NOW Living Downtown!

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Philanthropy, and Learning to be Philanthropic

Fresno State, and Dr. Matthew Jendian, have created a bit of genuis: the American Humanics program which prepares students for careers in the nonprofit sector. The course that I am privileged to teach, "Philanthropy and Grant-Making" is not a capstone course, but, it does provide students with an inside look of how Philanthropy works in America, and, in real-life terms, gives them a real experience with being philanthropic. Fidelity Funds provided the program with a grant, and it was matched by Campus Compact and by the Fresno Regional Foundation. The students formed 3 boards, did research, and site visits to determine what organizations would receive their funds. Some of the nonprofits never made it past the first cut, and many organizations lost out on the funding because their websites were incomplete: blatantly incomplete. On some of the nonprofit sites (if they had one, which was the first cut), did not have the name of the excecutive director or phone number, fax number or other pertinent information that would have assisted a potential funder, much less a normal donor, to find them, ask questions, and make a contribution. The websites were fuzzy on information, mission, purpose, what they actually DO, how many people they serve, how long they have been around, the names and titles of staff members (or, if they have staff members), and even with nonprofit "sunshine" laws in CA, some information on their budget. Some of the phone numbers were incorrect, and many had no way to contact them by email. Searching for information was like fishing in the dark: you KNOW they will want the bait, but, they made the process very difficult. Dr. J. and I searched for the information along with the students, and we were surprised (and somewhat embarrassed for the organizations) that had such a shoddy public face. THEN, as the students sought to make appointments with the Executives, they wer given the run-around, had unreturned calls, had changed and missed appointments, and were treated with little deference: certainly NOT treated as potential donors nor volunteers. The students deserved better from the nonprofits, and, gratefully, they were gracious to the nonprofits. The students narrowed their choices down to a smaller number, and those organizations were invited to do oral presentations before the students made their final choices. The organizations were not very well prepared for the presentations, and did not take the opportunity seriously, and provided no handouts, did not prepare any specialized powerpoint presentations, and even seemed clueless when the students asked the questions. One agency, a battered women's shelter, told the students that she "could not do evaluations of the outcomes because of issues of confidentiality." Hogwash (or BS) is exactly how the students read it--accurately. After hearing the presentations, I'm not sure I would want to send any volunteers to any of the organizations, and definitely will look for other options to donate. Apparently these nonprofits do not see these students as vital to their future, do not recognize the importance of social networking and their reputation in the community. These students will not "bad mouth" the agencies, but, when these students complete their nonprofit certificates, I don't believe they will look to these agencies to find employment, since the agencies, with few exeptions, were not organizations where they would want to invest their careers. The agencies were focused on their need, and few could demonstrate measurable outcomes. Even fewer were interested in building and maintaining a partnership with these students and the American Humanics program. I am not sure if this is due to poor leadership, lack of preparation, poor communication: really, it doesn't matter. These students ARE donors, and, no intelligent, professional organization should treat donors (or potential donors) or volunteers, in the way that these students were treated.
All of these nonprofits and their staffs (especially the executive directors) should enroll in the American Humanics program at Fresno State: maybe then they will make the grade.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Neighbors, Funerals, and The Non-neighbor church

As I type this, I hear the voices and laughter of friends and family of my next door neighbors. Steve and Kelly (and their kids Ashley, William, Stevie, Josh and Alaya) live in the front house, and Louisa, Alex, little Alex and Dominick live in the garage in the back: with the exception of Alex, who died a week ago. Alex Andrew Gomes was 32 years old, and died from a heart attack. He was in the bay area for a Union training program, and apparently was being chased by a Macy's security guard in Pleasanton, and once caught, he began to shake and died instantly. His years of drug abuse and his 429 lbs. contributed to his death, absolutely, which, in no way lessens the loss and the sadness for his family and friends.
