Lora René Tucker

Happy New Year. 

We have survived another year; for me and others, a year of rough transitions, for some, a year of miracles, and for most, just another year.  No matter what got you here, if you're reading this blog, Congratulations, you made it.

Through the year of dreadful acts done to adults and children in schools, shopping malls, and movie theaters; through a very mean spirited presidential election, through the revolutions, wars, and a fiscal cliff (that is waiting for lemmings,) I find myself deeply shaken by how people are treating each other, it is as if people are forgetting how to be an open community, closing ranks via a "check list" titled: "Like or Not Like Me," and not effectively engaging and communicating with each other. Isn't that crazy? In an era where gossip can move so fast from ones mouth (or fingers) it can scorch the air; where there are more devices for keeping in touch, no one is really touching each other, let alone looking up.

In my "shaken state," I started to wonder what King would do.  What would Martin Luther King Jr. do if he was around in the 21^st century, in the age of AIDS, The Tea Party, and so called "post-racism?" What would he do with a country suffering from historical amnesia? What would he say about an African American in the white house and African Americans becoming infected with hiv?  How would he handle the new horrors of terrorism in neighborhoods from Newark to Newtown.  Could King be one of America's senior national leaders, no longer "in the trenches," but able to talk with hope about the future, and meld it with what he had experienced, what he knew?  I believe he would be constantly reminding us to "wake up... don't fall asleep..." and "...don't forget."

I was fortunate enough to catch a writer's workshop that the New York Writers Coalition had. (Love their workshops!) They had an exercise that made me want to work on it after the experience was over.  A simple quote that made me write in the moment, then made me want to be in the writing.  Now I want to share a part of the poem with you in commemoration of M.L King's 84^th birthday.  (Remember, I do not capitalize hiv/aids. Also GMHC is the Gay Men's Health Crisis...I do not assume everyone knows.)

 

 DO NOT FORGET

"Write What Should Not Be Forgotten"

-  Isabelle Allende

                                   

Do not forget that no one can get "full blown aids,"

That aids is full blown hiv

That people with hiv are more vulnerable to others' "cooties."

 

Do not forget that a kiss is just a kiss,

That status is not attached to an acronym;

that an acronym does not mean damaged goods,

And that a disease does not identify an individual.

 

Do not forget the love does not mean sex

but safe sex means loving oneself,

and people deserve to love without judgment.

 

Do not forget that the chemical warfare

saving many lives is not a cure,

That silence equals death, stigma kills,

and hiv does not discriminate.

 

Do not forget that ACT UP

acted up for all of us,

That GMHC helps everyone in crisis,

That it isn't enough to be straight but not narrow,

But it is important to be straight up.

 

Do not forget

That aids is not just an acronym

That life is not just a four letter word.

Here we are - Thanksgiving is over, Christmas is coming, and we are in the midst of all the celebration and "hype" seeping through every pore of American culture - from television, to the billboards, to the internet. No, Rod Serling isn't going to do a prologue, telling us we are now entering "The Twilight Zone," (though it does feel like it at times,) but we are entering what I (and others) call "The (Holiday) Bermuda Triangle" - the time between the Thanksgiving and Christmas/Chanukah (and Kwanzaa) holidays, usually ending somewhere after the New Year.  Not everyone has family, friends, or places to go for the holidays, whether miles, deaths, or emotions separate one from that Norman Rockwell painting. This is the time when people are struggling with their demons - the pains of low self-esteem, the dysfunction and rejection of family, the deep seated issue(s) of the past that rear its ugly head and often drag the person into the vortex of dejection, isolation, and self-medication.  It is also the time where recovery and controlled consumption is challenged:  You are supposed to drink to celebrate, eat to celebrate, party your #*&%* off eating and drinking...not to mention being with the one you love, surrounding yourself with family and friends...And if you aren't joyous...Not full of the mirth and glee of the holidays?  Grinch, Scrooge, Shlub.

