Wells Fargo Home Mortgage: Predators

Predators
by
Maria V. Eyles

            By mid-morning, my shoulders slump and my face sinks sideways onto my table, ever-littered with documents, scrawled notes and phone numbers. The so-called “loan modification” people at Wells Fargo have me limp as a rabbit in a wildcat’s mouth, treacherously shaking out my strength, savings, time, and resolve, while their foreclosure attorneys—fangs bared, I imagine—declare another victory for the one percent.

            I close my eyes. Images of the old anti-ads against the Big Robber Barons and Evil Employers who battened on child labor sear through me. I don’t want to open my eyes, for I see a very Ugly America now in 2011, one to make Bernie Madoff seem like Shirley Temple’s dress designer. 

            If for the past thirty years since the deregulation of the powerfully greedy, banks and corporations were on steroids, now they seem to be acting as if on crack cocaine and LSD combined. They are playing with me and millions of others a hunting game called Loan Modification Limbo and Dual-Tracking on the see-through pretext of “helping people stay in their homes.” (Don’t they have “homes” confused with “homeless shelters” in that sentence?) Dual tracking is dangling the client in a loan modification process and a foreclosure process simultaneously so that the bank/mortgage servicer can defraud the applicant of the home by foreclosing on it while the applicant is in good faith waiting for the loan modification to be resolved.

Both are supposed to be illegal, but the banks haven’t heard.  We have to guess that all those profits rolling in (in July this year Wells Fargo boasted a piffling 3.4 billion dollar profit in one quarter) deafen them to the cries of the 99%, those of us who actually worked for our homes.          

Envisioning this Bunuel/Hitchcock hallucination, I shake my shoulders resolutely and shoot upright at my table. “No way! These predatory swindlers will not get their greasy fingers on MY house!”

My condo/townhome here in Pismo Beach, California, is the only real bank account I have. The little equity left was forged from the 35 years of work that my late husband Geoffrey, a research scientist, civil and structural engineer, and I (California Community College Instructor, writer and editor) put into it. My husband and I actually made a conscious effort to make less money in our fields in order to contribute to the betterment of our society and the great and beautiful State of California. Guess that made us saps in the eyes of the banks, big business, and unfortunately the legislatures.

Now a widow on disability, I did well with the house for many years before being suckered into a bad loan by a Wells Fargo rep. I hold myself completely responsible though—so much so that I spent the last four years trying to refinance it. Wells Fargo refused me a refinance option over and over while extending me much credit. The evasion, we now know, was because they no longer had any say in the loan, but had sold it to some ruthless speculators, who turned it into “mortgage backed securities,” which means it is lost somewhere in a pool of millions of dollars. I have no real investor, but that cardboard “investor” has total power over my fate.

My story parallels millions of others. Hardship upon hardship ensued, ironic backfirings of my trying to improve my financial situation. In October of 2010 I first phoned WF’s Loss Mitigation department. That day a year ago I joined the rest of the P.T. Barnum Company of the Bamboozled and was “invited” to try for a loan modification and a HAMP. Ha. I would have done better getting on a plane to Lourdes.

Since then, endless unpaid full-time work filling out forms for a voracious Wells Fargo Paper Mill has only heightened my despair.  That shoulder-slumping morning, I rallied remembering the success I had upon plying some tactical judo and turning this intensive writing and paperwork against Wells Fargo. Recently my irate letters got the attention of U.S. Congresswoman Lois Capps’ offices, whose intervention had, in turn, catapulted me as far as the Offices of the President of Wells Fargo Home Mortgage. 

I picked up my landline and dialed Congresswoman Capps’ San Luis Obispo office, where a wonderful advocate had been helping me. Meantime I ignored my cell phone whose display blinked with realtor after realtor wanting me to hire them for short sales. No! I hissed back at the muted display. Not yet.

 

Miraculously, the young woman assigned to me at Lois Capps’ office answered the phone. I asked if she could aid “communications” with Wells Fargo. My fourth representative—oh, I mean “Home Preservation Specialist”*—in four weeks  apparently decided not to respond to my six messages in response to his insistence that I get in touch with him 72 hours previously. The congresswoman’s advocate (a case worker, not an attorney) was happy to help by phoning him on special congressional lines. This—and only this—worked.

Aside: *The travesty of the titles of these reps from Wells Fargo boils my Italian blood: They are actually called “Home Preservation Specialists.” Quite an insult to the millions of Americans whose homes they have foreclosed on. The name also suggests that, among others, the true reason they keep you dangling about your loan modification right up until the hour of the auction block is so you don’t inflict damage on the house as they drag you out kicking and screaming. That way they can “preserve the home” for the bank’s speculative realtors. Big joke on the dummy client.

To continue, this Mr. P from Wells Fargo Mortgage, office of the president, did phone me back almost immediately. (How great it felt to put pressure the other way around.)  The “resolutions” he spoke of on the message felt to me like the Cadillac version of The Run- Around, that is, no resolution at all. The Run-Around is a dance invented by Wells Fargo Home Mortgage where you only step backward, in circles, covering the same old ground,   sure to get nowhere, very, very slowly, like blood-letting by leech.

The Run-Around Bank Limbo Rock goes like this:

Demand a 35-75 page application packet
Rush the client with threats of shredding the instantly obsolete packet
Lose the packet, and repeat steps one and two several more times
Sit On the packet for months
Reject the packet
Repeat Steps one and two
Change Partners (the “specialist”) then repeat all the steps above, again
Promise to get the packet to the underwriter within 3-5 days
Go back on Promise and go the other direction
Begin Foreclosure Double Cross
Repeat all the moves from Step One
Stall till moments before the grand finale
Refuse the loan modification
Pose like a vulture and swoop down on client’s home
Foreclose on the home; or, levy heavy fines and fees on your “partner”

            This is the premeditated theft so many banks have choreographed, a sorcery of   poorly performed illusions under the guise of “helping people stay in their homes.” None of this is in the spirit of the Emergency Stabilization Act of 2008, which spawned fair guidelines for HAMP and othe loan mod programs in the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. No—it is a new form of predatory lending practices. 

