Classical CDs, a small CD player, a book of poetry, and photos. “I’ll be back to check on you in an hour, Sir,” she whispers close to his ear before gliding through the half-closed door. 

The room is dark, the dim light from the adjoining lavatory casting shadows around the bed. I put some Bach in the player, turn the volume low, place a straight-backed chair next to the bed, collect the book of poetry, and sit. I touch Sir’s lower arm through the sheet and introduce myself, giving my first name and saying I will be sitting with him for a few hours. His breathing does not change as I touch him or speak. He is deep in and far along on the journey to the end of his physical life. I quietly read poem after poem, pause for a few minutes of silence between them, and watch Sir breathe. Soon his breath becomes ragged and uneven; it occasionally stops for up to thirty seconds and then begins again, shallow and irregular.

Over the next few hours, the kind nurse comes and goes several times, always speaking softly and respectfully to Sir, touching him gently, and telling him in advance about every act of care she will perform. No callousness, no surprises, no assuming he is no longer entirely there. I watch her ministrations with awe, a tear coming to the corner of my eye at witnessing such tenderness.

######

My friend is slumped in her hospital bed, several floors up in a massive building on Boston’s Beth Israel Deaconess campus. She is declining rapidly. The plan is to release her home to hospice care the following day. Today, she shares a room with a mystery woman behind a drawn curtain. During my less than an hour stay, nurses come and go from the room every few minutes. 

My friend is on a breathing machine called a BIPAP, a form of non-invasive ventilation therapy. She can watch its monitor, see the oxygen level in her bloodstream, turn it off when it reaches the desired level, and remove the oxygen mask from her face. But a nurse must come to turn it back on again and reposition the mask to seal it around her mouth and nose. This procedure happens four or five times while I am there. The nurse’s calm composure, concerned smile, and respectful tone astonish me.

The patient behind the curtain is worried that she has not received the proper dosage of her medication. Another nurse repeatedly and patiently explains the doctor’s orders, the times she was medicated, and when she is next due. Finally, after about 20 minutes, the patient thanks her and apologizes for being such a nuisance. The nurse responds, “Not at all; this is important. You should always question us if you feel something is amiss.”

While the BIPAP breathes for my friend, she closes her eyes and rests. She removes the mask when she can breathe on her own, and we talk about her difficult life, sadness, fear of pain, and death. She praises her husband for the care he has given her over the last several years. We say we love each other and are grateful for our friendship. We hold hands in silence. When her eyes are closed, I gaze at her—the whole picture of her crumpled body amid bunched-up sheets, her swollen hands, and her weary face. I think, someday, this will be me.

The nurse returns and gently repositions my friend’s oxygen mask, punches buttons, and the BIPAP whirrs again. Then this guardian of my friend’s humanity glides back into the hallway and on to answer the next call bell—respect in motion.

######

For those who die after a long decline in health, the dissolution of respectableness can be one of the most challenging aspects of the journey. Gradually we lose many of the attributes that once earned us respect, approval, and acceptance. As the looks wither, the brain slows and dims, and control of bodily functions dissolves, power over external forces diminishes. We are no longer the sisters, mothers, professionals, neighbors, philanthropists, or activists we once were; no longer the persons others, and we ourselves, considered worthy of respect. In extremis, we will rely on pure, unearned, free respect. Will it be offered? Can we give it now, in anticipation?

Respect Amid Conflict

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This is not about Russia and Ukraine. Or is it? You decide.

I find myself in the middle of a conflict. A group I joined several years ago, a haven of peacefulness and mutual support, has encountered a situation that has created disagreement, discomfort, and discord among its members. I’m not going to identify this group or describe the conflict in detail. Still, I will say that the situation developed gradually, in response to the conditions of COVID, without any malintent on the part of anyone.

As with most conflicts, some members are on either end of the spectrum of opinion, and others cluster near the middle. Possibly there are some able and willing to change their behavior to accommodate others, and some unwilling or unable to do so. Some identify their needs as vital and urgent, and others, without strong feelings, are willing to go along with a range of possible outcomes.