During this time, clinicians of mental illness and addictions, caretakers of the elderly to the homeless, and people interacting with ones who are struggling with depression and trauma, become more vigilant; where emotions related to rejection, loneliness, and feelings of inadequacy become painfully real. When I am working with people who are in recovery (from sugar, alcohol, drugs,) I worry about the holidays.  And ordinary people aren't exempt from the "Bermuda Triangle:" Some people, who have grappled with these feelings of loss, also struggle through these times (and who has not gone through this at least once in their life? I know I have...more than once.)  Even folks that present well and have "things going for them;" the white picket fence, the partner or lover, the "two point five" kids, and a dog (or cat,) can succumb to the "Bermuda Triangle." Anyone can crack under the pressures to perform; to get the perfect gift, survive "home for the holidays," and be under pressure to have enough:  money, food, and presents, this and that.  Between the commercials, the family, and the expectations - no wonder "the Triangle" is the time where there are casualties; people "missing in action."

"The Triangle" is no joke, a real "mutha" for many.

Now you know I am not going to bring up such a topic without opening my toolbox and pulling out some of my "tools..." Wait, not tools, but defensive weapons, because for me the holidays can be an assault on my psyche.  I have had my share of melancholy over the holidays; losing close family members, including my father right after the 2005 Christmas holiday, and have dealt with the "don't have's:" No family of my own, no one to bring in the New Year.  So when the "Bermuda Triangle" comes rolling in, I have to prepare myself for battle; set up my "Situation Room," full of plans, strategies, and goals.  I have a four point plan I put in place that makes the holidays my own, not  a "Happy Holidays, Dammit!," but a little system that allows me to define my holiday, give thanks, and see in a new year full of faith and hope...no matter what:

1.      1.  FIND SOME THINGS YOU MAY LIKE TO DO BY YOURSELF: Don't depend on another person, depend on you!   I look for some free or inexpensive places to go on my own - I want to have control of when I come and go, and I want to observe the activity and decide how much I want to be involved.  I may go to the ice skating rink at Bryant Park and watch the skaters (or even skate,) go to the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or the store front exhibits that the department stores display.  No crowds, no problem, I will go early, or look up the free day at a museum, an art gallery, first showing at a movie (which can be half price.) All you need is a library (free access to the internet or newspapers) and an ounce of curiosity.

This is also the time when 12 step groups have "marathons," meetings every hour or hour and a half.  And you don't have to be in recovery.  Heck, it is a destination, with a positive support system, a cup of tea or coffee, and takes up some time constructively.  Go, sit and listen, count your blessings, and get over it!

2.      2.  MAKE DATES TO DO THOSE ACTIVITIES:  Put them on the calendar.  Schedule it.  If you know that December 25^th is dysfunctional family day, why not schedule that excursion to the rink or walk in the park on the 26^th or 27^th.  Now you have something to look forward to as you deal with Aunt Marjorie asking about T-cells and viral loads for the sixtieth time.  Or Cousin Edward staring at you like Typhoid Mary.

3.       3.  MAKE A SPECIAL CORNER FOR YOUR HOLIDAY:  I take a table, get some pine sprigs, get a "Charlie Brown tree," decorate it with handmade (and some bought) ornaments, and put my Gumby and Pokey (the alcoholic!) and my mini Etch-it-sketch under my tree. I even mail myself some Christmas cards I may have seen when out and about and put it on the table. (Yes, I mail myself Holiday cards, gotta problem?!) You can update the toys according to your generation; Nientendo, ipod, whatever. Don't want a tree? No problem, a Christmas Cactus, a Hanukah bush, make up whatever you want. It's your holiday table. Lighten it up.

4.      4.  GIVE YOURSELF A SPIRITUAL BOOST: You can get (back) in touch with your spirituality - Go (back) to a church, a temple (Buddhist, Jewish, Hindu, etc.,) or a mosque. Get in touch with your humanity - volunteer and give during the holidays, Commune with the tourist in Times Square, be with friends who have family. Or be peaceful by yourself and for a moment, do nothing...but don't "hide-in." Also, you can get in an extra visit or two with your therapist over this time. (You think?) You know there will be times that the grief may surface, or you will wake up with the "bah-hum-bugs," but they do not have to dominate your head, and you don't need to be "up in your head with no supervision." Whether you are indoors or outdoors, plan something for you, because you deserve to "jingle your bells." Or just jingle a bit.