Most of my conversations with Alex were about his desire to "get back on track," to find steady work, to use his hands, to take care of Louisa and the boys, to get back into his own house and out of Kelly's garage. He laughed easily and often, and with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he had an easy smile and was very likeable. He and I kidded about weight, about parking in front of our houses, about food--he once stopped at my fence and told me that he envied my life--no family, no cares, just being able to sit on the porch and swing--but, then, he paused and said, "maybe it's not so good--you don't have a wife and kids to love on, and to love you back, so, nope, maybe I wouldn't trade places--but, every now and then I may need to come over to your house for some peace and quiet."
I loved that conversation. I remember every breath of it--it made me think about my life and his, and how similar we were, but, different: but what we had in common was our neighborhood. There is a power in that word that I cannot fully comprehend.
So, in the past week, I have learned how difficult it is to secure a large body from a morgue in another county. I have learned how much it cost to transport a large body, the cost of a large coffin, of cremation, of a funeral home, of a viewing, a viewing room, flowers, hearses.
Alex and Louisa had very little, and all of these costs were more than they had. Louisa told me that they took the $320.00 to pay the morgue out of Alex's wallet in the police station. When they returned home with Alex's van, the repo man was waiting, and their car was repossessed the next day. As Louisa sat making a music cd to play at his memorial service, their power was turned off for non-payment. To quote a line from Beth Henley's "Crimes of the Heart," "they weren't having a very good day. At all."
The family held a car wash to raise money for the cremation and the other death expenses. It's something that happens alot here in Fresno, when poor families have a death, sometimes as a result of drugs and other crime, the family holds donation car washes to raise the necessary cash. It is not uncommon to see the young widows, mothers, and children of the dead holding signs with the deceased picture on them, and begging people to come and have their car washed. For this community, it is as much a part of the death ritual as sitting in a wake or "shua" in other cultures. I took my car to be washed, helped wash my own car, and paid far more than I would at White Glove car wash. That's what neighbors do here. We help, we wash, we pay, too.
Alex and Louisa had been loosely connected to Bethany Inner City Church, which meets in the World Impact building down the street from our houses. Pastor Jonathan Villalobos leads the church. They are a rag-tag bunch, reaching many people in my neighborhood. Those with addictions, with criminal records, with ankle bracelets, the very poor, gangbangers--Bethany is the neighborhood church, and Alex and Louisa had been on several retreats with them, and were a part of some small groups at the church. Jonathan met with Louisa and planned the service, and contacted a mortician to take care of the body, and to get it from point A to point B. Jonathan and Bethany stepped in and helped, and my own church, The Well, brought by some food, and did some emergency work on the house that Alex and Louisa owned, that had been used as a boarding house and was being heavily fined by code enforcement. Bethany and The Well did meaningful acts in the difficult time. Artie, from the Well, made efforts to stop by and visit, and did a good job of representing the Church to the Gomes.
Jonathan arranged for the memorial service to be held at 1st Presbyterian Church, the church that is one block away, and has a large facility-a sanctuary, fellowship hall, parking lot, bathrooms, the works. The service was held in the youth room, #104.
I left my house early to go over and help--I stopped by Kelly and Steve's to get them, and 2 of the kids asked to walk over with me.. They asked, "where is the church?" I said, oh, it's just over at First Presbyterian, you know.... but, they did NOT know where 1st Presbyterian was--the largest church in our community, and by far the wealthiest, was unknown to my neighborhood children. Joshua and Faith are in second grade at Lowell, and they are a part of the YFC kid's club, the Lowell Kid's club, sometimes go to Wise Old Owl (the IV program) and Saturday Sports, led by The Well. These kids seem to be served by every church and ministry around, with the exception of First Pres. We literally live in the shadow of the steeple of 1st Pres., but, the church has had NO direct impact on the lives of these kids.
We walked across the patio of the church, and over 80 people crowded into the small youth room, with murals on the wall, and folding chairs set up among the pin-ball and foosball games. The Coke machine rattled throughout the Lord's Prayer and scripture reading. By all appearances, these folks were comfortable in this room, and thought nothing of the environment, but, I could not help but think, "why aren't we in the sanctuary?" "where is the church staff to welcome this group of neighbors?" "why isn't someone from this church here to mourn the loss of one of THEIR neighbors also?" Perhaps they were debating Amendment 0, or C, or deciding their denominational future, but, they, were not present, even in their own building.