The group has a tradition of consensual decision-making. The decision we make will determine the survival of the group and its future incarnation. So, with the best of intentions on everyone’s part, we have entered into a careful, measured process. Our approach involves the honest but gentle expression of feelings and attitudes, listening carefully to each member’s views, trying to understand all perspectives, and seeking a consensus about moving forward. We are encouraged to speak truthfully, listen compassionately, and keep an open mind and heart—hallmarks and essential characteristics of respect.

As I’ve reflected on the conflict, my reaction to it, and the thoughts and feelings of my fellow group members, two dimensions crucial to the consensus-seeking process have stood out for me. First is the vital importance of digging deep inside my own heart to recognize my motivations. Depending on what I discover, this recognition might be comfortable or not, but I owe it to myself and the group out of respect for us all. Second, understanding others. A group member so aptly expressed this as walking in the other’s shoes.

 As I’ve listened to group members describe their experience and express their feelings, I’ve “felt their pain,” so to speak. And, understanding their discomfort, even suffering, I see them as worthy of respect. Therefore, I wish that I might do whatever is possible to ease their distress without abandoning my essential needs. A sense of flexibility and generosity has arisen from trying to see the situation from the perspective of others.

However, by relentless examination of my motivations, I’ve discovered that, while there are some compromises I am happy to make, I draw the line at one accommodation, which I cannot adopt for my well-being. Yet, there is an enormous amount of fertile space between my one need and the needs of others.

I don’t know whether we will reach a consensus or what the outcome of the decision-making process will be. I am trying to stay in it, moment by moment, without predicting or prejudging, and with as much respect for myself and the other group members as I can muster. I am trying to let go of the less important, my need to be understood, and the ridiculous notion that my viewpoint is the complete one. I’m trying to embrace the idea that neither the current situation nor its outcome is static, that everything and everyone are changing all the time.

So, I re-iterate, this short reflection on respect amid conflict is not remotely related to the situation between Ukraine and Russia. Right? The aggression, violence, and impacts are wildly disproportionate in the two circumstances. But I wonder if there is any predicament, however grave, that cannot benefit from sincere self-examination and the attempt to understand the perspective of others—respect.

Just Like Me – Respecting Difficult People

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In their 2018 book Walking Each Other Home: Conversations on Loving and Dying, Ram Dass and Mirabai Bush introduce a practice geared to generate understanding, respect, and compassion for others. It’s called Just Like Me. While it can be used with friends, acquaintances, or neutral persons, I believe it is particularly beneficial for identifying with those we think are radically different from us and for whom we find it difficult to feel sympathy.

Calling to mind a person we dislike, disagree with, hate, or hold in contempt, we are encouraged to repeat the following phrases: This person

… has a body and a mind, just like me.

… has feelings, emotions, and thoughts, just like me.

… has experienced physical and emotional pain and suffering, just like me.

… has at some time been sad, disappointed, angry, or hurt, just like me.

… has felt unworthy or inadequate, just like me.

… worries and is frightened sometimes, just like me.

… will die, just like me.

… has longed for friendship, just like me.

… is learning about life, just like me.

… wants to be caring and kind to others, just like me.

… wants to be content with what life has given them, just like me.

… wishes to be free from pain and suffering, just like me.

… wishes to be safe and healthy, just like me.

… wishes to be happy, just like me.

… wishes to be loved, just like me.

I first encountered this practice on a retreat during 2020. I cannot now recall whether the retreat came before or shortly after the US Presidential election, but when the facilitator asked us to call to mind a difficult person, Donald Trump popped into my head immediately. Donald Trump is nothing like me; I protested internally! I quickly searched for another, less challenging person, but I could not quickly come up with anyone. So, I closed my eyes, called up a mental image of President Trump, and began repeating the phrases silently after the facilitator. I encourage you to go back and read them now with Trump or any challenging person in mind.

