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Around this time last year, I spent a week in San Francisco on business. Even though I live in Silicon Valley, my manager and I agreed that the commute was too much for the long hours I was going to work so I booked a week a four-star hotel in the city and went on my merry way.
I am a Bay Area native and have heard new reports practically my whole life about the "homeless problem" in San Francisco. When I was newly licensed driver, my dad took me to the city to make sure that I didn't get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood. Every time I have come to San Francisco, I have seen people living on the streets. But something about this business trip made me more aware of the issue. Instead of seeing well dressed financial folks and wide-eyed tourists, I could not take my eyes off the people of the streets.
In fact, my week in San Francisco has haunted me ever since.
I watched a disabled veteran get into a scuffle with a gawking tourist. I saw men older than my father sleep on the street. For all the women dressed in glamorous clothes as they power walk to their high-profile job, there was as many homeless women wearing the only clothes they own. There was more than one man in a wheelchair and a woman asking for money with a baby on her hip. An elderly man was drinking from a brown paper bag while he sat on the steps of a church.
My heart raced when I walked down a street where a group of homeless are clustered. I am not used to this. It's uncomfortable. I was afraid. When did they become the enemy? Something to be feared instead of someone to save?
Most of the time, I walked by and ignored them. Ignoring them feels wrong. I know that I shouldn't just keeping walking, avoiding eye contact, staring at my feet. I cannot pretend that they don't exist. But walking with my head held high, smiling, or saying hello didn't feel right either. I felt like a fake. A phony. A jerk.
These men and women need more than a friendly smile. They need access to so much more than I can provide. Health-care for their ailing bodies and minds. Access to detox and drug rehab. Training to land a job. Counseling to make sure that they don't land back on the streets. Full bellies and a roof over their heads. They need a lucky break, a second chance, a miracle.
During college, I took a Community Studies course that required volunteering at a local Soup Kitchen. I remember going to meet the regular volunteers who were there day in and day out. They didn't seem so pleased that the folks from the ivory tower were coming in for a day to get a little college credit. The leader put me in charge of serving the soup - Split Pea. One ladle of soup per bowl, I remember, was the order. Any more than that and we wouldn't be able to serve everyone. A restaurant had sent over the leftover salad from a salad bar; today the first 75 people would get a small salad too.
I filled over 300 bowls of soup that afternoon. The volunteers pulled out boxes of stale, cold pizza (another donation). We didn't feed everybody that day. Those who were fed still left hungry. The one meal that some of them counted on wasn't enough. But it was better than nothing.
I only went to the Soup Kitchen during that semester. When the class was over, so was my obligation. I fulfilled my course requirement and my life continued unchanged. Now all these years later, I feel more changed by the memory as I walked the streets of San Francisco. It's taken me over ten years to learn the lesson of my Community Studies course.
It takes a village. A whole village. And while some may do more than others, we all a responsibility to our tribes. Last time I checked, ignoring a problem never actually makes the problem go away.
So I started volunteering at a Soup Kitchen. I'm still trying to figure out how to use my talents to make a difference. Until then, I'll be dishing out soup once a week to people who need so much more. And I'll be involving my son. Instead of teaching him the "bad parts" of the city to avoid, he'll be learning that is where you start.
Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog
We've headed down to Disneyland this weekend. We are celebrating Darius' birthday (yes, one month in advance) with 21 family members. Yes, that's right... TWENTY ONE people that I know and personally love have decided to make the trip with us. I am so very excited (and so very stressed).
So what better way to get in the Disney spirit than have a Disney-themed giveaway! The Disney Umbrella Stroller Collection includes Disney Princess, Disney Fairies and Disney Pixar Cars umbrella strollers. At $19.99 each, Delta's Disney Umbrella Strollers are an affordable, fun alternative to the mega full-size stroller.
Darius was never much of a stroller kid - that's why I always loved a lighweight umbrella stroller. It made lugging it around a breeze and didn't take up half of my trunk space. We only travelled with an umbrella stroller which made navigating airport security a snap.
Delta Children's Products will send one lucky Who's the Boss? reader an umbrella stroller of your choice. Cars, Fairies, Princesses, oh my. Simply comment on this post before 11:59pm on Monday, May 11th to be entered to win.
My dad has been battling skin cancer for the last two years. What started as a reddish patch the size of a quarter on his collar bone has led to tests and biopsies that revealed just beneath the surface basal cell carcinoma covering his entire chest. He has more on his forehead and a couple on his bald spot too (not that he'll admit to those). His dermatologist has prescribed a smart cream to kill the cancer cells as there are more cancer cells than normal skin cells on the right side of his chest. An operation would be a physical nightmare.
When I was growing up, my dad put sunscreen on us kids. Our fair Irish skin would burn so easily. In fact my brother had 2nd degree burns and blisters on his shoulders after a swimming all day at the Cabana Club with no sunscreen. My parents never made that mistake again.
While my dad was diligent about making sure we didn't burn, he never put on sunscreen himself. Unless coconut oil and Tropicana SPF 4 counts as protection.
My dad liked being dark. He would laugh and cringe when I'd end up lathering his back with aloe after an all day excursion to the beach. It was as if the sunburn was a badge of honor. It's no wonder my dad has skin cancer now in his late 50s (he turns 60 this summer).
I look at my dad now, a cancer survivor, learning how to be sun safe for the first time in his life. He keeps sunscreen at home and at work. He wears a hat when we go out. We recently bought him a swim shirt to wear when we head to the beach or the pool. He's dealing with the painful consequence of his fun-in-the-sun days of his youth and adulthood.
Something that could have been entirely avoided with a little sunscreen.
Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog
