THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 20, 1995 TAG: 9508180470
SECTION: COMMENTARY PAGE: J6 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY BRENDA MCCORMICK
LENGTH: Long : 111 lines
She looked like Meryl Streep at 18. Proud, strong. From the mountains of Virginia. Alone, in crisis, babe in arms. Yet, she didn't cry. She'd be okay. In about six more hours her mom and dad would come through our door to take their children home again.
The policeman had been unnerved. It was a Saturday evening and the officer couldn't contact any other community services. The convenience store clerk across town had told him to call us.
The young mother had come to Virginia Beach to present her new son to the baby's father. She thought he would change his mind if he ever laid eyes on this bundle of joy. Instead, he got violent. She fled. She called home, but her parents were eight hours away.
The police officer took her to our city's 24-hour Detox Center and a worker there relayed her to 16th Street.
``But my parents won't be able to find me,'' she said. ``We live in a very small town., It's so big here.''
``They can do one of two things,'' I assured her: ``Follow the signs to the beach and back up three blocks, or stop a cop.'' She laughed. We called in to the Second Precinct on 18th Street as well as the police dispatcher.
``Be on the lookout for two frantic, lost parents from Independence, Va. We've got their babies down here.''
One of our volunteers is from Galax, just down the road a piece from Independence. He and the mom spoke the same language. She felt safe, at home. The baby slept. Later, she promised to write. But, she's probably gone on with her life and forgotten all about it. And that is as it should be.
Not so with a Pakistani tourist. We got a holiday post card in celebration of Ramadan from Karachi a few months ago. He had broken down on the way from New York City to Florida - beached, penniless and with a massive tooth infection. He had missed the soup kitchen, so the Beach Medical Clinic where he had surfaced asked us to give him some broth. He could barely sip liquids.
Having been married to an Isreali from Iraq, I am proficient in broken English. Soon my young teens learned the language, too, and fell in love with Mr. Khan.
``Mom, can't he sleep on the sofa?'' they pleaded after two days of keeping him in his car in the yard.
The city dentist treated and pulled Mr. Khan's bad tooth. But he suddenly got a very high fever. The infection had spread. He refused to go to the hospital until my teens cajoled him. There, he was treated for a week during which the cardiovascular surgeon discovered Mr. Kahn would die without bypass surgery. The doctors were surprised that he was still alive. Life-sustaining surgery was performed.
Once recovered, Mr. Kahn called his family in Karachi and they arranged for his air fare back home. He called us at a stopover in Germany. He cried tears of thankfulness. Besides, he missed my teens.
A frail widow woman knocked at the door. She lives alone and seldom comes out of her house. No doubt, she has seen lots of changes on 16th Street over the years. Some of the changes are more than she can absorb. Like homelessness and street people who survive there. A man had come by her house asking for a glass of water.
``I didn't open the door because I didn't know him,'' she said. ``I told him to go to your house. Was that okay?''
I assured her that that was exactly the right thing to do.
``You know the rule. Don't open your door to someone you don't know,'' I said. ``Send them to me. That's what I'm here for. I'm trained to do this.'' We chatted. She was comforted and returned home.
I was snoozing on the sofa when tapping at my window startled me. I could see a big grin in the dark. Our detox outreach worker. Relief. ``Man, you scared me. You could give a lady a heart attack, you know,'' I said, opening the front door.
``No time for coffee, ma'am. This is serious. Remember the kid. . . ?'' he explained. Even at two in the morning, I did. ``He's on the roof down the street threatening to jump.''
Yes, I remembered the kid. Once he was a homeless teenager.
``Amy!'' I said. The detox worker squiggled up his nose and stared at me as if I had lost my mind. I almost had my shoes on. ``Amy. His baby's name is Amy. She'll stop this. Call it in to the police. He loves his baby. Tell 'em to tell the kid he's gotta live for Amy.'' He did and we were out the door.
The tourist strip looked eerie at 2 a.m. with police staked out around the building and all other traffic cordoned off. They had isolated a twilight zone wherein one youthful life was dangling by a slender thread and, in an instant, human life could topple from the roof and stop, pierced through by the pointed steel object four floors below.
Five minutes seemed like an hour. I paced.
``Please, let me talk to him,'' I said.
``You just stand by. They'll call you if they need you. They're well trained,'' the detox worker assured me about the police suicide team.
More than an hour passed. A police woman got the message and smiled at me. ``They've got him.''
Seconds later, a squad car passed. Sure enough, he was in the back seat. It was over. The twilight zone lifted. By daylight, it would seem like just another start of a weekend at the beach.
The new day would bring phone calls from other families in crisis when the usual agencies are closed. Kind citizens would bring us blankets for the homeless scattered in the woods. Some would bring canned goods. One of our neighborhood moms would pick up our van to help move one of her neighbors. Another would pick up a sack of baby clothes. The street people would bring by a newly homeless man who needed a word of encouragement, a sandwich, a phone. Just people. Just doing what we do best. Looking out for each other. Being good neighbors. ILLUSTRATION: Photo
Brenda McCormick is executive director of Mothers Inc. Currently she
is trying to save the organization's headquarters at 417 16h St. in
Virginia Beach. The landlord asked the group to buy the house
they've rented for six years for $96,000 or vacate. The public has
responded by sending in donations to help with the purchase. Anyone
wishing to help can send donations to: Trust Fund c/o Huff, Poole &
Mahoney, 4705 Columbus Street, Virginia Beach, VA 23462. Or call
Mothers Inc., at 491-2887 for more information. by CNB