I was astounded by how many times I could say with sincerity that Mr. Trump was “just like me!”  I must admit I had some difficulty with “has felt unworthy or inadequate,” “has longed for friendship,” “is learning about life,” “wants to be caring and kind to others,” and “wants to be content with what life has given them.” However, I could embrace enough statements for the exercise to reveal our likeness and soften my heart slightly. Perhaps removing the word “just” would make the practice even more palatable.

Next comes the even more challenging pursuit of wishing the difficult person well, using phrases including:

I wish this person to be free from pain and suffering.

I wish this person to be peaceful and happy.

I wish this person to be loved because this person is a fellow human being, just like me.

The point is to consider respecting the other, not for what they have said or done, but because I acknowledge their humanness—their actions and words may have arisen from very human desires, fears, suffering, and losses, as do mine. In this practice, respect does not equate with approval, praise, agreement, or even tolerance but, instead, involves understanding and empathy. Therefore, treating the difficult person with respect may entail giving them the benefit of the doubt and offering compassion rather than mockery, rebuke, denunciation, or bitter criticism.

“And what would such respect look like concerning Mr. Trump?” I ask myself. Perhaps it would involve refraining from posting unflattering pictures of him on Facebook or liking jokes at his expense on social media. Maybe it would rule out repeating plausible but unsubstantiated stories about his actions or words or stoking fires of anger and hatred against him. Such restraint would mean forgoing delicious opportunities for cleverness and self-righteousness. 

On the positive side, it means offering genuine good wishes for healing, clarity, and humility, hoping that his heart will open with understanding and compassion, just as I hope that mine will open. I am convinced that sending positive energy in his direction cannot do the slightest harm.

Does all of this sound pollyannaish? Then take Trump out of the equation and substitute your problematic next-door neighbor, the family member who disrupts every holiday gathering, the boss who criticizes everything you do, or the friend who breaks your confidence. Even the dog who won’t stop barking! How can a dog be just like me? Think danger, fear, boredom, confusion, pain, past trauma, and family heritage.

Religious and secular platitudes about this “just like me” concept include The Golden Rule—do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The Buddhist idea of interbeing and interdependence (no left, no right, no up, no down, no you, no me) also captures the notion. The once-popular song Walk A Mile In My Shoes suggests how we gain respect for those we find difficult or different. (I’d encourage you to listen to this cool old music video.)

The bottom line—to respect those who do not seem to deserve our respect, we must see what we have in common with them. Yes, we are different, but what essential qualities unite us? And how can we act respectfully while disagreeing, resisting, and taking a stand against our opponents?

Building Trust with Respect

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One of the people I have come to respect deeply over the last two years is Dr. Nirav Shah, head of Maine’s CDC (Centers for Disease Control.)

Almost weekly, since March 2020, he has held a press briefing on Maine Public Radio, taking questions off the cuff from media journalists in Maine in an attempt to keep the public informed about COVID. Frequently, Maine’s governor, Janet Mills, and its Commissioner of Health and Human Services, Jane Lambrew, have joined Dr. Shah on these broadcasts. Together they have answered questions, explained CDC guidelines and recommendations, and encouraged Maine’s citizens to do everything possible to stay safe during the COVID pandemic.

I have been impressed time and again by Dr. Shah’s communication skills and his command of COVID scientific findings and statistics. In my mind, he is the consummate communicator. He speaks lucidly, intelligently, respectfully, and empathetically. I have only once or twice heard him ruffled by not having information at his fingertips. Throughout the last nearly two years, he has never criticized or showed anger or frustration with those who refuse to follow mandates and guidelines, deny the seriousness of the pandemic, or continue to resist vaccination. He has the proverbial “patience of Job.”

