Author: zorazebic

It was during early 1974, and I was 17. I still wasn’t able to call myself grown up, but 17 was way better than telling people I was sixteen! There had been nothing sweet 16 about my previous year, nor had age 15 been any kinder. In the depths of my being, I had wanted to erase the memories of those two years.
I did a little stint in jail because, during the summer of 1972 on the eve of my 16th birthday, a cop had claimed I’d assaulted him. The truth is, I had told him to go fuck himself. He charged me with verbal assault.
The judge had said, “You instructed a Windsor Peace Officer to do something that is anatomically impossible.” Being the assinine teenager I was, I’d asked the judge, “How do you know, did you go home and try it?” Yep, just the thing you don’t query of a judge! That got me a $75 fine, a month’s rent in those days, and seven days in jail.
Upon my release, the Children’s Aid paid my half of one month’s rent for an apartment I was to share with an older sister.
After the hardships of the streets, claiming a sofa as my bedroom had felt heavenly, yet I was without a food budget allotment from the Children’s Aid.
If I wanted to eat, the choices were panhandling, stealing or prostitution. Selling one’s body leads to depleting portions of one’s soul, bit by bit. To fill these voids, many of those who are forced to survive by prostitution become alcoholics or drug addicts. Getting caught stealing food was a surefire path to another jail stint. Of the three choices, panhandling was the least horrific path to obtaining food.
Get a job, some might say, but that wasn’t so easy for a child without a high school diploma. Even the restaurants were a tough place to get a job. To get hired in those days meant having the means to purchase and keep clean the starched white uniforms! I’d applied for a job pumping gas, but the owner rejected me. Only boys or men were allowed to fill a gas tank!
Hungry, I strode downtown, northbound heading toward my regular panhandling gig on the southwest corner of Ouellette Avenue and Park Street. The spot I had implicit permission to claim, was in front of the Pond’s Big V pharmacy store. I’d felt almost invisible as the people who worked there seemed to look right through me. It wasn’t as painful as the horrible stares or angry looks I’d get from some passersby.
Nearing  Biff’s coffee shop, I’d spotted a forlorn-looking young man, seemingly out of place. I’d met lots of homeless or wayward guys since I’d hit the streets at 15. Runaways or newly turfed, these new-to-the-streets guys felt the blows differently than us girls. Not that the street life and hardships were more natural for the girls, the difference was the depth of pride in these guys, and it was not unusual for them to become suicidal. It was like their legs and arms could be broken, and that was okay, as long as they could find some way in their misery to continue to feel like a man.
Concerned for his immediate safety and well-being, I’d felt the need to catch up quickly to the young man and called out to him, “Hey, is everything okay?” I was a bit unnerved when two burly looking guys lunged toward me. “What the hell?” I’d stammered.
“Back off!” The young man had commanded them. I was confused as I’d not thought the three were together, the young man had stayed a few steps ahead of the others. “It’s okay.” He said to me, and then he’d asked, “Why are you concerned about me?”
“You look sad.” I’d answered. He’d said, “Naw, I just have a cold that won’t seem to go away.” With my forever smile, I’d asked, “How about I buy you a cup of coffee? A little warm inside can help the cold go away.” His smiling response had made me think his eyes, set in a boyish face, looked kind.
Inside Biff’s, sitting across from each other in one of the booths, we’d sipped each on a cup of coffee. He asked my name, and I gave him my street name at the time, Christine Elliott.
The man kept himself as the subject of most of the conversation, but I hadn’t minded listening. He’d talked about how he was the leader of his band, even though there were only two of them. I’d asked who played all the instruments and he’d laughed and explained to me the roles of studio musicians and gig bandmates, and how these people were usually not seen by an audience.
Talking about breaking up with his partner, I’d listened, somewhat amused by his jealousy of the other man. In a sombre voice, he explained how his friend got all the girls and sang like an angel, but it was unfair, as he was the creator of all of their work.
Taking a long last slurping sip on his coffee, the young man asked, “I’m playing across the street tonight, so why don’t you come to watch the show?” He then said, “I’ll be the guy playing the bass guitar, I’m sure you’ll recognize me!” I’d laughed at his remark and told him sure, but I’d better find something more appropriate than the micro mini skirt I was wearing. He’d said it was a dinner club, so anything nice would do.
Wearing my floor-length, neck plunging, white and blue polka dot polyester dress and purple clover platform shoes, I left the apartment. A couple of violet-coloured flowers nipped from the “Housewarming” flowering plant the Children’s Aid worker had given me, tucked over my ear, and I’d felt as pretty as the girl in the free-flowing hippie dress pictured on the sanitary pads box.
I ended up spending that weekend with him, and the subsequent weekend. On the day of our parting, after he scribbled my real name, Zora Zebic, close to the bind of his workbook, he’d promised, “I’m going to record these songs, and you’ll get half the royalties. That’s why I need to have your real name. We are going to be rich!”
I’d not known what to believe, but it was a promised future of some comforts. After all, a little girl who’d been homeless for going on two years didn’t have much else in the way of hope.
One year later, I heard one of our jaunty tunes playing on the radio. I thought perhaps he’d laid claim to a one-hit wonder. I’d let it go, wishing him the best.
During the summer of 1986, I worked at a fast food restaurant in a downtown mall in Calgary, Alberta. After my shift ended, I walked past a record store and heard another of the songs I’d written with him playing over the loudspeakers. I eagerly walked in to see his face plastered all over the walls. At the display, I picked up a copy of the album and turned it over to read the words and music of the songs we’d co-written was credited solely by him.

