You say Missouri
out West. Urban prairie bound,
I say Missourah.

The Shame Correction

It was one of those exquisite spring mornings when all the potential of the season that has been sleeping beneath the surface wakes to stretch its arms up to the warm and clear sunny skies.  Everything seems to be sparkling a bit as the sun glints brightly off shining surfaces, a slightly mischievous winking at what the day might hold.  It is in the thick of the NCAA tournament and the Plaza, an affluent outdoor shopping area in Kansas City, is a swarming sea of color from both the visiting and home teams.  It is already crowded in the late morning, with people strolling, shopping, and dining.  There is excitement and anticipation in the air for what is to come on this bright and shiny day that has just begun.

I am there for a few small errands and as I walk past Barnes and Noble a familiar homeless man greets me with a friendly salutation.  He is a relatively constant presence there and I see him most times, in the same place, whenever I walk through this part of the Plaza.  Always friendly, he never asks for money, as he also does not today.  I never give him money, not for any great moral or philosophical reason, but because I rarely have any cash on me.  I did have a few dollars with me this morning, and after returning the greeting, I hand him a dollar.  As I step past him, I am politely stopped by a security guard: dark trousers, crisp white shirt with a dark tie, a Mountie style hat.  He hands me a very small square pamphlet, which I accept without scrutiny.  I walk several yards before I open the pamphlet to read it.

It is an informational pamphlet, or at least that is how I believe its creators would describe it.  It informed me that while many people believe it to be a kind and generous gesture to give money directly to people who are homeless,  this action exacerbates the social issues of homelessness and can even potentially contribute to criminal activities.  It provides a list of homeless outreach services to whom money could be safely given that can provide assistance in an appropriate manner to the homeless; hence, best meeting their needs and minimizing the potential harm of inappropriately assisting people directly with money.

As I read the pamphlet, I can feel my cheeks burning.

Brene Brown reminds us that we all know the “warm wash of shame”, this experience ubiquitous as its emergence is one we can neither deny nor control.   And I felt that uncontrollable burn in that moment because while the pamphlet was written under the auspices of education, it was in actuality a correction, a prescription to guide future behavior, and a judgment of what had just transpired.

The bright and glinting sunlight was beginning to feel a bit blinding.

I was fuming under my breath when a middle school aged girl stepped towards me.  She was wearing the blue plaid uniform of a Catholic school and was trying to direct my attention to the clipboard she was holding.  As I waved my hand dismissively and sidestepped her to continue walking, her face initially scrunched into a frown of disappointment which she quickly erased and replaced with a patient nod of polite acknowledgement.  She seemed to have been schooled not to expect that all would give her the time and attention she felt entitled to.   To be fair, I don’t know what she wanted from me; however, my guess is that she wanted money.  I can imagine any number of causes:  money for camp, for band, for sports, for charity.

Whatever it was, it must have been legitimate and worthwhile because I received no informational pamphlet regarding the potential societal harm of middle schoolers being sent out from religious institutions (which their parents pay for them to attend) into public areas to ask for money for their private use.

This juxtaposition of legitimate and non-legitimate monetary requests was repeated in several places through the Plaza:  a Catholic school youth with a clipboard able to freely stop people with their requests, and homeless people each with a security guard in a crisp uniform standing a few feet away holding informational pamphlets and ready to hand one out to every person that gives money.

The inequity was infuriating, as was the dehumanization.  It was like we were being instructed not to feed animals in the zoo for their own well-being.  This was not about well-being or what was best for the homeless.  This was about control and privilege and paternalism.  It was about the insular economics of the housed, the employed and their expendable income which ensures that money only changes hands through very well circumscribed transactions between very specific parties.  At that moment, I would estimate 50% or more of the adults in restaurants on the Plaza were drinking some kind of alcoholic beverage with breakfast. (And some of them potentially planning on driving afterwards.)  But if there is the possibility that a homeless person can buy a beer to drink in the park on a beautiful sunny spring day, well, that is something we’d better put a stop to and fast.

And what better way than to remind people not to deviate from the prescribed course of when and how to exchange money than with a discreet little slap of shame wrapped up in a small educational pamphlet.

I returned to the Plaza a few weeks later, this time mid-week.  The streets are mostly empty and the security guards nowhere to be seen on this idle morning.  I pass by Barnes and Noble and see the same familiar homeless man out in front warmly greeting all who pass by.  I wish him a good morning and hand him a dollar.