           

What defines human predators is a total lack of empathy and conscience. The fact that someone gets hurt, tormented or even killed is matter of complete indifference to a human predator. By contrast, in the nights surrounding this phone call, I had brushes with two different kinds of predators.  

“Mountain lion sighting” the little piece on the online TheTribune (San Luis Obispo) said.  This was at 10:50 p.m., just before I was to take my dog Raphael on his final walk, and just before every place shuts up for the night here in dark, deserted little Pismo Beach. “In Chumash Park, off the Fourth Street Exit,” the article informed.  A MapQuest search made my scalp tighten: Chumash Park is less than one mile from my house as the equity flies! A curious or hungry mountain lion could easily saunter through the brush, cross along the railroad tracks and creek under Highway 101, and come into Ira Lease Park just steps from my house. Sauntering would take a few minutes; running would take no time at all.

For the next fifteen minutes I sat paralyzed at the computer screen, trying to figure out what to do. It does not help that my dog Raphael, a giant blue shepadoodle, looks exactly like a sheep from a distance. Surfers off Pismo Pier regularly come out of the water exclaiming that they had never seen anyone walk a lamb on the beach till now. Then they get closer and laugh…sheepishly. Call me unimaginative, but I just don’t think a mountain lion would stop to make the inquiry about Raphael’s species.

Not only is Ira Lease Park steps away from what is still my house for a month, but the streets of Pismo Beach at night are a chiaroscuro patchwork of parking lots, alleys and  illumination around the boardwalk and hotels. 

  

Finally I grabbed Raphael’s leash then shoveled him into the back seat of our car, mercifully parked at the foot of my stairs. I took off for Shell Beach and the Spyglass Inn four miles north. There I yanked the poor canine around, exhorting him to hurry up with his duty. Not sniffing or detecting anything awry, except my palpitant fear, Raffy gave me that intelligent, withering look of serene pity that I have only seen in German Shepherds (half his heritage). He refused to produce for me not quite enough pee to fill a tiny vial.

 

A mountain lion, in all its vehement beauty, evokes a clean, unpremeditated kill. An un-premedicated one too, for that matter. Thus the fear the cougar evokes is visceral, natural. Such a bone-shuddering scenario as death-by-mountian lion is motivated by hunger, defense of cubs, the refusal to become prey: Raphael and I traipse innocently into Ira Lease Park, unaware of the creature lounging on a high tree limb above us. Her neck stretches to alertness, and in regal calm her yellow eyes record every detail of size, shape, movement and distance. We move closer. Noiselessly she crouches, poised….A soft thud from behind, a crash; one or both of us a blood-streamed puppet, slashed by razor claws while she nuzzles for the jugular.

The prospect is terrifying. Yet this primordial fear is one the human body-psyche can instinctively cope with, even prevent. Thrust into a high alert fight-or-flight mode as I have been for the last week, a person can take great precautions to prevent such an encounter by avoiding the sighting area especially at dawn, dusk or nighttime, and sticking to  lighted, semi-populated areas. 

Taking just such precautions a few nights later, I learn that not all predators can be avoided. Raphael and I wended our way toward the boardwalk and hotels around 10:30 p.m. A circling parade of Pismo Beach police cars and a group of nicely dressed adults on one corner let us know we were not alone this night.

At the boardwalk, I wave at one of the officers. We all know each other by sight from our respective late night rounds. Often the patrol cars will slow down and wave when they see my flashlight’s halo. But this time this officer addresses me.

“Did you see anything strange or unusual?”
“Like a mountain lion?”
“No—we haven’t found the lion yet. Like a young (ethnicity mentioned) man running on foot.”
“Robbery?” I remembered the well-dressed people huddled on the street corner.
“No—street fighting. Not a pretty picture. Fight with his girlfriend. Apparently he was kicking her while she was lying on the ground. Some people ran downstairs to help and called us. He ran off.”
I raised up my cell phone. “I have you right here. I’ll let you know if I see him.”

The officer took off jogging toward the SeaVenture. Beyond the boardwalk, the headlights of a patrol car zoomed along the strand. Raphael and I stood alone again on the deserted boardwalk. The ocean gleamed in patches under the low-lights of the moon. Swallowed up in the velvet blackness was another predator lurking, maybe stalking.

The young man—a predator? Yes. Abusive and violent—yes. Dangerous—definitely. His assault on his girlfriend—an appalling criminal act? Of course. But under most California Statutes, a crime only because there are visible cuts and bruises to “prove” it. Some torn clothing, a trace of DNA; in this case, witnesses.

The mental ambuscades of cruelty and abuse built into the WF (and other Big Bank) loan modification process are, on the contrary, are just as damaging to human life but “invisible” and hard to prove. Yet, like in any other case of domestic or workplace emotional abuse/bullying, the “home preservation specialists” are expert abusers, whether conscious of it or not. They use all the same methods of the narcissistic sadist. Here I quote psychologist Linda Martinez-Lewi, Ph.D., speaking of sadistic narcissists in divorce cases:

The narcissist often starts out with the commitment that he (she) will be cooperative. He puts the spouse off guard and leads her to believe that the settlement and the decisions about custody will be fair. The word “fair” is not part of the narcissist’s vocabulary….During a divorce, the narcissist uses intimidation, stalling, empty promises, psychological manipulations and hidden agendas. When the narcissist thinks he has his soon to be ex-partner up against a wall, he turns the screws….No matter what the agreement is at the time, the narcissist will always find flaws: “I need one more form; I need time.” (emphasis mine)    --www.wellsphere.com

Once you see them listed as above, it isn’t hard to match up the abuse to the loan mod process:

Intimidation while in negotiations: “You sent us the wrong documents. Now you’ll have to start over.” [Also counts for nitpicking] “You are 91 days late on your payments. We are starting foreclosure proceedings

Stalling:  the average loan mod application takes 12-18 months, and very few relatively are approved.