© Zora Zebic 2018

I wrote the following on Victoria Day. Street Help Homeless Centre is open with regular hours on all holidays.
I was in my office, which is a rare occurrence these days when a staff member told me a man was requesting to speak with me. I went into our dining room we affectionately call The Stone Soup Kitchen. He looked frazzled, dirty and desperate. I asked how I could help him.
He answered, “Someone said you would be able to help me.” I asked what his need was. Henry, as I will call him, told me of his plight. Stranded in Windsor, he had been beaten and robbed and had no way to get home. In his outstretched hand, he held two tiny moccasins his grandmother had made. I was offered them as payment for his transportation back home.
I refused the moccasins, but I did tell him I would get him home today. He insisted his offered gift was worth a lot of money. I said his grandmother wanted him to keep this gift; it was his heritage.
First, I wanted him to take a shower and change into clean clothing. Henry said he was hungry and I told him to go to the counter for a plate of food. Our volunteer cooks, Virginia, Anthony, and Paul had prepared a wonderful feast. The fare at Street Help is fantastic. Most are creations from leftovers and other donations, and we have to be inventive!
After his meal, I led him to the showers, while our volunteer Jennifer fetched hygiene products and a towel.
I searched online for Greyhound and VIA Rail ticket prices. I was surprised VIA Rail offered a lesser cost, however; the fare was not available until tomorrow. He wanted to go home today. I asked Dan, our volunteer driver if he would consider driving him. Dan agreed, and Elizbeth, another volunteer, asked if she could go along as the support person. We generally have two staff members in the car, so I happily agreed. I didn’t want to be the other staff rider today!
Meanwhile, our clothing room volunteer Tim selected clean clothing for him to wear. You are reading the word “volunteer” a lot. It is because, at Street Help, we are all volunteers. It is essential to this story, as I often am the one receiving the thanks or kudos, but in actuality, I can’t do this job without the help of my team!
Freshly showered, he asked to see me one more time before he left. Henry again offered me the mocassins, which I accepted and slipped into my apron pocket. I could see the intense pain in his eyes as Dan started the car. I didn’t know what I had precisely seen, but I knew something in Henry’s eyes betrayed a need for the car not to drive away.
I asked Elizabeth to fetch water bottles for everyone, and I shut Henry’s door. He asked, “Can I have a hug please; I need two of them?” I opened his door and hugged him. He fell into me weeping, and it was as though I was holding a little child.
Henry, tears streaming down his face asked, “Can I have back my grandmother’s moccasins?” He further explained, “I was going to bury myself today, and I wanted to give them away, instead of taking them with me. I don’t want to do that now.” I reminded Henry I had told him his grandmother wanted him to keep her gift; however, I would give them back on one condition; he had said he wanted two hugs, and I wanted the second one.
A brilliant smile appeared on his face, and at that moment, I saw the little boy Henry’s grandmother had loved. He gave me another hug. I placed his grandmother’s moccasins into his outstretched hand. Henry closed his hands in mine and said, “Miigwech!” “Miigwech!” I responded, and Henry smiled. He looked at me with understanding; I was grateful to have been able to help him.
Elizabeth returned to the car with the water bottles, and Henry was driven back to his community. I wish him Godspeed.
I was most impacted today by the memory of a dear friend who has left us behind. Joan Bergwerff loved all of us at Street Help. She was the “grandmother” who enjoyed giving all of us hugs. Joan didn’t know, but she was the only grandmother I’ve ever had. I miss you my friend, and I am so happy you taught me the abundance and healing of a hug, or two.
© Zora Zebic 2018