For some of you, it may not be all that - the "(Holiday) Bermuda Triangle" may be a "whatever" moment in time; so I only ask that you share what makes it easy for you, you may help someone who may be struggling or even stuck (cause you know you have had those "deer in headlights" moments before.) If you are perfectly happy with the holidays, share those blessings, your happiness is contagious and can rub off on one who needs a smile or a hug.  (Yes, a hug - not pats on the back like you're burping a baby, but a heart-to-heart hug.)  So, if you see me about The Big Apple this holiday, help me survive "The Bermuda Triangle" with the fifth (and bonus) point in my plan-

5.  GIVE (ME) A HUG FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

Brooklyn after Hurricane Sandy -

I took a walk around the perimeter of Prospect Park the Thursday morning after the storm to shake my cabin fever; I was blessed not to be directly affected by the storm, but even in my neighborhood there were places that looked like the losing boxer after a fight.  There were trees on almost every block with branches snapped or the whole tree toppled over - some cracked like used toothpicks, others like someone had grabbed and pulled them up like a bad weed.  I felt like I was walking through ether that morning; with the cold, crisp air periodically hitting my face like cold water slapping me back to reality.  Nothing was like it was - the landscape, the air, the city. 

It made me think -

About my last entry in Poz blog, joking about the daily (and daunting) routine of traveling on the subway, my attempt in satire to share about those "tin cans with a motor." Then I walked to the Church Avenue subway station, saw the yellow tape and the Transit police stopping anyone who tried to enter.  As I passed by, I recalled the videos of the subway stops, like the South Ferry station, that were turned into fish tanks. I thought about how I still take so much for granted, that this "megapolis" called The Big Apple is impenetrable, Hurricane Irene wasn't so bad, that the media is just hype, and New Yorkers will just get wet, hop on the subway, and continue "as if..." 

As I walked, I thought of my favorite Psalm and recited it over and over, as I do when I am in crisis or at a loss: "Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil..."

I wanted my subways back. I wanted my city back.

I then thought -

We all go through our storms, our surges of horror and pain.  Often we take for granted the blessings we possess or that we can keep things moving without any thought we can forget, and in a blink of an eye, it can all be gone.  As someone with "hiv," I rarely allow myself that "luxury," knowing what this dis-ease can do and being a witness to its wrath.  But somehow, there was a part of me that forgot that it doesn't have to be the "hiv" that could take me down, I am a survivor, but the life boat could still capsize:

When I wrote in July, I had taken for granted that I could write, even with an injured wrist. Then, eventually, I wasn't able to grip and hold a pen; even typing was beyond painful.  I knew that I had to take care of this (I was already treated for carpal tunnel), so I could do my progress notes and not lose my job, type my blog, write my poetry. I was becoming tired, overwhelmed, depressed; I couldn't do all that I thought I should. I wanted to be able to write with my fountain pen again, type on my laptop, and keep up with life.  As I hopped on the Church Avenue bus, I recalled how I went to the doctor about my wrist; he referred me to a rheumatology specialist, who, after reviewing the results of my blood work, found a protein in my blood. (This had nothing to do with my wrist.) I then was told I had to see a hematologist/oncologist. (A what-what?!  Oh-oh.) I went to the hematologist, he told me that I needed a bone marrow biopsy; on one end, it could be benign, on the other, it could be multiple mylanoma. (Wha-the-#@%$?!) I've been fine for years, taking care of myself, medication was doing okay, the "hiv" was chilling, what the hell now? I took for granted that now that the "hiv" was "playing nice," I can keep it moving. Nothing else could happen... I didn't see this "surge" coming... I had my own storm.

I got off the bus, returned to my home, thinking of the past week's horrors. Sandy, New York's Nero, left havoc in its path and humbled the toughest New Yorker (and "Jersey-ite".)  Some took warnings for granted, some were not informed properly, homes were up in flames, families losing possessions, hospitals relocating patients, people living in the cold and darkness, with no way to communicate; the loss of the infrastructure; of electricity, phones, the loss of life... all the suffering; everyone was caught in the Super-storm surge, including me. And we all are weathering Sandy and our own storms in our own way.  We will recover; we will persevere.