Empty promises, a.k.a LIES: a steady diet chokes the client/victim of deceit: “As soon as you get us the rest of the documents, we will pass them on to the underwriter.”  

Fault-finding and nitpicking: (“You didn’t fill in your f4506t form right. Read line nine. Do it right or we can’t accept it.” [Of course, they never tell you exactly what they want on line nine, so you keep guessing and faxing.] “You signed but forgot to re-date page 37 in your 85-page application packet. That makes the packet invalid.”  

Psychological manipulations:  Everything they say, and everything so far covered here are psychological manipulations. Two other psychologically abusive, crazy-making techniques that pervade the loan modification offices are gaslighting and double-binds. In gaslighting, the abuser denies that real events have taken place in order to throw the victim off-guard and make her doubt her perceptions and sanity. This is a diabolical way to “blame the victim,” as are many of the other techniques. A double-bind is a Damned If You Do—Damned If You Don’t command, so that when the victim tries to obey the command, nothing she can possibly do is right. This paralyzes her, and turns her into prey.

A conversation I had with my third Wells Fargo “specialist” illustrates both, and more:

Mr. J: You didn’t send in all the bank statements for XYZ Bank. (gaslighting)

Me:    Yes, I absolutely did. They are right behind the Wells Fargo accounts.  

Mr. J: I’m looking right at your 71 pages, and they are not there. (gaslighting)

Me:  Yes. They are.

Mr. J: Well, some of them are here, but I can’t read them. (gaslighting; fault-finding) You sent too many statements. (Double-bind: I sent only what they requested only.)

Me:  They are ALL there. Why can’t you read them?

Mr. J: They’re a mess.  I don’t like them this way. (obstructivism)

Me:  So you don’t want to read them even though they are there in front of you? So, what way would you like them? [Thank heaven I bit my tongue before telling him where he could have them.]

Mr J: Well, you need to send them separately but all together. (double-bind: impossible command)

We went around with this double-bind for a while. He decided he wanted cover pages for each account, which meant separating statements with two accounts piggy-backed on them.

Mr. J: Why do you have so many accounts? Why do you keep moving little amounts of money from one to the other? This makes no sense to us. (demeaning the victim by criticizing something personal that is not his business.)

Me:  Mr. J! That’s irrelevant, but I do that in order to have enough bill money each month, if you need to know! By the way, Mr. J—I DID send a hard copy along with the fax. You should have that too.

Mr. J: Well, you didn’t send it to me. (retro double-bind)

Me: No, because you weren’t my “specialist” at the time! It was Ms. H. I sent it to her. Why don’t you ask her. Or maybe it was Ms. M, whom the bank switched me to the day I sent the package, just to make sure it got lost, I’m sure.

Mr. J: Well, because you didn’t send it to the right person, I’m sure it went to Imaging. (blaming the victim)

Me: Well, then can you ask Imaging to give it to you?

Mr. J: I’m sure they just shredded it. You’ll have to send it again (all of the above). Hurry up or the whole package will be stale…in three days it will be stale!” (coercion; threats)

Finally, hidden agendas: Wells Fargo Mortgage has One not-so-hidden Agenda: To grab up people’s homes. “No loan mod. So now we have to sell it tomorrow at noon at foreclosure auction. Have a nice day!” 

The Machiavellian minds behind this Loan Mod Scam know very well that the human brain is not equipped to handle this kind of stress, frustration, and abuse. Double-binds are particularly dangerous because they really do paralyze proper thought functioning, much like giving a computer an unsolvable math equation.

Unlike the primal fear the mountain lion evokes—or even the violent man abusing his girlfriend—this kind of psychological abuse/bullying, which goes on in many workplaces, renders people deeply confused, paralyzed, powerless, depressed and physically ill. This destruction occurs because it is only too easy to believe the “reasonableness” of the abusers’ insane requests, or to think you were mistaken about the hint of contempt in the voice.

Even in that warren of half-lit little streets in nocturnal Pismo Beach, there may have likely been a collision of hearts, of passions, and of loyalties that drove the young man out of his human self into animal mode. As intolerable as his act was, at least it was motivated by some emotion, distorted of course, but perhaps normally human at the start one hopes. In the theater, don’t we feel a teensy bit of empathy for the jealousy-tormented Othello? Only because it is human as well as reprehensible? Perhaps the man will regret his behavior, and feel lasting guilt. And at the very least, when caught, that predator will pay for his cowardly abuse.

“The banks can do whatever they want!” is the chorus from all agencies involved in my case, including HUD, and every attorney’s office I have spoken to. Can they? Can the banks do anything they want? This financial mafia reigns from distant, sterile offices, spouting soul-killing policies, fattening their pockets with government bail-outs, and arrogantly treating troubled clients like dirt, while barely covering up their criminal intent to steal their homes.

The Occupy Wall Street movement, now world-wide, is a fresh stream of sanity in an increasingly crazy world. I urge all who are as unhappy as we are to hit back where it hurts: Follow the Bank Transfer Day wherever possible and close any checking and savings accounts you now have in the big corporate banks like Well Fargo. Instead, re-invest that money in your local credit union, where you will have a say in how it is handled. They’ll start to listen harder if their assets start to dwindle, like yours and mine.

And as to me, if I have a choice, I’ll take my chances with the mountain lion.

PS TO MY READERS: The Comment funtion does not seem to work, so please feel free to contact me at my email, marinastar805@gmail.com

All civilized comments will be answered. Thanks for reading!

Change.org|Start an Online Petition »

Frustration and Elation

25 September 2011

Frustration and Elation

My frustration at being steamrolled by bronchitis and pneumonia has given way to elation: Today’s headlines trumpet the decision by King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia to enfranchise Saudi women and, unbelievably, allow them to run for local public office, beginning in 2015.

