Finding Social Justice Unexpectedly at the Department Store

Forty years ago, my wife and I had been married a little over a year. We were living in Houston, and I was working for a big corporation downtown. My wife was finishing up her degree at the University of Houston, and we needed extra money for Christmas, so I went to work as a part-time salesman for the Christmas season in one of Houston’s big department store chains, at its store in the southwest part of town (for Houstonians who might remember, it was Foley’s at Sharpstown Mall).

I was all of 23 years old, still a brand-new Christian. I didn’t know I was going to play a central role in what today we would call a social justice issue.

It wasn’t difficult work, but it was tiring – two or three nights a week after working all day and then all day at the department store on Saturday. I was assigned to the men’s clothing department. The Christmas help was paid on an hourly basis; the regular salespeople were salary plus commission. It wasn’t unusual for the salespeople to elbow the Christmas help out of the way if the likelihood of a sizable commission was looming.

I quickly learned the ropes. The department manager was the czar; you did what he told you to do. But the department buyer trumped the manager; our buyer was known for rather imperiously walking into our department and telling whoever was closest to remove that display, change that mannequin, or immediately replace entire sections of clothing. And then he would waltz out, knowing his commands were being obeyed.

All the salespeople, and the manager, griped about the buyer.

Early one evening, when we were in something of a lull, a woman by herself walked into the department. She was in her 40s, well dressed, and looking, well, really poised. I didn’t immediately go to her, because I figured one of the commission salesmen would, or perhaps even the manager.

I saw that they had noticed her, and then turned back to the conversation they were having. She was looking around, clearly wanting to be helped.

They glanced again, and continued to ignore her.

So I walked over to her and asked if she needed assistance. She looked at me, glanced over at the group of salespeople still talking, and nodded. “I need your opinion,” she said, “I need you to hold some things while I look.” I told her I wasn’t exactly a fashion expert, but I would do whatever I could.

She laughed. “You’re about the same size at my husband,” she said. “I need to see if the clothes should fit.” She looked again the salesmen, laughing at some joke. “Are you a trainee?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Christmas help.”

She smiled and nodded. And then she began to shop.

She would pick out a shirt, study it, and then hold it up against me, nod, and hand me the shirt. One short became two, and then three. Then she moved from dress shirts to sport coats, and then belts. She fitted a belt around my waist, and nodded. She’d ask a question, and I’d answer. She asked me several times if I like a particular shirt or jacket, and sometimes I’d nod and sometimes smile and then shake my head.

After 15 minutes, with my arms laden with clothes, we were suddenly approached by the department manager, smiling and saying he would be glad to take my place. She looked at him with a cold stare, shook her head, and pointed at me. “Him,” she said in her soft, upper-class voice. “He will continue to help me.” And from then on she ignored him.

My manager was not pleased. He was even less pleased when I rang up the bill. It came to more than $800, and this was in 1974 dollars. One of the biggest single sales of the year, and no one received a commission.

I carried her bags to her car. She asked me if I would receive a commission, and I shook my head. “I’m paid hourly,” I said.

She laughed. “Your friends learned a lesson today,” she said. “They cannot tell the difference between what they call a wetback and someone who flies with her husband from Mexico City on his private plane.”

She smiled again, thanked me, and then she was gone.

I walked back inside the store, where my manager was fuming.

“How did you know she was wealthy?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” I replied. “She was just a customer who needed help.”

Over at The High Calling, there is a community linkup of writings on social justice. To see the other stories posted, or write one yourself for consideration to be featured next week, please see Share Your Story: Social Justice at Work at The High Calling.

Photograph: Foley's Department Store at Sharpstown Mall in Houston the late 1960s.

The Story of Joe

Led by Sarah Salter and Jason Stasyszen, we’ve been discussing Kisses from Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption by Katie Davis and Beth Clark. In chapter seven, Katie describes returning to the United States to do some fund-raising for herself and her growing ministry. She’s discovering that she’s changing, and doesn’t belong in the comfortable lifestyle in which she grew up in suburban Nashville. (I still have an issue with her attitude at times; perhaps the very reason for the wealth of her upbringing has something to do with the resources that will be provided for her work in Uganda.)

As I wrote last week, these two chapters put in mind of an experience I had in Houston in the mid- to late 1970s. I was doing volunteer work at Cambio House, a residence home for emotionally disturbed children. My primary job was the fun job – taking the kids on a field trip on Saturday, providing they had earned enough points during the week to go.

Sophie (not her real name) was one of those children. She was eventually moved to a residence home in the East Texas woods. Her experience at Cambio did not end well.

Joe (not his real name) was another child. He was 11. He and his younger brother had been removed from the family home, the “home” being an unlit, unheated garage. Today we would say that his parents had speech and hearing impediments, and were developmentally disabled. Thirty-five years ago, what was written in Joe’s file was “parents are deaf mutes, unable to care for themselves or their children.”

Joe’s brother had been successfully adopted. Joe was, too, until his new parents decided he was too much work and turned him back over to the court. After a succession of foster homes, Joe ended up at Cambio House, hating authority and hating adults.

I had been at Cambio almost two years when Joe arrived. I knew the ropes. In fact, I knew the ropes better than some of the staff did, because turnover was high. These were low-paying, easy-to-burn-out jobs (jobs like these probably still are).

Like most of the kids when they first arrived at Cambio, Joe went through a honeymoon period. Then the testing of the system started, and the rebellion. One of the things that struck me about him was that he was a good kid; his parents may have been “developmentally disabled” but they or someone had done a decent job raising him. But he was filled with anger; he had been buffeted and rejected so many times that he began to “live down to expectations.” He also didn’t like to be touched, as if he didn’t trust affection.