Please vote and stay safe.

A Strap Hanger's  Prayer, My Urban Psalm

I have been "injured" for the past few weeks; there is a cyst on one of the bones in my right wrist.  Being that I type for a living, this causes some difficulties. (You think?)  So, as I continue to figure out the best way to write, I'm keeping it moving, even in this heat. (I bought Nuance's Dragon Voice Recognition software for home....if anyone has mastered the software, please send tips!)  With a brace on my right hand and forearm that resembles a Klingon bracelet, I'm going to work, riding the subways, making field visits, and just "social- workin."  And right now, writing.  So, while the pain killer's working, let's catch up, I decided to keep things "light."

It's summer in New York City, and when you think of summer in New York, you think of...the subway.  Ah- how the subway brings you closer to the true pulse of the Big Apple.  With a Metro Card, (the techno-key of frustration), and a subway map, (showing the different realms of purgatory,) you go from point "A" to joining the Lemmings off the cliff. 

In a writing exercise I did at a New York Writer's Coalition workshop, (they are great...more on them in another blog,) I wrote a vignette, a prayer/observation for the subway riders of the world starting with a line from a favorite phrase.  Please note:  This may "sound" familiar; this is my favorite psalm, one I recite when I visit that "valley"...I just made it into an "urban psalm:"

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," after swiping my MetroCard -

Oh hell - I can't go anywhere; it's telling me to: "Swipe again at this turnstile."

Suddenly, time and motion slows down.  I swipe again and look before me: The token booth clerk is peering at me, daring me to "make her day," leave that turnstile, go up to her, and lose my $2.25.  The professional pan handler began to shuffle towards me; his lips perched to blabber how he can "help" me for whatever I could give.  A young, long legged Vogue Magazine Ad, who was right behind me, swerves and huffs, as if she has had one too many encounters with a non-rush-hour strutting, poor -MetroCard swiping, black women for one day... I swiped again, and again....

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, after swiping my MetroCard three times; I began to realize that I am one of the thousands of life members (or "lifers") of the New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority (the MTA,). Here I am, donating daily to the capital improvement fund, which the next generation will enjoy (like the 2^nd Avenue subway). I am one of the many working stiffs who, no matter how the weather is or who won the election, will mill, meander, and march through the "valley" called rush hour in the subway.  Thousands of miles of track, countless turnstiles, and I am stuck here, swiping my MetroCard, (watching my T-cells jump the turnstile and run for the train).

My bags and smart pad shall comfort me... Well armored, usually with a smile, my mantra is from Rodney King's plea ("Can't we all get along?") I put the soundtrack of my very own epic adventure in my ears and grab thy rod and staff; I mean my hand bag. As one hand clutches my bag and the other all my patience, I successfully swipe my MetroCard, put on my "Sista won't take any {umph] from you either," face (to address my immediate competitors,) and head toward the platform.

And I will dwell in the maze of the MTA forever.

A - train.

Even on my birthday, I am given signposts as gifts. So I want to honor my mentor, a fellow Taurean, who was a teacher, who is now a guidepost on my trek, that comes one birthday at a time. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, dammit!

On March 3, 2012, while we watched the political circus called the Republican presidential nomination race play out on television; just before the country faced the fury of the shooting of a black teenager, Trayvon Martin, in Stanford, Florida; Louis Reyes Rivera, "The Janitor of History," an internationally renowned poet, historian, and activist; transitioned from this turbulent earth. An unsung hero; he was an intricate part of New York's algorithm, from Harlem to Bedford Stuyvesant and beyond. Louis Reyes Rivera was a part of the student uprising that shook City College in the late 1960s, and had been a professor, editor, and advocate; a voice and a bridge in the Black and Latino communities. He walked the streets of "Bed-Stuy" and Harlem with pride and a reverent familiarity; whoever he encountered or whoever recognized him in the street would be acknowledged minimally but gracefully. I had the blessing of knowing him, though briefly, and had the permission to call him my mentor.

