Zero Tolerance for Dehumanization

Today the police brought formal charges against my friends Rainee and Bruce. I can't remember the last time I've felt so angry about anything. The details surrounding their case are so outrageous that it's hard to accept that they are in great danger, but they may well be.

They could go to prison, lose their daughter, and have everything that they've struggled to achieve destroyed. But they probably won't. Their counsel is the lead medical marijuana lawyer in the area, and the media, Real Change included, seems to be taking a keen interest. For now, I'm optimistic.

"How could anybody do that to someone?"

The answer lies in the word "someone." Drug users, like homeless people, are considered subhuman. So we're not dealing with "someone" at all. We're dealing with the dehumanized Other, who does not merit our empathy.

Heather left a comment on last week's Drug Users in Belltown post directing me to an article in the Stanford Social Innovation Review entitled Your Brain on Drug Addicts. As it turns out, I'm a subscriber, and the article was in the pile below my coffee table.

Here's what it says. Brain imaging studies confirm what many of us already know. For most people, drug addicts and homeless people do not trigger empathy. They trigger disgust. They don't really even register as people.

With co-author Susan T. Fiske, also of Princeton, Harris chose which out-groups to show on the basis of stereotypes about them and the emotions they evoke. Fiske previously noted that the stereotypes of out-groups vary on two dimensions: warmth and competence. Warm and competent groups like American Olympic athletes inspire pride. Warm groups that are deemed unable to act on their warmth, such as the elderly or disabled, elicit pity. Cold groups that are nevertheless competent, such as the rich, induce envy. And groups that are low on both warmth and incompetence – drug addicts and homeless people – arouse disgust.

Fiske and Harris showed photographs of these four kinds of outgroups to 10 Princeton undergraduates as they lay in an fMRI scanner. To 12 other Princeton undergraduates they presented photographs of inanimate objects that aroused the same emotions as did the out-groups – for example, a sports car to induce envy, or an overflowing toilet to evoke disgust. They found that the pictures of the objects, homeless people, and drug addicts did not excite the mPFC, although they did activate brain regions associated with emotions.

So there it is. Were one actually dealing with another human being, the idea of manipulating an eight-year old who's beloved grandfather had just died to bust a couple who grow prescription medical marijuana for pain control would be unthinkable.

But if you're used to thinking of drug users as disgusting subhuman creatures who must be eliminated, then anything goes.

This is the issue that drew me to homelessness in the first place. Homeless people are widely regarded as subhuman. So are addicts and prisoners. When you have an expendable group of people who arouse disgust, terrible things can happen. The dehumanization of anyone leads to the dehumanization of us all.

Speaking of which ...

This week I fielded two press calls about downtown homelessness. The Downtown Seattle Association, as I said before, is on a new propaganda offensive over panhandling and public toilets. They are trying desperately to whip up some righteous indignation.

Thus far, they're not getting a lot of traction. But you can bet that they're not giving up. As the relationship between city and suburb changes, with cities becoming the new nucleus of upscale density, visible poverty is more unwelcome in urban centers everywhere.

Thus the fixation on "chronic" homelessness, and the companion stick approach, an escalation in the policing of the urban poor.

Being the angry sort of guy that I am these days, I'm finding diplomacy less and less appropriate to the moment. Last winter I had numerous conversations with the DSA's Peg Dreisenger and Anita Woo about the panhandling education campaign they had in the works. They were being reasonable, and so was I. I'm not wild about panhandling either.

They wanted an endorsement, but I wouldn't go that far. If they did their campaign in a way that focused on positive alternatives, as opposed to negative stereotypes, I said, I would not organize against them. They arrived at Have a Heart, Give Smart, and were rewarded with my public neutrality. I liked their brochure.

During our last meeting, Anita Woo, the DSA's communications staffer, told a story about a woman panhandler who was spotted hopping into her SUV to make a quick call on her Blackberry.

I laughed at her.

"You can't tell that story," I said. "It's like Ronald Reagan and his Cadillac driving Black welfare queens. It's apocryphal bullshit." We all laughed nervously.

She went on the radio during the launch of the campaign and told just that story. She punched away at all the buttons that the lit itself avoided. They're making a lot of money off of credulous do-gooders. It's all a big lucrative scam. They're mostly addicts. Etcetera. It's like they couldn't wait to take the fucking gloves off.