I walked out the kitchen door for a moment of fresh air and was surprised by the sight of a man on the ground sitting against the wall. He appeared to be in pain, and I looked down at his shoeless feet. Red and swollen, his feet looked as though they had received a severe beating. His toes were wrapped with paper napkins to keep the toes separated.
I walked over to the man and asked him if he needed help. He looked up at me and thanked me graciously for caring. My heart twinged, that feeling like a string tugging the muscle.
Looking at his worn and ragged shoes, I asked if he needed a pair. He said yes, but he had already made his request to my staff, and there were no size 13. I told him I could fix that and asked our volunteer driver Dan if he would go to the second-hand store to pick up a pair. Dan asked me to call ahead to ensure they had size 13 shoes.
As Dan drove away, Norman, as I’ll call him, said, “I can’t believe you are doing this for me. I’ve been at another charity for two weeks, and they didn’t help me.”

Norman’s words jogged my memory of a recent event. As I’d concluded giving a tour of our facilities to a man and his wife, the gentleman said, ” Don’t you think there are already enough charities helping the homeless?” His question made me smile, as I’ve heard it so many times. I’d answered him, “No single charity is the be all and end all.” I thought how beautiful it would have been for the man and his wife to have heard Norman’s story. They would have understood how much the homeless depend on Street Help.
I offered Norman a chair to sit on, but he refused to say the medical clinic told him to keep his feet elevated, and to put ice packs on them. I’d thought I’d heard all the stupid advice given to the homeless! If this advice came from medical professionals, then that was icing on the cake. Where is a homeless man supposed to get free ice packs?
I looked at his feet and legs and asked if he had diabetes? He said no, but he did have a fungal infection. Ice packs and elevation for a fungal infection? Now that was the decoration on the iced cake! I’ve never heard of that medical advice for Athlete’s Foot.
I’d felt saddened as a woman with several children walked past us. The looks on their faces made me feel protective toward Norman. I could not honestly discern the meaning of the looks, but I said nothing and hoped they witnessed the real plight of a fellow human.
Melissa and I went into the centre to look for foot powder, antifungal cream, gauze, and medical tape. We found medicated body powder, triple antibiotic cream, gauze and medical tape which I brought out to him. Melissa fetched two tubs, one with soapy water and the other rinse water. She volunteered to wash his feet for him, but he refused. Her offer made my thoughts go to my vision of the lady in the Bible who washed the feet of Jesus and dried them with her hair.
I see a lot of that, a homeless person sharing the little food they have, or taking their shirt off their back for another. The humility and compassion exhibited are genuinely inspiring.
Others joined our circle, and Norman became more comfortable with us. He told us, a lawnmower accident caused him to lose his big toe and mangled his foot. Norman said the doctors had done a poor job, and he’s suffered all his life.
Norman smiled and said, “I’ve never been here before, but a lot of people have been telling me how great this place is.” He went on to explain circumstances had changed for him, and he’d slowly made his way to Street Help. I thought, looking at his feet, how excruciating the pain must have been.

