Let me see your keys
It was more than twenty years ago, that I was sitting in my office on the 14th floor of the "Boston Building" in downtown Salt Lake City. Along with other contractors we were working on a Saturday morning cartoon for Marvel comics animation out of California. We made pretty good money when we were busy working, but much of the time we would wait for contracts or new shows to come in, and animators without something to keep them busy are much like a Mad Hatter's tea party without any tea, or even scones and jam.
One day out of my window I heard shouting from the street below, and looking out my window, I noticed a man in jeans standing in one of the 6 X 6 foot planters in front of the bank screaming and eating pansies from the planter. I called to some of my other studio mates and they came in and took a look down as well. "You don't suppose that's Tom gone stark raving mad down there?," someone said. Tom was the latest animator in the studio to go through a seperation, probably something to do with the dicey living we all made. "No," said I, "we would have noticed something before now." The police came and the man calmly gave himself up to custody. Funding cuts of the time had turned many of the mentally ill and handicapped out on the street, and many were not being properly cared for.
Many years later, I had among my musician friends some that were LCSW's (licensed clincal social workers) that worked for what is called Valley Mental Health in our area. They would ask many of us to come once a month, on a week night to play for dances for the patients at the treatment center. I learned to call dances for them and found them to be very willing to participate in group activities. Many of them dance and listen to directions as well as their counterparts in society. Only one unsettling thing happened during several years of donating our time. My wife would also come and play the Hammered Dulcimer at the dances, and on one occasion between dances a young man came over to talk to my wife. He said "Do you want to know how to say, I'm going to kill you in Swedish". Having heard that I was over there like a shot, fearing the worst. My wife knew what to say, "I'd rather know how to say I love you". He rattled it off like no big deal and that was that. Later my social worker friend said, "often they hear a lot of those types of things from innner voices, and that actually very few of the mentally ill are dangerous to others, mostly to themselves. Most of the people committing violent crimes are sociopaths actually." As they would get on the bus, a Guitar playing friend of mine would ask me, "Let me see your keys!, " I said, "Oh stop it", and he said, "well you have to get on the bus then." He had noticed that none of them have keys, since they don't own cars, homes, safety deposit boxes or anything else that would require a key.
I found it rewarding to work with them, and I had a good deal of empathy for them, since my mentally retarded brother was greatly misunderstood by the neighbors and other kids when I was a child. (Several of the neighbors believed we were cursed by God, so when they would grab their children and haul them inside, I would stagger around with one bulging eye and my hand in a claw mewling all the while just to prove them right. I had other friends.) So it wasn't a great leap for me to realize that this was very similar. I would see many of these people I called dances for out in society later, as their medication would stabilize them, they grew to have a great appreciation for music and stories. I would see them in our audiences even though I didn't know their names. Music and stories gave them a bit of focus on normal activities, appreciation and quality of life. Many of them now have a number of keys on their ring, and I'm glad I still have mine just in case I need to show them to someone.
Dave Sharp
One day out of my window I heard shouting from the street below, and looking out my window, I noticed a man in jeans standing in one of the 6 X 6 foot planters in front of the bank screaming and eating pansies from the planter. I called to some of my other studio mates and they came in and took a look down as well. "You don't suppose that's Tom gone stark raving mad down there?," someone said. Tom was the latest animator in the studio to go through a seperation, probably something to do with the dicey living we all made. "No," said I, "we would have noticed something before now." The police came and the man calmly gave himself up to custody. Funding cuts of the time had turned many of the mentally ill and handicapped out on the street, and many were not being properly cared for.
Many years later, I had among my musician friends some that were LCSW's (licensed clincal social workers) that worked for what is called Valley Mental Health in our area. They would ask many of us to come once a month, on a week night to play for dances for the patients at the treatment center. I learned to call dances for them and found them to be very willing to participate in group activities. Many of them dance and listen to directions as well as their counterparts in society. Only one unsettling thing happened during several years of donating our time. My wife would also come and play the Hammered Dulcimer at the dances, and on one occasion between dances a young man came over to talk to my wife. He said "Do you want to know how to say, I'm going to kill you in Swedish". Having heard that I was over there like a shot, fearing the worst. My wife knew what to say, "I'd rather know how to say I love you". He rattled it off like no big deal and that was that. Later my social worker friend said, "often they hear a lot of those types of things from innner voices, and that actually very few of the mentally ill are dangerous to others, mostly to themselves. Most of the people committing violent crimes are sociopaths actually." As they would get on the bus, a Guitar playing friend of mine would ask me, "Let me see your keys!, " I said, "Oh stop it", and he said, "well you have to get on the bus then." He had noticed that none of them have keys, since they don't own cars, homes, safety deposit boxes or anything else that would require a key.
I found it rewarding to work with them, and I had a good deal of empathy for them, since my mentally retarded brother was greatly misunderstood by the neighbors and other kids when I was a child. (Several of the neighbors believed we were cursed by God, so when they would grab their children and haul them inside, I would stagger around with one bulging eye and my hand in a claw mewling all the while just to prove them right. I had other friends.) So it wasn't a great leap for me to realize that this was very similar. I would see many of these people I called dances for out in society later, as their medication would stabilize them, they grew to have a great appreciation for music and stories. I would see them in our audiences even though I didn't know their names. Music and stories gave them a bit of focus on normal activities, appreciation and quality of life. Many of them now have a number of keys on their ring, and I'm glad I still have mine just in case I need to show them to someone.
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