Rescue Bags with Sammy the Saint Bernard

Dear Hearts

I volunteered today at Burning Bed. I even went to Walmart for them. Did the germs scare me? Yes. Did being out in the world make me feel uncomfortable? Yes. But I did it anyway. Maybe they can find some way to pay me my max amount that I can make on disability and I can just work there part-time forever. But eventually, I will need a retirement and more money. God has made it very clear that I cannot count on a husband to provide those things. Twice I promised—you’ll never have to worry about money. Twice bitten…

At Burning Bed I put together “Safety Bags” for kids. What is a “Safety Bag,” you ask? It’s something that no child should ever have to receive. By in large Safety Bags are given to cops, other first responders, and crisis advocates. The bags are for the children involved in any domestic violence call--one of the most dangerous of calls—when the Five-O roll up.

Inside is a little booklet entitled: “My Safety Plan. The booklet tells the kids what to do and not to do in a DV/SV situation. They can also put down contacts of “Safe and Trusted People” who will help them. A blank page is there for them to draw their “Safe Space.” One section shows a boy and a girl in a bathing suit and discusses how nobody should be touching you anywhere that a bathing suit covers. What a world we live in.

Also, they get two colored pencils to write and color in the book; a plastic bracelet etched with words like “hope,” “love,” “courage,” etc. Eight lucky kids will get bracelets that smell like fruit because we ran out of the other bracelets, and that’s all they had at Walmart. But, the piece de résistance is a Beanie Baby.

I am 39 years old and I’m sitting with a stuffed lamb my Dad got me for Easter last year. I have a purple “Worry Bear,” Maurice, that my mom got me in college. He goes everywhere with me. At night I sleep with Maurice and Angel—a pink Build-A-Bear my parents got me before I went for ECT. I said I just need a Build-A-Bear before I go to ECT. She smells like lavender and when you press her paw she recites Luke: Do Not Be Afraid, Just Believe. Sometimes she just mysteriously speaks. I think that is Jed saying “Hello.” Those are just a FEW of my stuffies.

Think about it. People love soft things—cats, dogs, rabbits…It feels good to hold something soft. You feel not alone. Harry the hippo can catch your tears; Charlie the

cougar can be your friend when you’re scared; Heath the Hedgehog can listen to your secrets; Brownie the horse can take you away from all the fighting and ugliness; and Davey the bear will protect you from the monsters under your bed.

That’s what I did today. I made up almost 50 safety bags. It mattered. I chose all gender neutral stuffies and colored pencils. I was corrected today that not all boys play with trucks hate pink. So and so’s son is gay and he has loved pink since junior high. Good. Great.) But a first responder is not going to ask a child in crisis, “are you gay?” “As a boy, do you like pink?” “Would you prefer blue, young lady?” Kids love cute things—so do adults. So, I made sure that there no Barbie pink colored pencils or pink Teddy Bears. Gender neutral—it’s safe. Hence, “Safety Bag.”

If a little boy who just watch dad smack the shit out of mom gets a stuffie and he is “boyish,” he won’t feel like a “sissy” with a Carla the pink horse. If the little boy does tend toward to feminine, he is still gonna love Spot the Dalmatian. Same thing with the pink pencils. I’m not politically correct—I can’t help it. I am one of the Deplorables. I digress.

It felt good and also sorrowful to the putting together a bag for Billy and Gina, knowing that when mom is drunk and has smacked the shit of out them for being born, they will have Katy the cat and Pete the panda to comfort them. And they can wear a cool bracelet. AND get a blue and magenta colored pencil with which to draw.

Yeah, a lot of kids--abused or not--have lots of toys, but just being given a few special new things that are theirs and theirs alone matters a great deal. Jimmy the Frog is something to hold onto when the whole world is shifting beneath your feet.

What I know is this:

Under the fear and anxiety, I didn’t worry about getting yelled at for making up the bags incorrectly. I worried that what I told Ms. PC about girls and pink and boys and trucks would get me in trouble. But fuck her. I have watched my mouth my whole life. The majority of boys like trucks. Hey! Here’s a concept! A gay boy can still like trucks and hate pink. Whoa! No way! Yes way, bitch. I know that “even here” in The Holy City there are gay kids. Maybe you shouldn’t stereotype me as a prejudice New Yorker. (To most people in the Mid-West—New York is synonymous with NYC.) I digress.

I felt like I was doing something important—like Christ’s work. Way more important than grading kids on “Do Nows”—the opening activity as soon as a student walks into a classroom, so he can get right to work! Yeah, busy fucking work. Putting together those bags felt way better than devising a pre-test made for students to fail. And, putting those bags together was definitely more important than calling eighteen parents of 11^th and 12^th graders to cover my ass and report that their kid didn’t turn in three homeworks. What I did today was definitely more important that checking in Swarovski Crystal and making sure that the price tag is doubled on the bottom of the box, the over-priced 85 dollar bracelet is flawless and ready to display.

There was a lot of good in teaching. I loved it. When I told the students: to go for their dreams, but be practical too; to not let anybody judge them; to be themselves; to KNOW that a learning disability does not make them dumb---these were important moments. But, the paperwork, the bullshit, the Common Core, the Standards, the Differentiated Instruction, the administrators—did not focus on those moments.

There was a lot of good at Caroline’s too: helping the man, who didn’t feel he was fit to walk into the store, pick out a gift for his girlfriend; finding just the right kitty necklace for Jill; helping Amber decide that a hand-made mug would be a nice gift for mom; talking with Susan whose daughter is in a nut house and she doesn’t know what to get her for a coming-home present—these were also important moments. But, Boss Lady did not focus on those moments.

Maybe, just maybe, seven-year-old Jenny will feel better when she is sitting in a police station, because dad beat up mommy. Again.

Maybe today was totally in vain. A total waste of my time. But, maybe I can help Tonya feel not so alone in the hospital after mom’s been raped.

I even got my own stuffie: an elephant decorated with the stars and stripes.

“I’m taking home the Republican Beanie Baby.”

“Okay! We have so many! Go for it!”

I got a stuffie today too.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael; Archangel Raphael; Archangel Gabriel; and my Guardian Angel.