(I'm amazed at the number of churches who feel that they have done their part by allowing another group to "use" their facility--as if the presence of an outside group satisfies the requirement of community participation. Use of a facility without the actual presence of the Body of people is alot like borrowing a casket...)
My thinking is that, like Alex, this church has become fat (and lazy.) They have all that they need, they have a large "drive-by" congregation--folks that DRIVE BY the neighborhood to get to their "patrolled" parking lot. The staff of this church has probably driven by Alex and Louisa's house hundreds of times, but, never stopped. They even have a mission's director, who, I'm sure cares about the neighborhood, but may have lot touch with the actual "neighbor" They even have a "pastor-at-large" who may be so "at large" that no one in the neighborhood knows what he does, or where he does it, but, it's obvious, NOT in this neighborhood.
Maybe 1st Pres. USED to care, used to be in touch with it's neighbors. I hear that they made a big deal about their decision to STAY downtown, that's very different from the decision to actually BE PRESENT in the downtown neighborhood that is our home.
At Alex's service, there was a row of women who are all nurse's aides at Hope Manor, the board and care facility wher Kelly works, and is on the next bloci. I noticed them,and wondered, "what difference would it make if this church ceased to be on this corner?" From this experience, they would know that the folding chairs are uncomfortable, the room is messy, and they crowded 80 people into a 45 person room, but, the disappearance of this church would have little impact on many of the people who live nearby.
I'm sad about the death of Alex, and I'm disappointed that a church did not represent the Church well. What gives me hope is the voice of a young man (from Bethany) who said, "wasn't this a cool service." Yes, it was a cool service--and, I thought about his comment as I walked home. These folks thought it was a cool service. The disappointment is ONLY in my heart and mind. This is the way that I, a person who does not live in poverty, looks at the situation. Then, it hit me: BAM, really hit me, "Blessed (happy) are the POOR, for they shall inherit the Kingdom..." and, I realize that the change in the non-neighbor church had to come in ME, that I needed to become POOR, like my neighbors, and God had used 1st Pres. to remind me of the soil of my own heart. Maybe I'm so ready to point out their failures because they amplify my own.
God bless my neighbors, and God have mercy on those of us who call ourselves "neighbors" but miss the mark.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Craving Fish sticks: OR, Becoming My Father

It is friday, and, as with almost EVERY Friday, I was craving fish sticks today-- not the tasty Gorton's gourmet kind, but, the real "stick"--still a bit frozen, barely resembling fish, crying out for tartar sauce, needing to be buried in cocktail sauce--but, still, it's FRIDAY, and my body seems to want them: that really needs to be examined, and, yes, I know that it is a deeply rooted impulse, created at Eustic Park Elementary, roughly around 1962, when, in deference to Catholics who could eat only fish on friday, served ONLY fishsticks as the school lunch on fridays. Always the same-fishsticks, cole slaw, tater tots, and a chocolate Moo Bar for dessert-served with the carton of milk on the laminate tray. Now, 45 years later, I want the SAME exact lunch/or dinner, and I'm both surprised, amused, and just a little troubled by the desire: it is a major indicator that I am becoming my Father.
I'm really not sure if my father ever ate fish sticks on fridays, or, if he ever ate school lunches when he was attending the Garfield, Georgia schools in the 30's and 40's. BUT, what I deeply know is that my father lived in a routine, and craved consistency as much as I crave fishsticks on friday.
At his memorial service, where I did the eulogy, I met several people that my father had befriended on his travels as a seed rep for Tri-Chek Seed, he had befriended them at the motels, coffee shops, gas stations, country stores feed and seed stores, porches and diners along his route.