That was last January. Since then, they've escalated. Their position now is that, despite their panhandling education campaign, downtown begging is up by thirty-eight percent!

Woo trotted out the Blackberry story to a Seattle Post-Intelligencer reporter just last week. You gotta love a good story.

Here's another one.

The DSA is also opposed to handing out sandwiches on the street. Here's a handy DSA guide to public policy: if it's visible downtown poverty, they want it to go away.

We were talking about downtown feeding, and Peggy Dreisenger, the affable manager of DSA's street program, told me the real reason one doesn't feed the poor.

Chronically homeless people have, through their years of alcohol and drug abuse, undermined the viability of their digestive organs. If one, therefore, feeds one of these wretches a sandwich, their body will reject it. They will throw up in the nearest bush, curbside, or sidewalk, and someone, probably one of her employees, will have to clean it up.

The do-gooders, she said, don't understand this.

I contained my amazement, walked back to Real Change, and told our editor what she had said. He knew. She'd said the same thing to him several weeks prior.

Since then, I've had the opportunity to ask the opinions of various health care professionals, each of whom were appalled at the story.

This story is about one thing. Dehumanization. This isn't something we should tolerate. Politeness, even here in Seattle, has its limits.

Tragedy Strikes, Cops Screw Victims

Just as I was leaving the office today I got an emergency call from my friend Rainee Osman. "Watch King 5 news tonight. I don't have time to explain," she said. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Rainee and her husband Bruce are my favorite Real Change vendor hopeless-case-gone-good story. They started selling the paper in the mid-nineties. Both were heroin addicts. Rainee has dealt with chronic pain her entire life, and graduated at some point from prescription pain-killers to the stuff you could buy on the street.

Heroin addiction is never a great lifestyle choice. When I met them, they were homeless, but selling the paper gave them some dignity back and offered Rainee an alternative to working in strip clubs. They stuck with it for years.

Over that time, I saw them try to get clean and fail often enough to lose count. This had to have been really hard for them, because it was hard for me just to watch. They were good people who were struggling with addiction. They taught me that we are always more than the sum of our problems.

They had a baby while they were still addicted, and were fortunate enough to be able to keep her in the family. Chandler was raised on a ranch in Montana by Rainee's parents — a salt of the earth couple named Larry and Carol — until she was three. Their beautiful daughter was the inspiration Bruce and Rainee needed to finally kick for good.

In 2002, Chandler came home to live with mom and dad. Bruce and Rainee still come in every once in awhile to say hi. Last Christmas, Rainee dropped off two handmade embroidered jeans jackets she had made. Chandler had outgrown them, and Rainee wanted my girls to have them. I was very, very touched by the gesture.

They have a normal life and live in Kent. They are the sort of people you might bowl with, or meet at a little league game. Typical working parents, trying to make ends meet like everybody else.

Both Rainee and Bruce have medical marijuana prescriptions for active Hepatitis C and other disabling pain issues. A few years ago, there was a problem around this that could have led to the loss of their housing and daughter, but the courts ruled in their favor.

Tonights' News on King 5 story was about tragedy compounded by pure meanness.

Rainee's parents were visiting, and Chandler was up near Snoqualmie Pass with Grandpa when their truck broke down. Larry was crushed to death as he futzed around with the trailer hitch. Chandler sat in the cab of the truck, unaware of what had happened, with the cel phone she had been handed. After a while she called mom to report that Grandpa never came back.

The State Troopers brought her home. On the way, there was an interrogation. Eight-year-old Chandler revealed that mom and dad grow marijuana.

It's all too easy to see how this happened. The call comes in to the Troopers. Bruce and Rainee's records come up. There are several hours alone with the kid in the car without a lawyer. It's like shooting fish in a barrel.

The troopers busted in, violently cuffed Bruce and Rainee, and viciously trashed their home. They weren't interested in the doctor's authorization. Their lawyer says the seizure of the plants, the entry without a warrant, and the ransacking of the home were all illegal.

Mom, dad, and Chandler are all back home, putting the pieces back together and coping with their loss. Rainee came home today to find a business card from Child Protective Services stuck in the door.

Motherfuckers.

Chalk up another "win" for the war on drugs. I feel so much safer. Don't you?