I worked with Saudi Arabians for eight years (1977-1985) in Cupertino, California.   Hired to teach in a corporation that contracted to train Saudi Arabian men in computer skills (yes—we still had keypunch machines and computer languages at that ancient time), I was the first female instructor assigned to the two-man (Ron L. and B. Clay) ESL “department.” It seemed like a strange job, but after two years of sporadic part-time jobs, I grabbed the incredibly well-paid position as soon as it was offered.

What was it like getting to know Saudis and working with them at close range?

In my first weeks at Sysorex, I was terrified.  Young and clueless about Arabs and their culture, I found myself in a sleek, modern high-tech classroom surrounded by friendly tanned faces above crisp white robes. The strange men babbled loudly in a language I could never begin to fathom, never mind speak. The Saudis were very curious about me because many of them had ever seen an unveiled female adult outside of their homes.

Their curiosity daunted me and posed a problem to my stiff Anglo-Saxon expectations regarding personal space and allowable distance between two people. (For more info, look up proxemics.) In terms of body language, the Saudis seemed invasive and brash, even to the extent of making sexual come-ons.  I felt constantly on the defensive, wary of every word, smile or move, both theirs and mine.

As they approached, I took several steps back. As I stepped back, they approached even more closely. As their voices got louder, my answers squeaked out, expressing my startled emotions as being half intimidated and half angry. Soon I was face-to-face—even nose-to-nose—with strange men I had barely made acquaintance with. Though I was grateful they were very friendly and vocal and therefore easier to teach language to,  I was beginning to think they were being too friendly for the wrong reasons.

Word went round the company that while I was an excellent instructor, I seemed not to like my students enough to really engage them. Not like them? I liked them fine. It was they who were the problem, not taking me seriously because I was a woman. Right?

Wrong. I had so much to learn about myself and others! Someone took the time, I believe it was Art C. our institute director, to instruct me in intercultural differences.  The cultural gaps between Americans (especially American women) and Saudis were immense: For example, Saudis position themselves at a very close physical distance from their interlocutor, almost nose-to-nose or from 3 to 9 inches; this translates as either intimate or belligerent space to us Americans, who are used to about 4 or more feet between our physical public space bubbles. But my Saudi students were only trying to be polite, not “pushy,” when they came up in my face and spoke loudly to me. And I, I was showing them with my backwards tango steps that I didn’t like them and didn’t want to listen to them.

There were many other “little” misunderstandings built on miscues of body language that enlightened me over the months and years. One such gem to know is that when Saudis are agreeing with you or indicating “yes,” they will move their head from side to side as we do when we mean “no” or we disagree. Another had to do with the etiquette of eye contact. Most Arab peoples prefer to maintain fairly intense eye contact while talking at such range. My being on the shy side and often gazing into space or at the floor did not help my cause. Learning to maintain nearly constant eye contact was very exhausting to me. Yet for the love of learning and teaching, I did my best.

Then a miracle occurred. I learned a cultural “secret” that changed my life: Most Arab people are adept at interpreting other people’s degree of eye dilation so they can tell what’s going on with your emotions, specifically the emotions of like/dislike, love/hate.  If you don’t like them, they know without your ever having to say a thing.

This is one reason that you will always see photographs of Gadhafi and the late Yasser Arafat wearing sunglasses at all their meetings and negotiations, even indoors.  They do not want to be read like open books.

So maybe my eyes were not lying—the students made me feel uncomfortable, which surely translated in my eyes, or my pupils, to make a pun. Over a long weekend, I contemplated what to do with this stunning new information. Sunglasses were out, since the average person wearing sunglasses indoors is an insult to most Arabs, for now obvious reasons.

By the next Tuesday I was a changed person. My students immediately sensed it. Before encountering a student, I made myself think that the love of my life had just surprised me with a visit and plane tickets to Paris, or that Pavarotti was serenading me personally with Che Gelida Manina, or some similar fantasy-imbued thought I could sustain for a while. As I did this, I could feel eyes and my face relax into twinkles and smiles, and soon my whole being glow with joyous feelings. Then I looked the person in the eye and greeted them warmly. Magic!

Now I held the keys to two great mysteries. Not only did this joyful thinking re-train my neural-synaptic responses—and my eye dilation—to express genuine liking for another (for I did not confine this to only my Saudis, but used it with everyone), it created a genuine liking and affection for self and other in my psyche! It wasn’t a trick—it was a major life transformation.  I truly did genuinely like and care about each of my students now. This “secret”   brought me a cache of fabulous gifts, among them a new patience, curiosity and openness in my daily interactions with all. This secret made me quarry out a genuine Maria-self from the deeper character strata hidden within me.

Frustration had given way to elation.

From this time forward, I never doubted that as a teacher and instructor, I gave to my students some important content information about language. But, conversely, the real beneficiary of an education is and was always me, with all my students being the greatest teachers I ever had or hoped for.

So what was it like teaching Saudis? A great honor and beyond my best expectations.

What were they like? My Saudis were as diverse and multi-faceted as any group of people can be.

Most were warm, friendly, fun-loving, respectful, intelligent, and personable. Relationships come first for them, so they were very forgiving and could never stay angry or upset for very long. Some were stand-offish, some foolhardy, some hard to get to know, some lazy, some hyper…just like any other group. But I don’t recall one who was a fake. These Arabs led me to demand such genuineness of myself. Though such genuineness leads to vulnerability and therefore many more opportunities to get hurt, a two-dimensional life is much more tragic than instructive pain. And so my learning evolved.

The Saudi students’  religious views on women were difficult for me to accept, but I remember one thing: with a few exceptions—and I know this sounds like a sterotype of the Controller but—I never heard one of my students talk about women with disrespect. In fact, their conversation regarding their wives or woman in their culture was amazingly elevated and glowed with complete respect. Their control over women was, in their minds, all about protection from “harm” (which, granted, included normal living, but we have many centuries to make up here), not about oppression.

 And most curiously, though I remember them having celebrations at the birth of a son, they spoke of their daughters more frequently and adoringly, expressing their desire for them to find the highest happiness in life, even if that meant she took the rare course of never marrying but becoming a doctor or professional instead.

