"These guys served their country, man."
From The Clarion Ledger, 11/2/05:
http://www.clarionledger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20051102/FEAT05/511020327/1023
Treatment center for veterans sees donations dry up
By Gary Pettus
Curtis Moody pulls open the door to the pantry and points to the
potatoes, gingerly, as if they might crumble to dust.
"The last box," he says.
A whiz with mac and cheese, sloppy joes and chicken soup, Moody cooks
for I.S.I.A.H. House, a residential treatment center for homeless
military veterans in Jackson.
But he's finding it harder to be a genius minus the staples -- canned
beef, packaged pasta, potatoes.
In a way, Hurricane Katrina blew them away.
For I.S.I.A.H. House, a nonprofit charitable project and part of the
Common Bond Association, donations have dropped some $74,000 -- down
to $106,000, compared with $180,000 this time last year, says David
Vincent, the former musician and ex-addict who serves as CBA's
executive director.
A couple of months ago, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, a rich
source of food donations, stamped out contributions to a certain
category of group homes.
Among them was I.S.I.A.H., one of CBA's five houses, including
Anthony, Jonah, James and the first-ever facility: Miracle House,
started in 1989 with the help of Vincent's mentor, CBA board president
Holden Clarke.
Each house represents a different phase of treatment for more than 100
clients, many of whom have tried everything else.
Donations of money are drying up, Vincent says, because people are
focusing on victims of Katrina.
Donations of food are down, he says, because of cost-cutting measures
by the federal government, including the USDA.
It's a reaction to a deficit worsened by outlays for everything from
the war in Iraq to disaster relief.
So Vincent has his own deficit now -- about $60,000, he says.
That's about three to six times larger than normal.
To make up for the loss, he may have to cut salaries for staff and
contributions to their health insurance.
He also may have to eliminate jobs and services to the men who come to
him for help, he says.
"We see boys 22 years old from Iraq and Afghanistan. Men who saw their
friends wiped off the face of the Earth. They go the VA for a while,
get out and start drinking again. Then come here."
Many veterans first come to I.S.I.A.H. House: Innovative Solutions in
Assisting Homelessness.
They come hungry.
"We cook 250 meals a day, seven days a week," Vincent says.
"I know of no other organization like ours that does this."
They come from jail or a substance abuse program or from under a
bridge.
Depressed. Sick from alcohol or meth or crack cocaine, Vincent says.
"Does that give us a right to let them die on the street?"
They are men such as Mike Black, a U.S. Air Force jet engine mechanic
in the early '70s who became a "garden-variety alcoholic," he says.
Lost jobs, lost weekends, a lost family.
"I haven't lived a life that anyone should be proud of," Black says.
"But I've been told that the things I've been through can help someone
else. So I'm going to stay."
He's been clean for more than five years now.
"To my daughter," he says, "I'm 'Daddy' again."
The Chicago native manages Miracle House, and he is a counselor for
the men whose faces of pain are mirrors of his own past.
"I have to open those doors they prefer to close," Black says, "and
walk with them."
He walks with men such as Moody, an Oregon native who learned how to
cook as a Boy Scout, and learned how to drink hard overseas in the
Army.
By the time he came to Vincent more than a year ago, he'd been to
three other treatment facilities.
"I was waking up every morning with the sweats, drinking a couple of
beers to stop the DTs," Moody says.
"I was bipolar. I had a hell of a drinking problem. I couldn't find a
job."
He came to the right place, Vincent says.
At I.S.I.A.H. House, you learn how to get a job.
Part of your income (about 30 percent for veterans), is put back into
the charity.
You get a GED if you need one.
You save money.
You go to church.
"We could put these guys on food stamps, but it would be easy for them
to sell the stamps and go to the crack man," Vincent says.
"Besides, we're here to teach them accountability. To go from
homelessness to independent living. We don't just get them sober, fat
and sassy, and then let them go."
Moody, for one, is taking those lessons to heart.
Today, he has a certificate in food management from the state of
Mississippi, he says, a full-time job as the I.S.I.A.H. House cook and
a box of his mother's recipes.
"The box has saved me."
At one point after the USDA cutbacks, "we didn't have eggs for two
weeks."
For much of its staples, I.S.I.A.H. House depends on a middleman:
Mississippi Food Network, which receives about 8 million pounds in
commodities per year from the USDA, says John Alford, MFN's executive
director.
"That represents about 55 percent of the total amount of food we
distribute to about 80,000 people living in poverty in Mississippi,"
he says.
Among them are the down-and-out who seek out Stewpot Community
Services in Jackson.
"Our two shelters for women and children no longer are able to receive
food donations from the USDA," says Nancy Dennis, director of
Stewpot's food services.
"It's definitely affected the way we operate. We're going out and
buying some of our food now."
While I.S.I.A.H. House and similar homes still qualify for other food
donations, USDA provisions represented a huge slice of the food pie
each year, Vincent says.
"About $60,000 worth."
On top of the drop in monetary donations, and with colder weather
looming, the timing of the cuts could hardly have been worse, he says.
"But it's not the USDA's fault. We as a people shouldn't depend on the
federal government. It's the community's responsibility.
"And I know the community already gives so much.
"I see the devastation on the Gulf Coast and all the help that's
needed. But we're here, too.
"These guys served their country, man."
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Harry
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