A few years before Dad had his stroke, I spent a couple of days with him "on his route." He was quite a conversationalist, much more than he was a salesman. He would take his seed catalogs into a feed and seed store in the small farming towns of SC and GA, and would spend time talking to the men gathered around the counters and wood-stoves in the stores. They sometimes were whittling, chewing tobacco, smoking, drinking: He would find out what they were planning on growing, listen to their stories, tell them jokes and stories, laugh at his own jokes and theirs, and then write up an order: maybe. Today, you would say he built "relational capital," but, mostly he cut the fool, and laughed his way into a sale of soybeans or corn or grass.
After being with him on his first stop, I realized that he could actually complete the transaction in less than 10 minutes, but, Dad would take hours on each stop. His boss, Richard Gunter, liked my dad's approach, and almost everyone on his route "loved B." He told stories about my brother and I, his 2 grandsons, hunting, fishing, his "land" and talked football and cars. He wasn't exactly well-read or completely truthful, but, he had an opinion, but, mostly, I know that my dad genuinely loved people, and liked to be around them: BUT, he mostly liked the consistency of seeing the same people, in the same place, at the same time, and having the same conversation, in the same place at the same time. He slept in the same motels: The Red Roof Inn, mostly, most of the time in the same room, sat in the same place at the diners and coffee shops, and was served by the same waitresses, mostly named Mabel and Maude and Shirley. My dad did not like for his world to change, and did not like to be confronted with change. He wore mostly the same clothes all of his life, combed his hair the same way, used Vitalis and Aqua Velva, until he became attached to Aqua Net hairspray (which I found odd, but, comforting) and, usually had a toothpick in his mouth. He tipped, he laughed, he did not have an evil bone in his body, just a simple, quick smile and a goodness (that I miss terribly today.)
Tonight, Friday, I realized that what I was craving, like fish sticks, was a routine, a consistency, with the same people, in the same place, at the same time. I want a sameness. I go to the 5:00pm service at my church, and try to sit in about the same place (always on the right rear of the sanctuary) not to be stubborn, but, to feel secure in the routine. I love my house, and my neighborhood, and my car, and the sounds of the train and the smells of Mexican food and jasmine and exhaust.
After living in Aiken, Charleston, Ft. Worth, Garland, Dallas, Anaheim, Stanton, Huntington Beach, Long Beach, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Mill Valley, and Fresno: I want to be still, to be in a routine, even a RUT, and eat fish sticks on friday, go to garage sales and nurseries on Saturday, eat waffles on Sunday, eat Mexican on Monday.....I want to sit with the same people, OFTEN, and feel the comfort of not having to explain myself or apologize for myself or define myself.
Last week, I stood in front of over 1,000 people: not all at once, but, in classes at Fresno Pacific and Fresno State, and churches and committees and conferences: and, I looked at 1,000 faces: and, I wanted to run away some of the time, and look at the same faces over and over, even the face of my cat. I was not tired of being with people, I was tired of being with SO many people who did not know me, who did not know what my heart wanted to say, or how I felt, and how desperately I wanted them to understand HOPE and stuggle with questions that matter.
I like the consistency of my work in Knoxville: I go there once a month, pick up my rental car at the same airport in the same place, and drive to the same hotel, and eat at the same restaurant, and look at the same mountains, and talk to the same group of people from the same organization. Fish sticks, and I love this part of it. BUT, I am also glad that it is a limited contract, and in a year or so, I will NOT go back to Knoxville, but, will go to Atlanta and do the same thing. The difference between my father and me here is that he would still be going to Knoxville. Sometimes I think that I like the consistency because it offers safety, but, then, I am willing to take risks with people and places and food and ideas: maybe I want fish sticks served Vietnamese style or Armenian cocktail sauce.
So, for today, this friday, I want to eat with Gabe, hold my cat, listen to music, watch Letterman until the Top Ten list, sleep under beige jersey sheets, sleep on the right side of the bed (away from the clock) and get up and drink coffee and go to garage sales and nurseries. My fishsticks. I am my father.