You go Saudi women! And may Allah bless you, King Abdullah Al Saud.

Shearwaters: September’s Promise

by
Maria V. Eyles

               A mirage-swept sea brings soul gifts as I contemplate it, Raphael at my feet, from our bench on the boardwalk. The shearwaters have returned! 

Shearwaters are migratory seabirds that start their 10,000 mile pilgrimages in Tasmania or New Zealand. Never still, they fly low above the surface of the water.  From New Zealand, their flight arcs over to the tip of Chile. Then they head north along the South American littoral, up toward California. Their northernmost stop I do not know. Yet, I believe, it may be Monterey, California, where they visit for a bit, then turn back to make the return trip to Tasmania or New Zealand, their breeding grounds.

Today is August 29, 2011, so according to my emotional memory, they are a few days early. Few people on the Pismo Beach boardwalk even notice the shearwaters; if they do, they may mistake them for an oil spill. With Labor Day late this year, Pismo Beach is sparsely populated this Monday, as if Hoover Vacuum Buses sucked back the waves of tourists, only to spew out a tsunami-load of them next weekend.

So from my bench’s vista, great swerves of sand frame the Pacific, the few surfers, joggers, dog-walkers and beach-goers like colorful actors on a tiny movie set. Most ignore the avian phenomenon at sea.

My late husband Geoffrey would never have ignored them. Early every September, he would comb the boardwalk and the pier, lean over the Sea Venture balcony, or sit with book and binoculars on a bench, and scan for shearwaters. Some years they didn’t come to Pismo. But on the right day, suddenly Geoffrey would be standing, and sweeping his arm at the elbow he’d exclaim in delight, “Shearwaters!”

Today’s sighting heightens those memories: A trembling sunlight infiltrates the fog about a half mile up from the surf. The sea swells gently in seafoam green skeined with blue-gray. (Blue-gray was the color of Geoffrey’s eyes, the irises rimmed in gold.) Sprinkled atop the ocean, as if some clumsy angel overturned a peppermill, are thousands of black specks forming rolling ribbons of shearwaters. They look to be floating on the water, but they’re in fact hovering above in perpetual motion, feeding on sardines and anchovies.

Shearwaters come, they give us inexpressible delight, and they vanish as mysteriously as they appear. In a day, maybe two, they will head north to Monterey, then not long after, around and back toward Chile. Sometimes they venture close to shore; other times they are too far out to observe.

Joy crests within me like a standing wave.  Memory flashes of Geoffrey and me hugging each other around the waist, mesmerized by the shearwaters. These birds appear like animate spirit, an ephemeral depiction of divine purpose in nature’s theater. After all, the shearwaters did fly thousands of miles to share the wonders of life with us.

Thus, the shearwaters’ surprise arrival in September, Geoffrey’s birthday month, so moved my husband that before he died, he made a promise: Whenever I saw the shearwaters, I should understand that Geoffrey’s spirit was surrounding me in special closeness.  Their fleeting beauty, he said, reflected perfectly our signature song, September Song by Kurt Weil:

               “…and the days dwindle down to a precious few…
                              September! November!
                              And these few precious days
                              I’ll spend with you,
                              These precious days…I’ll spend with you.”

               So here I mark it: August 29, 2011. One precious day indeed.

***********

Note: the photo, if I can upload it, does not show California shearwaters (rather they are shearwaters from the Azores, it says)…but you get the idea.

              

Message to Michael

July 22, 2011, The Feast Day of Mary Magdalene

(revised August 1, 2011)

_{Dear Michael,}

_{What shocking news it was to hear last night about the return of the cancer and the decline of your health. Oh, Michael!} The shock hit me like a torpedo to the heart. How saddened and sorry I feel! 

Before Cousin Joan called, Raphael and I were sitting at a picnic table on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Raphael, curled on the grass, was supervising the seagulls and the ants, while I puzzled out the cloud formations.  A textbook 75⁰ F. fanned us with its perfect melding of cool-warmth.

Swaying serenely, the Pacific reminded me of a giant well of brilliant blue Parker (or Pelikan?) fountain pen ink, the kind Carol had to use in black-and-white composition books at St. Mary’s High School. Occasionally she would send me down to the stationery store on Park Avenue (in Rutherford) to pick up a new ink bottle, the colors dazzling my imagination: Turquoise, Red, Blue-Black, Peacock Blue.

Earlier I had left Joan a message in answer to her message. Maybe she’d still be awake, now about 9:00 p.m. on the East Coast. Several times I lifted my cell phone in mid-air, then dropped it as I reconsidered breaking this enchantment. I mentally “tried on” going to Adoration at St. Paul’s, but decided instead to remain under “this most excellent canopy”—Nature’s cathedral.

The muted little ring broke my reveries. Joan’s unmistakable voice made her self-identification unnecessary, and so made me smile. The rest of me, however, was braced for…for something ominous, I suppose. Lord—I’ve been so worried about you both! 

And then I heard what I did not want to hear.

How astonishing that those invisible psycho-spiritual lines that connect families and spiritual friends still beacon to us at a cellular level, no matter the history, the distance, the problems or the shape/essence of that bond’s current externals. Michael, you are family to me, as surely as are Carol, Angel, Joey,   and their spouses and children, et.al. And not only are you a major player in the family, you are the best thing that ever happened to it, as Angel was (is still, I’m sure) fond of repeating.

Though uninvolved in each other’s everyday life, we were born involved with each other. That will never change, and I don’t want it to, whether with you, Carol or all the others. Despite the distances, geographical and psychological, I love you very much. You have made a big, positive impact on my life. By just being you, Michael, you honor me, and all those around you.

A slight chill rose from the cement bench as the fog bank crept closer to shore at the tiny Shell Beach park. I watched that fog a long time. It is an emissary of gloom for some, but I have grown fond of summer fog here, its soft silence like snowfall—without the snow or the cold. That’s the perfect blend for me, now an average Californian to whom harsher climates are mostly mercifully distant memories. The fog can offer a welcome, cool curtain that softens the brittle-sharpness of blinding reality; or it can muffle, confuse and sadden. At that moment, it was doing a little of both.