On January 3, he demonstrated his genuine care, concern, and respect for the people of Maine by participating in a Maine Public Radio Broadcast—Maine Calling, hosted by Jennifer Rooks. (Maine CDC director Nirav Shah addresses questions about the pandemic, particularly about vaccine hesitancy) His purpose for this call-in program was to open a dialogue with those not vaccinated against COVID; his stated goal was to build trust. When I began listening to the broadcast, I was nervous that none of those opposed to vaccinations would call in, the ultimate slap in the face to trust-building. However, callers, emailers, and tweeters engaged with Dr. Shah for nearly an hour. Because he entered into an authentic dialogue with each one, asking genuinely curious questions about their views, assumptions, and situations, relatively few callers got on the air. Some were angry, afraid, and belligerent; others were open and curious.

While he acknowledged and lamented that vaccinations had become politicized, he avoided political debate or criticizing others who engage in such discussion. Instead, he stayed with the “facts”—the statistics, the scientific models, and studies. One could hear the sincere emotion in his voice as he spoke about Mainers who had died of COVID. He listened, expressed understanding, acknowledged agreement where he could. Though he didn’t say these words, I could imagine him thinking, “I can’t do anything to change the politics, nor can I force anyone to follow CDC guidance. All I can do is build trust and try to persuade.”

As the pandemic has unfolded, scientific information and best-practice recommendations have changed and developed repeatedly. As a result, early guidance was superseded by the findings of further studies. Dr. Shah acknowledged that the evolving nature of the scientific understanding of COVID has led to confusion and fed into mistrust of public officials and their recommendations. This broadcast, he said, was one attempt to rebuild trust. It was worth the try.

Such a genuine, careful, skilled effort at trust-building could only come from one who respects his fellow Mainers. Dr. Shah demonstrates that he believes each of us wants to do the right thing. Therefore, he is willing to invest the time to understand the convictions of others and is hopeful that offering his best knowledge and sincere concern will make a difference.

I encourage you to listen to the podcast at the link above. Some have heard me say that I wish Nirav Shah would run for President of the United States. I am saying that I want all politicians and public servants to demonstrate the respect that he does for the people they serve.

Noticing Respect: Intro to a new series of posts

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In 2022, I want to offer twelve vignettes, one for each month, that illustrate dimensions of respect. These profiles will emerge from persons, encounters, activities, or events that I have noticed during the month. I intend to attend to respect in as broad a swath of experience as possible, so I’m asking myself to see it from new and varied angles.

Professor Harry Lewis of Harvard University, a man whom I respect and from whom I, in turn, have experienced kindness and respect, suggested the title for my blog, With All Due Respect, five years ago. Shortly after I launched, Harry and I had a brief conversation about what the word “due” means concerning respect, whether everyone is due or deserves respect. The noun “due” is defined as a person’s right, something owed. To deserve something is to earn or merit it.

In an early post, Harry and I exchanged comments about respect as a response to human dignity. Since then, those who believe dignity is inherent in all humans have been sorely challenged by events at home in America and abroad. Wars and withdrawal from wars, unprecedented political polarization, hatemongering, challenges to the rule of law, repeated assaults on democracy, and incidents of police brutality have strained our impulses toward respect. A pandemic that heightens our awareness of inequality and unfairness and pits the individual’s rights against the common good has sapped our good intentions about respectfulness. Undeniable and devastating examples of climate change coupled with intransigent denial of climate science’s findings make us impatient with the deniers. A plethora of incredible conspiracy theories has stymied our intent to treat those who espouse them with regard. As a result, it has become harder and harder to offer respect to those whose attitudes and behaviors differ so dramatically and consequentially from our own—to see these others as due or deserving of respectful courtesy.

 Is there such a thing as unconditional respect? Is it possible to respect someone doing demonstrable harm to people, creatures, and the earth you love? And is treating someone respectfully fundamentally different from respecting him, her, or it?

Because I don’t have answers for these questions, I am thrown back to noticing simple, modest, authentic examples of respect among people I interact with daily. This series of posts will explore instances and characteristics of respect that I see around me. I invite you to offer reflections on occasions of respect you are observing in your surroundings. I hope that by doing so, we will water the seeds of respect in our hearts, our thoughts, and our actions.