I saw him at most once a week, but we did build a relationship. He would become unbelievably upset if I happened to be in the vicinity when he was being disciplined, so if I saw things moving in that direction it was either calm Joe down or leave the room.

He was making progress. It was often easy to define the child by the behavior, but he was a little boy who wanted to be accepted and loved.

One Saturday, none of the kids had enough points for a field day, and it was raining, so we stayed in, playing board games, goofing off and watching TV. Joe was sitting next to me on the sofa, and several other kids were in various parts of the sofa, floor, nearby chairs, whatever was handy. A staff person had wandered in to see how we were doing, but was standing quietly to the side.

Without a word, Joe suddenly slipped his hand inside mine. I had the presence of mind not to react; I squeezed his hand and kept watching TV. I did glance at the staff member, who had seen Joe’s action. His eyes were huge. A breakthrough had happened.

A few months later, Joe was adopted by an older couple whose children were grown. They were warned he might act up at some point, to test them. And he did. He trashed their house. This time, though, they didn’t give him back to the court. They disciplined him, and they kept him. He had found a home.

I’ve looked but haven’t found a web link for Cambio House, but ChildBuilders has a page which mentions it – describing it as Houston’s first residential facility for emotionally disturbed children and saying that it had opened in 1974.

I didn’t see Joe again, but his story had a better ending that Sophie’s. Joe would be 48 today. It’s my hope that he and his new family were a success.

He and Sophie bought taught me that children matter, and that if we have the resources or the time or the heart, we should share what we have.

Katie learned that lesson in Uganda. I learned it in my backyard. It’s the same lesson.

To see more posts on this chapter of Kisses from Katie, please visit Sarah Salter at Living Between the Lines.

The Story of Sophie

In chapter six of Kisses from Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption by Katie Davis and Beth Clark, Katie describes how her experiences with two children, Sumini and Brenda, profoundly changed her understanding of what she was to be doing in Uganda. Sumini would become part of Katie’s family; Katie ministered to and prayed for Brenda while the child was dying in the hospital. Brenda “miraculously” recovered and was sent home; Katie never saw her again.

Wham! Suddenly I’m 37 years back in time, in a completely different culture that what Katie is describing, and yet…

In 1974, my wife and I moved to Houston from Beaumont, Texas. I had gotten a job at the headquarters of a big Fortune 500 oil company while she finished her journalism degree and worked at the Houston Chronicle. Over the next year or two, I became interested in doing volunteer work, and through a voluntarism program at my company, I eventually connected with Cambio House, a residential facility for emotionally disturbed children.

The children ranged in age from 6 to 12. There were never more than 10 or so at a time. Each child had his or her own room. The children lived there, went to school there, ate there and played there. Their emotional disturbance was officially classified as mild. The more severe cases were assigned to another facility.

My job as a volunteer was the provider of field trips. For good behavior during the week, the children got to go on Saturday field trips. The staff maintained a chart of points, and if enough good behavior points were accumulated, the child got to go on a field trip. It was a big deal – it was often the children’s only experience outside the home each week.

We took trips to the zoo, to Hermann Park, to the movie theater – whatever might be on the staff’s approved list. Some weeks I might have five or six kids; some weeks two or three; and some weeks, none at all. On those Saturdays, I worked with the staff inside the house. They were not fun days. The kids would be angry and sullen, and sometimes destructive. Temper tantrums were common. So was screaming. It could be ugly.

I was allowed to read the children’s admitting files, and the reading was grim. I read stories of child abuse, child prostitution, and abandonment. It seemed impossible for these stories to be happening with the shadow of downtown Houston, then often referred to as the “golden buckle of the Sunbelt.” The place was awash in money, oil money, and yet here were the stories of children abandoned, abused and forgotten.

One little girl, whom I will call Sophie, was 10. She had been brought to the home after police found her and her mother living on the streets. She took care of her mother, and provided for their food. She often secured leftovers from garbage cans. When they needed money, well, let’s say Sophie knew how to earn it. Her mother was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, and her parental rights given to the state by the courts. Sophie bounced around the foster care system, and ended up at Cambio House.

She was small for her age, blond-haired and knew more profanity than most adults. Adults were people you didn’t trust, who took advantage of you and hurt you.

Keep in mind that Sophie was considered a mild case of emotional disturbance. When she lost control, which was often, she was a terror. She might have been small, but she could do serious damage.

Sophie rarely accumulated enough points to go on field trips. But for whatever reason, I came to represent something for her. Perhaps it was because I was associated with fun things, or because I wasn’t there all the time. I did see her in one of her tantrums from time to time, but it was rare. Even the staff noticed she tended to be on best behavior around me.

We’d read together, talk, play games. She drew a picture of me and my wife that I still have, filed away in a cabinet in our basement. The day she gave it to me, I understood what I represented to her. I was hope.

And then one Saturday, I showed up as usual, and discovered that Sophie wasn’t waiting like she always was. I went to her room and found it stripped bare. Sophie was gone. Her behavior had gone from mild to severe in one fell swoop that week, a tirade had turned to serious physical destruction, and she had attacked one of the staff members. She had been sent to a residence home in the woods of East Texas.

I never saw her again. If she is still alive today, she would be 47. Did I make a difference in her life? I don’t know. I hope so. I hope she made it.

But I know what motivates Katie Davis in Uganda.

Next week, I’ll continue the discussion of Kisses from Katie with the story of Joe, another of the children at Cambio House.

To see more posts on this chapter of Kisses from Katie, please visit Jason Stasyszen at Connecting to Impact. Jason and Sarah Salter are hosting our discussion of the book.