Raffy shook himself slowly up from the grass. Like most animals, he knows the time for things. I stood up. “Come on, Pumpkin. Time for church-y church.” (Raphael is an immaculate Catholic boy who knows the Mass ritual inside-out, as well as the difference between Mass and Adoration.  We’re working on teaching him how to bow in front of the altar to complete his Catholic Formation.)

The interior of St. Paul’s is hushed, but outside the evening birds are warbling to the sunset. We bow before the Blessed Sacrament which easily outshines its showy monstrance. I sit as Raphael stretches full out sideways on the floor at my feet, then curls in a fetal position and conks out. A tear wells up as I see his service dog vest flop over: He has definitely lost too much weight during this last crisis. My plush angel with the poorly fitting robe and the unfairly short time span on earth.

Alone before the Holy One, I think about how there are prayers, prayers and prayers. In my personal liturgy, the first prayers always ask for an all-out miracle. The next prayer begs for healing in part or in full. The third is “Thy Will be done.” Yet unable to let go of the supplications, I add, “…in the gentlest, happiest, and most graced way.”

 Michael, my thoughts and prayers are with you every day, just like this.

 This cross, made of local driftwood, is a physical manifestation of my seaside Thursday and its attendant prayers. I hope you like it.

Carol, I have enclosed a card for you. Please teach me how to help you!  Meantime, I pray the love of God strengthens and reassures you.

You are both in my thoughts and heart always. The tide may ebb or flow, but it is eternally alive, like the flame of love.

Love,

Maria Christina

Your Next Hello Could Get You Arrested

The Rules of Service Dog Etiquette

(Part 1 of the Service Dog Savvy Series)

I’m in my favorite big box store shopping for…big boxes, or plastic storage bins. The ‘clearance sale’ ones teeter high above my head, shoehorned together like Russian dolls that a Russian tank could not pry apart. As usual, no clerks are to be found; no customers either in my radar screen. So, I sigh, say a prayer, brace one hand on the back of my patient service dog Raphael, get on tippy-toes and attempt to drag the bins closer to the edge.

That little shove inevitably opens some invisible, automatic door in my magnetic field, and suddenly we are swarmed by customers flying at us from every direction. Some yelp, some moan, some whistle, some coo:

Oh, what a beautiful dog! Can I pet it?

            What kind of dog is that? [pronounced thee-aaaaaat]

            What’s the breed, lady? My cousin breeds them what-d’ya-call-its.

            What’s her name? Can I pet her?

            How old is he? Can I pet him?

            Is she a show dog? How much does it cost to groom her?

Are you a trainer for guide dogs? You don’t look blind!

            What did you pay for a dog like that? Can I pet it?

            Can I pet him?

            What’s he for? You don’t look disabled!           

Can I pet your dog?

            Here, doggie, doggie!

            I know I’m not supposed to, but can I pet him?

            Neglected children, unnoticed in the shadow of Raphael’s blazing spotlight, clamber down from shopping carts and race toward the dog—oh, and what’s-her-name holding his leash.

Poor Raphael is now hopelessly distracted. And I’m in danger of losing my balance, not to mention my temper, as the Ignorant Cavalry bombards us with its fusillade of questions. 

Finally, one fellow in a baseball cap notices Raphael’s vest and “Working Dog, DO NOT PET” badge. He screws up his face in wonder, “He’s a service dog?! OH! Guess I’m not supposed to pet him, huh?” A little girl politely keeping her distance declares, “Mom! You’re not supposed to pet a working dog.”  A little boy chimes in, “What’s a service dog?” [End of Scenario One]

Scenario Two

Another day, another store, I’m walking out of Costco in San Luis Obispo, California (aka SLO). A guide dog is positioned to enter through the big doors, but the dog’s teammate is hidden by a middle-aged woman.  Said woman is vigorously petting the service dog on the head as she yaks a mile a minute to the man about how much she loves dogs and “needs” to touch them. The man with the visual impairment is obstructed from moving forward by the friendly curiosity of this woman. [End of Scenario Two]        

Service dog etiquette seems to be a fuzzy or even nonexistent notion to the general public, if you ask me. (And boy, do you ask and ask and ask me!) How much do you think you know? Can you answer these questions about the two scenarios above?

1. Which scenario(s) depict(s) people breaking the rules of service dog etiquette?
2. Which one(s) depict(s) people breaking the law?
3. Which scenario(s) depict(s) people potentially breaking the law?
4. Which laws, if any, would these be—state or federal?
5. Which scenario(s) depict(s) people reacting appropriately to a service dog team?
6. How many questions can we, the general public, ask a service dog team?
7. Can we at least ask to pet a service dog?

     Yeah—I thought so. These are tough questions. Most people cannot answer all of them. Many do not know what is or is not appropriate behavior when confronted with a service dog team. Truthfully, I myself did not know many of them until I talked to trainers and/or researched them, or got annoyed enough after long days out with Raphael.

            First, let us answer the question posed by the boy in Scenario One. (He and the little girl in Scenario One answer Question #5. Their behavior is appropriate.)

What is a service animal? 

A service animal is a dog which has been trained to perform tasks for its disabled handler so that he or she can function or navigate the world more easily. The ADA, or Americans with Disabilities Act was enacted in 1990. This federal law guarantees equal rights to the disabled in matters of housing, employment, transportation and public building access. The ADA defines a service animal as, “a dog that has been individually trained to do work or perform tasks for an individual with a disability.” These are the newest guidelines, revised in March 2011. Now only dogs can be service animals (or in rare instances miniature horses). So, “service dog” is now interchangeable with “service animal.”

            Legally, a service dog is not a “pet”—it is not even a dog! A service dog is classified as a necessary medical equipment in service to the disabled handler.

