Got Slippahs?

This morning I got up at 5:00 a.m. with my husband.  He gets up this early on a regular basis at least 4 days a week. He consistently rises, no matter how he feels.  He has never called in or missed a day of work in almost a year.  In part, this is because he has what he considers one of the “best jobs in the world.”  He gives kayak and snorkeling tours on Kealakekua Bay, educating tourists on the history of Hawaii while making sure they are safe while snorkeling in the ocean waters.  Today is a big day for him - he has two tours with eleven people on each tour.

He often sees dolphins on his tours and occasionally a whale or two.  Tourists willingly pay $200 for the experience.  There are several hours of kayaking and snorkeling filled with excited “oooohs! and aaaaahs!” when the dolphins decide to jump out of the water and show off their skills.  More excitement when the tourists get a glimpse of the underwater world.  The water is a shade of blue that I cannot describe, and underneath the surface, another fascinating world exists, filled with colorful fish, sea creatures, and harmless sharks.  After a few hours in the water, the tourists leave, completely stoked out with a different perspective on the world, and on life.  “T” (my husband) is one of the best tour guides on the islands.  You will find his name mentioned multiple times on review sites like Travelocity and other sites.

I, on the other hand, am having a different experience today.  I decided to get up early with him this morning because there is a lot to do.  We are moving, one week from today.  He spent most of his last two days off, organizing, packing, cleaning our space while I had client sessions.  Today, I am taking care of laundry and preparing for more client sessions and preparing for an interview for a substance abuse counselor position.

I pull into the laundromat around 5:30 a.m.  I was the only one there, which was nice.  There’s nothing worse than going to a laundromat at the “wrong time” when there are a million people there and all the best machines are taken up.  Not the case this time.  I had hit the jackpot.  I had total reign of the laundromat. I took my time choosing which washing machine to use.  I only had one load, which meant that I would be done doing laundry in only 45 minutes.  Easy peasy.

It was dark when I first pulled into the parking lot.  The bright fluorescent lights from inside the building provided the only light for the outside.  As I turned off the engine and started to open the driver’s side door, I could see a shadow approaching me.  Before I could identify who or what was walking towards me, the smell hit me first.

The shadow approaching me was a homeless woman.  My first instinct was to be a bit annoyed.  As the odor launched an assault on my sense of smell, my second instinct was to close my car door, but it was too late.  She had already made up her mind about needing to talk to me.  As she got closer, the light from the inside of my car made it possible for me to see her.  

Her left arm was shaking as she approached me.  She was wearing torn jeans, covered with dirt that were baggy and several sizes too big for her.  Her shirt was the same.  Several sizes too big, smudged with black.  She reminded me of what a mechanic looks like after a long day working in a hot garage. Clothes and face smudged with oil and grease, hands grimy, disheveled hair.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

She wasn’t pushy, but I could see the hope and desperation in her eyes.  I thought to myself, it’s dark, it’s 5:30 am, the world is not up yet…and the thing that you need most is a cigarette?

“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”  

I made my best effort not to sound annoyed. It wasn’t difficult.  My compassion was quickly replacing my annoyance.

“Do you have a dollar?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash on me.”  

It was the truth.  I didn’t have any cash on me.  My compassion was turning to sadness.  She walked away, mumbling something. An insult?  I couldn’t tell.  But her disappointment was clearly visible in the way she was slumped over as she walked away.

About 30 minutes later, when I was returning to my car after putting my load of laundry in the dryer, I sensed her presence again.  It was slightly lighter outside, as the sun slowly approached the horizon.  There were slight hues of pink and blue in the sky now, and I could see her better.  I looked down and saw that she wasn’t wearing any shoes.  Her feet were as dirty as the rest of her.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

Does she not remember me from 30 minutes ago? 

“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

She started to turn around again, then quickly turned back.

“Got slippahs?”  

We don’t say “flip flops” here.  They’re called “slippahs.” And no, that’s not a typo - it’s not, ‘slippers’  - it’s ‘slippAHs.’

And she had me with that one.  There were actually two sets of slippahs in the car with me, as there would be in most cars if you live in Hawaii.  You have nice slippahs for going out, and slippahs for the beach that you don't care about if they get dirty.  They’re cheap, since that's what all islanders wear most of the time.  

I glanced down at the floor on the passenger side.  There they were - my favorite purple Locals - a popular band of slippahs here in Hawaii.

“Actually, yes, I do have slippahs.”

As I bent down and reached over to pick them up, she let out a squeal of delight.  When I handed them to her, a huge smile broke out on her face.  It was like watching a child receiving a gift on Christmas, knowing what’s inside, knowing they’re getting what they really wanted and asked for.

She immediately dropped them to the ground and started to put them on her feet.  As I watched her struggle a bit to get her feet in, I felt a slight sense of panic.  Well shit.  Are they not going to fit her?  If not, I’ll give her my husband’s slippahs that I know are in the back of the car somewhere.  He hates those, so I know he won’t miss them.  But, she managed to get both of her feet in.  They were slightly too small, but she clearly didn’t give a fuck.  After all, she’d been walking around with no shoes.  For how long? I have no idea.  But that didn’t matter.  She has shoes now.

I watched her practically skip away with her new slippahs.  I had barely worn them, and they were still in really good shape.  As she walked away, tears started streaming down my face.  I completely lost my shit.  The entire exchange hit something deep within me.  A recognition of the struggle of the human race.  A recognition of the unfairness of life.  A recognition of the caste system that exists in today’s society.  A recognition of a class war, largely created by society’s wish to remain in a toxic, capitalist state.  A recognition of a human being who is ignored, a human being who is not being taken care of, when she deserves to be taken care of, just like the rest of us.

The typical person might say, “well, that’s her choice!” She could go to rehab.  She could get help.  She can change.

That’s naive.

That’s like assuming jail is rehab for those who have broken the law.  Jail is not rehab. Jail is punishment.  Two totally different things.

And for a lot of people who are victims of addiction, rehab is not rehab.  Rehab is a physical jail.  Rehabs work on physical sobriety, serving as a place where addiction can be managed.  But only for the time the person is in rehab jail.  What about the biological, mental, emotional, and spiritual aspects of addiction?

 A lifelong friend of mine who battled addiction for decades once told me, 

“We are only as sick as our secrets.”

In other words, when we bury our secrets, when we bury our shadow, when we bury resentments, when we bury remorse, guilt, shame, fear and become mentally obsessed, ruminating in a deep pool of low self-worth, we don’t stand a chance.  We will falter.  We will reach for coping mechanisms that bring self-sabotage and pain.  We fall into victim mode as the shadow overtakes life.

Many addicts have said, “prevention plans don’t work.”  It depends on the person, of course.  But when I think about it, it makes sense.  If prevention plans worked, we wouldn’t have a need for rehab.  If prevention plans worked, then why do 9.5 million adults over the age of 18 have a substance abuse disorder?  Why does alcohol abuse kill approximately one hundred thousand Americans each year? (Source: NCDAS)

A possible solution to all of it? Talking.  Talking to someone who can hear you without judgment; choosing one extremely trustworthy person to spill all of your secrets to.  Choose to be seen and heard.  Talking to someone can lighten the soul.  Talking to someone can provide mental and emotional relief from the struggles life brings.

It’s a hard world out there.  Grab someone and talk to them.  It might just save your life.