Chapter 6: She Had Marty Feldman Eyes
You can find the beauty of another human even in a Social Security office, if you pay attention.
January 2015, ACSS, Regional Transit, Social Security Bldg., Oakland – In just my first 10 days in Oakland I made some major gains and established what I suppose you’d call a “secure beachhead.” Much of this came from experience in different areas, including all three western coastal states and a variety of counties’ laws and policies, both written and unofficial. Each was different. Adapting quickly was as simple as knowing the real questions to ask about benefits, charities, transportation, and general Homeless policies. There was no consistency around what would be tolerated, or what would bring retribution or unlawful persecution.
The three best sources for this kind of knowledge are:
Veterans who have been Homeless in the town in question for several years,
Pro-Homeless advocates who work daily to make a difference for real people, and
Social workers, if you can find a good one – and they do exist – who will work with you.
If they look you in the eyes, listen with genuine interest while discussing your situation, and then set up some next steps, you have a good social worker. If they give you any less than this, don’t waste your time beyond minimal paperwork to get whatever benefits are available.
In Oakland, I was assigned a smart case worker at St. Mary’s – intelligent, a good listener, and able to create a good assessment and plan. And this person’s plan for me began with an early visit to the Alameda County Department of Social Services to apply for welfare benefits. The county limited these benefits to $303 a month for single males, and it was really a loan, some of which I had to pay back later. Benefits also included access to Cal-Fresh (food stamps), a few bus vouchers, and a visit with a psychologist so I could re-apply for disability at the Social Security office.
And that office was my target two days after the psychologist's visit. I had a signed disability form from St. Mary’s for my diagnosed mental illness that would help me get a Regional Transit Disability Discount card. This is a game-changer if you want to move freely around the Bay Area. Arriving about three weeks after applying, the card slices BART prices by about 70 percent. You can ride the bus as much as you want for a $30 a month. And you can even ride the ferry for a little over $2. Here’s a neat trick I learned: If you ever need to get back to San Francisco after a Warriors, game, skip BART and take the ferry from Jack London Square. The night I tried this, the boat was half filled, and a beautiful ride compared with the madness of the train.
Having spent the day before at the Regional Transit office to get that paperwork, this day was all about Social Security. But even the best-laid plans do not come without mistakes – and I made a big one that day. I went to Oakland’s main Social Security office on 22nd Ave. So dumb. Always go to a smaller satellite office, first thing in the morning. At 22nd Ave, there was a one-hour line just to get through the metal detector, then another 45 minutes to get to the machine that spits out your number. Only then do you really start to officially WAIT.
I did it all wrong. Smaller is always better.
Still, if you pay attention …
In my previous “lives” I was always in a hurry; I could not stand to wait for anything. And during my Homeless year I certainly sought the most time-efficient ways to get things done. But if I had to wait, I learned to relax in my environment, not needing to tune out on my little Obama-phone. Waiting became a good time to think or engage with others – and I say this as a confirmed introvert.
After obtaining my number at the Social Security monstrosity, I saw a relatively empty area on the east side of the room. As I approached an available chair, I noticed an escalating altercation between a small, stout Black woman and a pasty-white male security guard. She was giving him an earful, with her tall, placid husband standing at ease beside her.
The first thought my impressionistic brain produced as I regarded this woman was: “My goodness, she has Marty Feldman eyes.” And so they were, very large and one a bit errant. My second thought, sizing up the security guard was: “He is out of his depth. And he looks like a fat, younger Baldwin brother.”
Not the most edifying of thoughts, I admit. Those who have an awareness of bipolar disorder know that those who live with it have no filters. And thus came my third, and most important, thought: “If someone doesn’t distract this woman, Mr. Baldwin will kick her out of here. And we can’t have that.” This woman had endured an hour-and-50-minute wait just to get a number! If I could manage to slide over there and make a joke, I might get this train wreck back on the rails, and maybe even keep this woman’s attention for the rest of our time here. Blessed are the peacemakers. To be fair, this is not always my motivation for butting in.
I lobbed a joke at the woman, building on something she had just said. She laughed. Then I laughed. And then it happened – she locked her Marty Feldman eyes on me, because I was a far more willing audience than Fat Baldwin. I was responsive and interested.
I learned the woman’s name was Ethel. And as I listened to Ethel tell her tale, I realized the complaint she was trying to communicate had a valid point. But I also knew these giant bureaucracies don’t care, especially Social Security. Even less, one of their security guards.
My humorous intercession led to Ethel relating a story or two, one of which had me doubled over laughing. Early in her life, she had somehow lured one of her abusive brothers into an empty refrigerator, and then locked him inside. She vividly described how his poundings became less forceful, and then less frequent as she allowed him to collapse – and then let him out. Ethel was not a woman to be trifled with, even as a child.
Her husband, almost as tall as I am – maybe 6’4” and trim – had the detached, peaceful composure of a Buddhist monk. They seemed well matched.
The surprise came when I related a story of my own, innocently explaining how I had to plunk down two $2.10 bus fares for a trip to Alameda to see my daughter.
Ethel’s eyes darted up at me. “Didn’t you say you’re 57?”
“Yeah. So?”
“If you’re 57, you’re a senior, you dumbass!” she laughed.
Shocked, I stammered, “I am not a senior!”
Folding her arms, Ethel said, “In Oakland, if you’re 57 you are a senior, you big dumbass!”
I looked to her husband for help. But his wordless reply said, “I can’t help you, dear man. She’s got you.” And she wasn’t being the slightest bit mean. Oh no, Ethel was having fun.
I cracked up, mumbling, “I had no idea.”
Ethel told me more stories, educating and entertaining me. I was so glad I had met this couple. Our two-hour wait went by fast, and we both got the same results – which was no result at all. Later, you’ll learn more about Social Security’s “delay and deny until they die” strategy. Or in my case, until they sue.
The best part of the day, besides learning to my horrified delight that I was regarded as a senior citizen in Oakland, was meeting Ethel and her husband. This beautiful woman was unrepressed in her humor and storytelling. Her husband would come to mind many times later as a sort of Nelson Mandela figure, exuding peacefulness and calm. These types of encounters don’t happen in the sheltered, inwardly turned parts of society. How boring.