            In reality, a service dog is still a dog, though a highly specialized and well-trained one. He or she is not a fancy robot, not a toy. Service dogs get tired and cranky too, and have “off” days. Sometimes they flub up or forget aspects of their training. A service dog must concentrate very hard to get tasks done for its handler in the midst of chaos, like in crowded stores. Breaking that concentration by distracting the service dog is not only unkind but also potentially dangerous to the handler.

The Service Dog Team

The person with the disability, called the handler, and the dog together make up the service dog team, but it is the handler who is in charge—or top dog, if you will. It is not the service dog’s right but the handler’s right to go anywhere people are allowed with the service dog.


                                                  

Types of Service Dogs

Whereas in the past only guide dogs for the blind/visually impaired were recognized, now there are as many types of service dogs as    disabilities served: hearing or signal dogs, medical alert dogs (including diabetic and seizure alert dogs), mobility dogs (including walker or balance dogs like Raphael), peanut-sniffing dogs for people with severe allergies.

There are service dogs trained to help people with arthritis in their hands, and others who remind people to take their medication. Psychiatric service dogs help many cope with their illness. Service dogs for autistic children have been much in the news lately, and there are many documented cases of near-miraculous turn-arounds with these children. For other persons, however, a revision to the ADA in March 2011 removed “emotional support” dogs (dogs that are not trained but serve to make the person feel better about being in public)  from the official service dog list, so they are no longer protected by law or allowed access.

The list is very long and here is just a sampling. But you can see from this list that many, many disabilities are what’s referred to as “invisible” disabilities.

            These invisible disabilities come into play with our lessons in etiquette, which start here. Question 1 was, Which scenario(s) depict people breaking the laws of service dog etiquette? Both. In fact, both portray egregious lapses of service dog etiquette. (Question 1)

Recognizing and Reacting to a Service Dog Team

            First, how will I recognize a service dog team? The obvious tip-off is that a dog in a food store, restaurant, church, theater or any public place which normally doesn’t allow dogs or “pets” is a service dog.  This is not quantum physics. The dog may or may not be vested or harnessed. It doesn’t matter. That dog is a service dog. As for people sneaking a pet in, it happens occasionally. There are ways to deal with this, which we’ll see later.  But 99% of the time you must assume it’s a service dog.

Rule-of-Three (No ‘Puttin On the Dog’)

The first and greatest service dog etiquette lesson is simple, short and sweet:  When you encounter any service dog team, do one-two-three: smile, keep quiet and be on your way. 

Now there are exceptions to this, but the above rule-of-three should apply 95% of the time. For one, you may have noticed that no one in Scenario 1 asked me, “May I help you with those bins?” “You seem to be struggling with those; do you need some assistance?” “Let me find a clerk for you.” Comments like these would have been welcome!

Instead, that crowd turned me into a human kiosk in service to them and their idle curiosity by forcing me to answer questions about my service dog while he was working for me. This is not appropriate interaction.

Suppose I were a deaf person accompanied by a sign language interpreter, and I was having a conversation with a clerk or taxi driver or priest or whomever. Would you barge up, ignore me, grab my interpreter and ask that interpreter dozens of questions about where she was born, trained, where she gets her hair done and how much she charges per hour? Above all, would you get huffy and upset when I begged you to please not bother her while she is working?

 The Handler is Not an Automated Information Booth

This has actually happened to me regarding Raphael, whom I guess I should have named Elvis, considering what an attention-magnet he is. It is not uncommon that individuals become incensed when I dare to interrupt their barrage of 157 dog questions with, “Just a second. Let me finish paying for my groceries on the credit card machine.” (You know how confusing those machines get!) But no. No time outs for me, the human kiosk. They glare at me sanctimoniously as if I’m the rude one.

One time I was literally choking in a restaurant. A tall, muscular man walks up and demands to know all about the dog (Elvis. Shucks. Name opportunity missed.)  All I could sputter were gasping gagging noises. He persisted, as if I was merely an animated cartoon character turning from beige to red to blue. When I finally could spit out, “I’m choking!”—seemed like a reasonable and obvious excuse to me—his face reddened and I thought he was going to punch me. But luckily he turned on his heel and stormed off.

I can’t wait for the day when I hear, “Do you mind if I keep my mouth shut and move right along, quietly minding my own business?” I will blow kisses at that person.  

Interfering with a Service Dog is a Crime

If I am snarling here, forgive me but I am looking out for my dog, for me and for you. Because those people in the above scenarios did not know it, but in most states, interfering with the duties of a service dog is a crime.

            Truthfully, the likelihood of your ever being arrested or fined for “friendly interference” with a service dog is almost nil. Most state laws specify that the interference has to be deliberate or malicious. However, even “friendly interference” is an extremely rude and disrespectful breach of service dog etiquette.  (Questions 3 & 4)           

The exceptions, in almost all states, are that criminal interference takes place (1) if that service dog is a seeing eye or guide dog for the blind; or (2) if the dog or handler is injured or killed during your interference. In either case, you are in deep doo-doo.  The woman in Scenario Two is breaking the letter, if not the spirit, of California State law. (Question 2)

California Penal Code Section 365.6 [January 1, 1994]: (a) any person who, with no legal justification, intentionally interferes with the use of a guide dog by obstructing or intimidating the guide dog user or his or her guide dog, is guilty of a misdemeanor punishable by imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding six months, or by a fine of not less than $1,500 not more than $2500, or both.

However, if either Raphael or I or the guide dog team had sustained any injuries due to the interference, someone could have conceivably been charged with a very serious crime:

California Penal Code Section 600.5   (a) Any person who intentionally causes injury to or the death of any guide, signal or service dog […] while the dog is in discharge of its duties, is guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable by imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding one year, or by a fine not exceeding $5,000 or both a fine and imprisonment. (b) In any case in which the defendant is convicted of a violation of this section, the defendant shall be ordered to make restitution to the disabled person who has custody or ownership of the dog for any veterinary bills and replacement costs of the dog if it is disabled or killed.

How Not to React When You See a Service Dog Team

So, now let’s get back to your being so thrilled to see the service dog team that you feel compelled to talk to the handler and ask to touch the dog.