He said, “My children thank you.”

And I said, “You are very welcome.”

No correction necessary.




The vet tech said Otto was “not well cared for” by his previous owners.

Otto was picked up as a stray by Leawood Animal Control in Kansas and taken to the State Line Animal Hospital for boarding and care.  He was not neutered and wearing a worn black harness without ID tags or microchip.  The hospital holds stray animals for a trial period before spaying or neutering and putting them up for adoption.  No one came to claim Otto.

Otto was 17 pounds when he was picked up which put him close to 20% below his target weight.  When we went to pick him up at the hospital, where he had been living for a month, he weighed 18 pounds.   You could see his ribs, all of his vertebra, and his hip bones.  His coat was so thin that he couldn’t be clipped short in a standard grooming cut because his skin would show through.  Otto was essentially missing his “wire” coat:  the thick, coarse hairs that gives structure and weight to his fur.  The vet techs said that Otto found life in the hospital very stressful and they had a hard time getting him to eat.  Because of the deplorable condition of this teeth, the vet had estimate Otto to be approximately 8  years old.

It is not unusual for skinny, ragamuffin strays to be picked up without tags or ID.  And not even that unusual for them not to be neutered.

But Otto is clearly 100% purebred schnauzer.   And even in his poor condition, he is very, very handsome.

Purebred + not neutered + bad condition + old age + stray = breeder’s dog dumped when too old to be of use

Sounds pretty harsh, doesn’t it?  It is not uncommon in the mid-West.   If you find this difficult to believe, there is more…

The vet techs were correct about Otto being a skittish eater.  At first he appeared finicky:  he’d approach the bowl slowly, sniff just over the rim and then turn and walk away, usually to go curl up in bed.  I would have to coax him back into the kitchen repeatedly and even hand feed him some kibble before he would stay at the bowl and eat.  And even then he might only eat a portion of the food before voluntarily walking away from the bowl.  And there were other strange signs.  Otto never asked for food.  Not first thing in the morning nor in the evening.  He never begged and he never looked for dropped food on the floor.  If you stood in front of him holding his bowl and turned away even slightly, Otto would leave the room and curl up in bed.  Any distracting movement or noise in the kitchen and Otto would leave.  He wouldn’t come back for a second try on his own.  He would just go back to sleep.

Otto had no expectation of being fed.  And Otto had no comprehension of food belonging to him.  Which meant that Otto had most likely never been fed on a regular schedule and had probably been intimidated while eating.

Otto didn’t know the word “cookie”.  And he did not appear to understand being given a cookie, showing reluctance and leaving the cookie on the floor the first time until encouraged to eat it.  Otto had never eaten anything that wasn’t kibble.  He didn’t recognize apples, carrots or other fruit and vegetable tidbits and would leave them alone unless encouraged to eat them.

Teaching Otto to sit before eating resulted in a anxious bowing, scrabbling, grovelling gesture that would have been tremendously funny if it hadn’t been so grotesquely sad.

While Otto was slow to grasp the practice of consistent eating, he immediately found his place with his bed.  A plush bed with a thick curved bolster and a reflective layer to generate heat, it is a possession Otto covets.  Next to his bed, his most favorite thing is “hugging”:  Otto likes to be picked up with both paws around  your neck and his whole body pressed against you.  An anomaly in a dog, who typically merely tolerate hugging, Otto craves a hug shortly after breakfast and in the evening.  Truth be told, Otto will take any cuddling anytime he can get it.

After a month, Otto gained 3 pounds and his coat grew back in thick and shiny.  His bones are now covered with a layer of sleek muscle.  He loves running top speed around the yard and monitoring the fences that look out onto the street in front.  He is a brave protector.  He has a home and a duty and a family.  He is safe and loved.  And he starts doing the “dinner dance” half an hour before he is fed…right on schedule.  He sits up straight and tall to “earn” his dinner and eats the whole bowl without looking up.

It is easy to fall into habitual patterns of questioning thoughts about the past:  was that a good decision?  should I have taken a different course of action?  where would I be in my life if I had gone down a different path?  Otto reminds me that I needed to do everything that I did in order to be here with him, to rescue him, and to bring him into a home that would help him overcome his past.  A past of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for.  Of being neglected and abused. Of being vulnerable to strangers. Of being homeless and without family.  None of these alter that Otto is worthy of love and belonging, with his own love to share.  And that in return, so are all of us, regardless of our past choices or the directions our lives have taken us.