I remember being at the Harlem Book Fair this past summer when there was a tribute to him at the Thurgood Marshall Academy on West 135th Street. The event was full with people from all different walks of life - the noteworthy and the note-taking - with a lineage of writers who he had taught, cultivated, or just listened to. All came to either pay homage or to witness this man being honored. At one time, there was a lot of "energy" in the room and Louis just quietly sat where he was instructed to sit, took in what he was supposed to take in, and moved to the side and gave way to any other energy but the good vibes of the moment. He walked with the assurance that comes with standing your ground through spiritual and political cyclones, ego tsunamis, and cultural combat. He was on his turf with his people that day and everything was going to be okay. He was a neighborhood poet with international reach. He was local and accessible but global and historical.

From the Saturday workshops to his performances around New York City, I studied the man, or better yet, marveled - what amazing details he shared; how he approached the written word, how he performed, moved, and listened. And he was honest. Most of the time kind, sometimes not, but honest. I was a student of the poet/historian/activist, in total and in training. And he accepted me and validated me as a writer. He encouraged my growth; critiquing my every writing, right down to my emails. And he kept reminding me to stay honest. In the past year and a half, Louis edited my poetry book so I could publish it under his tutelage. And it will be. He was even so generous to even review my first two entries in Poz. In the review of my first entry, "Those Little Signposts," in his closing to me, he said:

"You stay well and keep being honest. Later, Louis."

(I received the email on February 14, 2012, the last personal email I received from Mr. Louis Reyes Rivera. Little did I know that his transition would become one of my signpost; now a guidepost as I continue in my journey.)

When March 3rd came, I was just waking up, cleaning the cobwebs out of my head, and getting myself ready for Louis' Saturday workshop when I received a call from a fellow workshop participant:

"The workshop has been canceled..."

The air was sucked out of me like I was hit by a F5 tornado, my limbs felt as if I was being pulled and turned inside out. What was I going to do now? Who could I turn to? It was like my favorite teacher had been transferred in the middle of the semester (and some.) There was so much unfinished business. (Or was there?) So what did I do to mourn the loss of my teacher/mentor? I got on the "A" train to the Cloisters, and walked up the steep slope stairs, strolled along the paths, sit on a huge rock that overlooked Harlem and I wrote. I wrote about the trees starting to camouflage the buildings and the daffodils and crocuses pushing up and blooming. I wrote about the first robin redbreast I saw scampering in the brush near where I was sitting. I wrote about how I am living with my albatross and still leaping over hurdles. I wrote how beautiful this park is and how thankful I am I could sit on a piece of glacier in New York City in the midst of steel and concrete; a haven for me to take in the beauty and say goodbye to my Sensei. So in my own way I said "Later, Louis." And "Thank you" to a very sacred person in a place that is sacred to me.

Have you found your sacred space? Where you can be - and just "be." Where can your senses be stimulated and soothed, nudged and nurtured? I have a few "sanctuaries" in town that help me hold myself in reverence and gives me a place to count my blessings. New York has those gems; tree-lined parks where you would never think that NYC would be right over your shoulder, or a niche in a museum that has a special painting or sculpture or book. It only takes a beautiful day, even a rainy one, and a Metro card. So as I went to my sanctuary to say goodbye, a fellow Taurean*, a generous teacher and amazing poet, I will celebrate his life by continuing with what he generously gave me, knowing that I am richer, smarter and more faithful to my vision having had Louis Reyes Rivera point the way.   BE HONEST.

(*Louis was born May 19th, 1945; my birthday is May 8th.)

On Thursday, March 29th, 2012, a group of New York City legislators, headed by City Council Member Annabel Palma, held a rally and press conference to highlight proposed social services cuts in Mayor Bloomberg's 2012-2013 preliminary budget. These cuts affect the Administration for Children's Services, The Department of Homeless Services, and the Human Resources Administration.

I was there with my employer, Housing and Services, Inc., along with The Supportive Housing Network of New York, who was on hand to help highlight one cut in particular: A $5.1 million cut to HIV/AIDS supportive housing. Family members, advocates, and social service agencies, with their clients and staff, congregated in front of City Hall to tell the mayor to cease the perennial ritual of budget cut considerations afflicted on social services. (I understand that the mayor has a budget to balance; it is unfortunate it can be on the necks of the underserved.)