This simple list of “don’ts” will help you if you forget the rule-of-three (Question 8, your pop quiz: What is that rule-of-three again?).

1.                            Please don’t engage us in any conversation or interrogation. Shocking as this may sound, we did not come to the grocery store to have a conversation with you!  We came to buy our bread and milk bones. We want to get in and out safely and quickly. Just smile or nod if you care to, or ignore if you please to, then go about your business.

2.                            Please do NOT approach us unless we give you a wide-open invitation. Or unless you see something really wrong like the leash entangled around the dog’s paws or broken glass on the ground. Even then, please introduce yourself and your intentions so we know you are up to and give you our permission.

3.                            Do not touch, pet, call, or whistle at the service dog, or even try to. BIG no-no. This applies no matter how cute, gorgeous, fluffy or adorable the dog is. This applies even if the service dog looks at you. That may be part of her job, to scan the space for her person. The dog is not there for your entertainment. The dog is there to assist the handler.

4.                            Never, ever tease or give commands to a service dog. It is not your place to tell my working dog to “come” to you! Conversely, please don’t interrupt when the handler is giving her dog a command. These are abusive acts which totally confuse the dog and upset the handler. Please educate your children on these points too, for many children do not understand that this is misbehaving. Most of us teams are very compassionate with small children, but pushy or impolite adults have no excuses.

5.                            If we are waiting on a line together or otherwise caught in the same space more than a few seconds, please do not give into your urge to stare at my service dog. In dog-language, staring is often a threat, not a compliment. A dog could eventually start a low growl to warn a handler of this threat, and the dog would be justified.

6.                            How many questions should I ask a handler? Now you know that, with a few exceptions, there are four answers to this: None, zero, zip, and nada. No questions please! ADA law guarantees my right never to discuss my disability(ies) with you. So don’t ask, “Is this a guide dog?” or “What kind of service dog is he?” Remember, many, many disabilities are invisible. And don’t ask about the dog, her breed, where she was trained, and so on. If you are truly passionate about knowing something about my dog, the best was is to say “excuse me” and hand me a note with your questions and contact information on it. Several people who knew their etiquette have approached  us like this; as a consequence, I have been delighted to spend time talking on the phone or emailing them info about my dog and service dogs in general.

7.                            Okay, YES. There are some exceptions. Two of them we discussed already, an offer to help or an instance of imminent danger. Also, if the handler is not in a hurry, or if the team is sitting, waiting or at rest—such that the dog is not actively guiding or aiding the handler, the handler may invite interaction. Somehow, the handler will indicate he or she is approachable and is inviting you to conversation. Socializing via the service dog actually has a salutary effect on many disabled people who can be or feel very isolated by their disability.

Attention Overload

Also, in a similar “at rest” situation, if the handler seems open to it, you can certainly ask to pet a service dog. However, you should not raise your hand in expectation, and you should graciously accept no as an answer. You may be the fifteenth person who has asked in the last hour, and we are overwhelmed by all the attention.

Really, how would you like it if I asked you to hand over your cane or crutch so I could see how it “feels”?  Or, how about if I asked you why you need your custom wheelchair, and could I take it around the store for a spin because I love moving objects?

Fake Service Dog Teams

Earlier I mentioned those cases where a person with or without a documented disability tries to pass off a pet as a service dog. This happens, and apparently, this abuse is on the rise. ADA law is very broad to protect the rights of the disabled. And, unfortunately, anyone can buy a vest or “certification” on the Internet or elsewhere, or even connive to get a county license. This issue will be dealt more thoroughly in Service Dog Savvy Part 2 since service dog team impersonators can only be dealt with by the business or organization’s owner/leader/manager, not by shoppers or clients. But frankly, this potential problem is most volatile, and must be dealt with delicately.

However, there is one thing we the public can do, and only one thing, if we think we are encountering an illegitimate service dog: If you are an eye witness to the dog’s misbehavior—such as the dog urinates, poops, growls menacingly, destroys merchandise, snaps at someone, or bites you or someone else; or you see any behavior you think may be out of control—you may report it to the manager. Then the manager will have to take over. But please do not report your suspicions. Only report what you have actually witnessed. Team impersonation is a crime, but being wrong about it is a worse crime.

Making Your Intentions and Behavior Match Up

Above all, please don’t take our failure to acknowledge you personally. If we do ignore you, it is because we are working and concentrating, not socializing. This is hard for Raphael and me because we are both very friendly creatures, as are our neighbors. I am very proud to live in San Luis Obispo County, California, the place Oprah Winfrey described as the “happiest city in America.” Oprah was actually referring to the city of San Luis Obispo. Yet what goes for the city, pretty much goes for the county. The happy people here are both dog and people friendly—to a wonderful degree. So I know that the majority of these daily infractions of etiquette are well-intentioned, and done in a kindly spirit.

However, there is a fine line between “friendly” and over-bearing. Those of us who are blessed enough to have service dogs are terribly proud of them. At one level, we appreciate your attentions and intentions.

On another level, though, we may have had a long, tiring, frustrating day. Just like you on those days, physically and mentally we begin to decline in our ability to withstand extra stress. We may be teetering on a meltdown. Perhaps you are making us late for our anger management class! (Heh, heh. Once or twice I almost said this, half-jokingly. But like most SLO County citizens, I’m too polite).

 Don’t let any of your new education scare or discourage you. Let common courtesy, circumstance and timing be your guides. We really would love you to keep smiling at us!

But as to your idle curiosity, please wait till Elvis and I have left the building.

The End

References

1.  www.ada.gov  Every aspect of the federal law covered. Look under “Articles” on the Home Page for “Common Questions Regarding Service Dogs.”

2.  www.thedeltasociety.org    Probably the most comprehensive site on service dogs that exists.

3. www.petjoyonline.com/Articles.asp?ID=134 “Individual State Laws Regarding Service Dogs”   For those residing in the other 49 states, you will want to see how your state’s laws stack up.