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Robert Callahan Is Spinning in His Grave

April 9, 2014

Back in October, I wrote a blog post called “The Joke of the Callahan Inspection” to which I refer you if you do not know what it is, and thus keep this entry short, since I’m on a public library computer with a countdown timer.  The inspection is today, and probably completed as I type this.

In the weeks leading up to the inspection, there has been a lot of repainting on the walls.  Towers of mattresses were in the halls over the past two days.  When I was moved from the second floor to the first floor after my complaints about the elevator and the two of four closed restrooms, the bed I got was crushed, and not pain-inducing like the previous one.  Yesterday, they replaced my new mattress.  The door of the dorm was wide open, and I let off some rants about how they gave the tallest guy in the room the shortest mattress, one significantly shorter than the bed frame.  I was the only one in the room, so it wasn’t directed at any person in particular, but I’m sure that they heard me.  I was much more polite when I went up to the maintenance guy and asked him why I was given so short a mattress, and Ms. Jackson made sure that he gave me a longer one.

They wanted us to shower in the evening, but I came home late enough that I didn’t shower.  To discourage us from showering in the morning, not only were all the dorm rooms opened, with Ms. Jackson going about freely in them, but one of the restrooms on the floor was closed, and it was announced that the water would be cut off completely at 7 AM.

When I was going for my usual shave on the toilet bit so that I can a) sit and b) multitask to save time, all the available stalls had either urine on the seat and/or no toilet paper.  I was raising hell and they threatened to have me removed from the building for the rest of the day before I was ready to leave.  They sent me to use the restrooms in the basement (which lack showers and are each bigger than my former living room, with vast empty space, in an obscene display of wealth), all of which were also lacking toilet paper.

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At the time of the Callahan inspection, the shelter eschews any pretense of being about helping people and reveals its true purpose–to make money for the owners.  When I said this to the staff this morning, their anger was intense, which is all the more evidence that my assessment is true.  Had it been false, the likely response would have had more compassion than anger.

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3 Comments
  1. edward brady permalink

    Hi ive been live at a shelter in brooklyn ny 599ralph ave since my stay here at the SCO RENAISSANCE mens shelter is unbeleaveable the bugs in the bathroom mold in da showers no hot water dirty nasty bathroom i also have COPD a lung desease the eletrical outlets does not work i on a breathing machine that help me breath better i was sent to the hospital 2 times to brookdale hospital because of my condition ive lost 25lbs in four months because of the food here i also been in the shelter system since oct 31 2007 and still they havent found me
    And houseing the staff is very rude and dont know how to deal with mica clients

  2. Erin P. Rooney permalink

    I, woman, Ivy-league educated at Columbia University and then on to grad school was at the pigsty on Ralph Avenue where I was almost killed by a black dude who raN ACROSS EASTERN PARKWAY AND GRABBED ME BY THE LAPELS AND STRUNG ME up by the lapels of my jean jacket given to me by a fellow homeless woman, and thank God for his “friend,” for he had mistaken me for another WHITE woman who had owed him money. I had learned at the dumpster Tillary that Ralph Avenue run by the Order of St. Christopher of Ottile that the catholic Church was coming in to interview me after multiple complaints. They did indeed arrive, and I went into the “conference room.” We were interrupted every 3 minutes (at least). Before I knew it, I was moved out because and only because I had come into my sizable inheritance. But complaints must have stuck b/c awfully enough I wound back in the “system” b/c I had very many people to pay back and paid far too much rent thinking that i would easilyt trangression back into the workforce. At bumfuck Ralph Avenue, Chantae Ransom who was later arrested for slashing her husband in the face on premises with a razor blade, had intercepted my FEDex which was sent to me via a Federal Court Judge in the Southern District: Hon. John E. Sprizzo, a dear friend of mine, a man greater to me than my own idiot attorney father. Ransom, (an interesting name just foir all sorts of reasons), had accepted the FEDex and OPENED IT. Seeing that I was coming in to the inheritance I always claimed to had entitlement to, she blabbed it all over the shelter. I know this b/c I became friendly with a security Dorothy, who never gave up hope on the “fact” that I was an attorney. I am not an attorney. My parents are/were. One of this security guard’s sons is seriously damaged, and she would talk to me for long periods of time to offlay the stress. Seeing Dorothy on Eastern Parkway while walking over 1 mile to a public library (and back), Dorothy told me to “WATCH OUT! CHANTAE RANSOM GOT YOUR FEDEX! OPENED IT AND SPREAD IT OUT ALL OVER THE SHELTER! SAIDS THAT YOU ARE A PHONY AND JUST USE THE SHELTER TO SAVE MONEY! MONEY YOU HAD ALL THE TIME!”

    The cops in the vicinity would nail me at Ralph Avenue all the time–at one point my purse was stolen by three little black boys. Reported it immediately–after having chased them down in this horrible “neighborhood.” Don’t you know the cops came to see me IMMEDIATELY. “Get your coat. The police are downstairs! They want to speak to you.” Shocked, I of course what was asked of me. INTO THE POLICE CAR I GO! DON’T YOU KNOW WE FOUND THESE THREE LITTLE CREEPS! at 12 o’clock at night on a school night?! “We knew who they are. We just needed you to identify them.”

    Thereafter I was known at Ralph Avenue as a “narc.” One of the monster “residents” was convinced that I was working for CNN. Unable to change her mind in the bathroom cesspool, I decided to let her think what she wanted to: to my advantage.

    MORE LATER.

    Erin Patrice Rooney

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  1. Callahan Calumny | Scott Andrew Hutchins

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