I was asked by my employer to speak that morning and share my experience as a social worker working in an apartment program and (if I wanted to) share on a personal level. (Well, each level was represented.) I want to share with you that speech; it is a subject that I believe we all need to "keep up front".... What is happening to the support for people living with hiv? And how will these services and even workplaces continue support people living with the virus?

Here is the manuscript I composed for the press conference. I rather speak extemporaneously, with an outline to maybe guide me, but I wanted to make sure I said all I wanted to in the little time they were giving me. Let me know what your thoughts are:

Thank you City Council members for the opportunity to speak to you this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and future allies, my name is Lora Tucker, a social worker at an organization named Housing and Services Incorporated. I am the clinical supervisor for the organization's apartment program: Scatter Site Housing 100.

I would like to share with you a brief story:

In August of 1997, after over seventeen years of being an interior designer, I left my job at the Federal Reserve Bank as a senior corporate interior designer. I also decided to take a HIV test after getting a phone call that winter. On August 27th, my doctor told me I had AIDS, on the 28th, I went to my first day on the job at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, conducting empowerment workshops. As I began my journey, with the only family member I told at the same time; I went to several doctors; one even informed me I probably had six months to live. I am blessed, I did find a doctor and kept the one I had been with; both are my partners in my living, and I made plans to live with the virus, not die of it. And I live with a virus that labels me, marginalizes me and places some scarlet letters on my shirt.

But since I was informed by some doctor that I had six months to live almost 15 years ago, I obtained my credentials as a substance abuse counselor, assisted in the clemency of a mother of four who was a victim of the draconian Rockefeller Drug Laws, Graduated with honors with a masters of social work, receiving Hunter College President's Achievement Award, received my license in Social Work, published my first book of poetry, I am teaching Diversity, Racism, Power and Privilege at New York University, co-chair a task force for the NASW, and write for two blogs; for POZ and Uptown Flavor online magazines. I am living until I die; I grabbed hiv, my diagnosis, by the... throat and made plans. (By the way, I call H-I-V hiv, because I refuse to give it any more power than it has.) But I am scared. And my fear has nothing to do with my mortality.

I sometimes look at the work I do, the wonderful relationships I have built with my clients, the energy and challenges I have supporting them; maintaining high standards for my agency and myself. I am also aware that being positive, I realize that I won't be able to continue like this for a long time and maybe not as long as the average person. And as a single adult female with no children and little family, especially in the immediate NYC area, I often wonder what will become of me? Who would care if I became sick in my apartment? A set-back in my health, a loss of my insurance, I could one day have the need for a housing program, and a case manager would be that one advocate, that safety net.

Even with all the effort I have made to live my life fully, with some moments of success, my challenges and barriers aren't half as daunting as the ones I witness my clients face, and sometimes, overcome. I also witness people who have been quite capable and quite functional one day, overnight become critically ill, and eventually lose everything - having accumulated a little something; their illness wiped them out financially, physically, and even spiritually.

That is why case management at the housing level is so important. As a housing case manager my colleagues and I can see the client more often, respond faster, and have a more focused mission. I can assess, assist, and support my clients, whether they are feeling well and want to connect with a community-based organization or not doing well and need to have someone who can follow through, check on them, and care. As case manager there are times I have been that liaison between my clients and their family (who may not be exactly ready to be caretakers for that individual). Even families whose caretakers are living with HIV appreciate the support because of the challenge of not only dealing with their illness, but raising their families.

The improvements made in medication and HIV treatment may have improved people's health, but does not completely improve one's circumstances. It can add to the stress, stigma, and financial burden of surviving; of dealing with co-payments, health insurance coverage, recertification, and compliances that can be difficult to negotiate. Having someone who can help you deal with those barriers, barriers that are challenging even for the healthiest of people living with the virus are necessary.

One client told me that he is a part of an apartment program so he can have a case manager; the security of someone "...checking up on him and acknowledging his existence."

I believe Gershwin wrote a song about that: "Someone to Watch over Me."

My client said having support gives him a reason to get up and continue. My clients give me the motivation to get up and fight.

Thank you.