Dan returned from shopping with the Street Help debit card at the Value Village in South Windsor. He handed a pair of shoes to Norman saying, “This is all they had.” Norman accepted the shoes and exclaimed, “They are perfect! Look at the soles; they are almost brand new!” It is incredible what a difference $16 can make.
After drying his feet, Norman massaged the antibiotic cream over both of his feet. Tim and Melissa searched and found ankle socks, in the extra large size he needed. Norman said most socks hurt his legs. After putting on a pair, he tucked away the rest of the treasured package in his backpack.
Norman picked up his worn shoes without soles and told us how he’d cut up a piece of foam he’d found to make inserts. He said, “That’s all that’s been keeping the stones away from my feet.”
I watched with curiosity as he started to pull out the foam. He stopped and looked inside the new shoe, then said, “I don’t need these, there are arch supports in the new ones!”
Norman liberally shook the medicated body powder into both of his new shoes. I told him the perfect solution also included having a second pair to put on every 24 hours.
Slipping on the first shoe, Norman exclaimed, “They fit perfect! I would jump up and down with joy, but I know how much that would hurt me!”
Melissa reached for the old shoes and, he stopped her. I understood why Norman resisted the idea of throwing them out. When you are homeless, everything you can keep in your possession is a treasure.
Melissa asked him, “You don’t plan to wear these again, do you?” Norman smiled at her and answered her, “No I won’t. But please pick them up by the laces.”
Norman then went into the centre to have a meal. I told him if he came on Tuesday, I would buy the proper antifungal cream for him. I hope he does return to Street Help.
I thank God for the opportunities I have to bear witness to his loving kindness. I also thank God for Dan, Tim and Melissa’s help to give comfort and help to minimize the suffering of another.

©Zora Zebic 2018

Update 1: A generous Friend on Facebook will be delivering us more size 13 shoes! I’ll have an extra pair for Norman!

Update 2: Norman returned to Street Help today! We gave him the anti-fungal cream and medicated foot powder. He enjoyed a meal with us, and I gave him a printed copy of my story. I told him about our Facebook Friend and he is happy to know he will have a second pair of size 13’s!

I’d moved to St. Catharines, Ontario, relying on a promise from a relative. The promise was a steady babysitting job, while the relative worked at her job with the government. I’d always found it a breeze to care for children, it had sounded like a great alternative to working for the man!

To my son’s great disappointment, I’d asked him to say goodbye to his friends. We’d packed the house into a rental truck to move to the apartment I’d found for us. My friend Stanley had offered to drive us and our truckload to our new home.

While we’d unloaded the furniture and boxes into the apartment, Stanley had become extremely agitated. I’d asked him what was up. Truth be told, I did know he liked to imbibe in a little too much beer and I’d thought he was feeling a need.

Stanley, bristling at my suggestion, had then asked, “I don’t get why the hell you would move into a place with cameras everywhere!” I’d been stunned and had asked, “What cameras?” Stanley had pointed to the wall in the hallway and asked, “Can’t you see them?” I couldn’t see any cameras, and I’d told Stanley he definitely needed a drink.

Stanley then stormed out and watching on the balcony, I’d was saddened by the harshness of my words, as I’d watched him drive away in the rental truck. To this day, I wish instead I had insisted Stanley prove to me there were cameras on the walls. I would not have suffered so much, and shamefully I admit, my son would not have endured such horrors.

The move to St. Catharines, Ontario was not the beginning of my nightmare, but I did not know that then.

© Zora Zebic 2018

Life, sometimes, is filled with questions, confusions and despair.

That said, from that perspective, if a rapist were to have his victim hypnotized, and during that session, extracted a forgiveness for his crime, is the forgiveness valid?

I read today, “In the Jewish tradition when you wrong a person, it’s up to that person to forgive you.”

He is Jewish. Don’t get me wrong, there is some Jewish blood in my veins also.

All that said, the victim’s personality is prone to forgive, however, the victim did not forgive knowingly and consciously. Therefore, is the forgiveness valid?

While confusing, this is not to say forgiveness would not be properly granted, should the rapist ask genuinely for repentance.

This is a conundrum.

© Zora Zebic 2018

Truth be told, we just experienced a 3.6 magnitude earthquake. We heard a very loud boom and the place shook. I, sitting at the computer, felt the earth shake three more times!

Our home is in Amherstburg, and we rent an apartment in Windsor. We were at the apartment when the earth moved under our feet.

My husband will be obligated to go to the house in the morning. He was planning to go anyway to enjoy the backyard and the many birds this season. He will fill the bird feeders and count the flocks of feathered friends who sing to him.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/windsor/earthquake-hits-windsor-essex-1.4627782