Adaptive Control of Thought Model or the ACT model puts emphasis on the role of practice in the transitional change of knowledge. Anderson assumes that conversion of declarative knowledge into procedural knowledge is crucial for learning complex skills including speech production (DeKeyser, 1997, 1998, 2001; Johnson, 1996; O’Malley & Chamot, 1990; Schmidt, 1992;…
Until recently, I was a case manager at a homeless shelter. I spent four years there. I loved it. The day-to-day was fast-paced, unpredictable, and challenging. For many of my clients I was their only advocate and their entire support network. To be successful at what we were doing, given the uncertainty of the nonprofit world (especially in homeless services), our agency lived by the motto "adapt or die" and "no barriers". One day I’d be scrambling to arrange a last minute move to avoid an eviction; the next day I might be trying to deescalate a client who is threatening to hurt someone else. I saw first hand what homelessness can do to people and the societal stigmas weighing them down. I saw a lot of disappointment, hopelessness, and fear. I also saw some huge successes. I saw resilience, tenacity, goodwill, and bravery. I hope to write a lot about my time there, what I learned, and what I experienced because it was so transformative for me. I feel proud about what I, along with many awesome coworkers, was able to accomplish.
Despite giving myself plenty of time before I left my job to wrap-up with my clients and transfer them to another case manager, there was one client in particular for whom this didn’t occur. Not that I didn’t try, but because I couldn’t find him.
About two and a half of the years I worked at the shelter I was part of a modified Assertive Community Treatment (ACT) team. The ACT model uses a multidisciplinary approach to provide intensive services to people where and when they need them. This meant we were meeting with people in their camps, on the streets, in the shelter, at the library, or anywhere else we needed. Our ultimate goals were to house and connect the most vulnerable chronically homeless in the community with services.
One individual I worked with was referred to our program through the local homeless healthcare clinic medical outreach team. His name was Ryan (not really). Ryan was the type of chronically homeless individual who did not seek services. He spent his days wandering the streets, waiting patiently at each crosswalk for the signal to change with his hands tucked in his pockets. In the colder months I’d often find him in the downtown public library reading magazines--although I’m not sure he knew how to read or that his eyes, without glasses, could see well enough to read. When the weather warmed up, I’d sometimes find him sitting in a small grassy area often referred to as Kilowatt Park. Despite the area being grassy, I’m not sure why it was called a park as it was small, sandwiched between buildings, and didn’t have any of the amenities you might find in a normal park. It seemed more like an empty lot, but one where no one minded if you spent your lunch break laying in. In the beginning, when I’d find Ryan at the library or park I would ask him if I could sit with him. He never said much, nothing more than a few words and only to respond to questions.
“It’s a nice day today, how have you been enjoying the weather?”
“Well, just walking around I suppose.”
“Are you from here?”
“No, California.”
I never felt like he was being cold or standoffish, rather just that he didn’t have a lot to say, which I can relate to.
Eventually, after visiting a handful of times and bringing him basic need items to build trust, the conversations turned into what I did and the program with which I was involved. I asked him if he might be interested in filling out some paperwork to see if he qualified for housing services.
“That’d be okay.”
I began asking him basic demographics:
“When is your birthday?”
“xx/xx/1972.”
“How old are you?”
“26.”
“You’re 26? You don’t look 26.”
“Well, I haven’t aged very well.” He seemed slightly annoyed I would question his age, I let it go. I moved on to homeless history.
“How long have you been homeless?”
“I don’t know, a couple of summers.” This wasn’t right either. I knew he had at least been homeless since the late 90s as there was records of him checking into the shelter where I worked. I didn’t challenge him on it as the documented records were more important than his self-report, but I tried asking clarifying questions.
“Were you homeless in California? How long have you been in here?”
“No. I’ve been here one or two years, I guess.”
I asked him if he had served in the armed forces.
“It’s all locked up in corrections.” His irritation level rose went from a 0 to a 2. I didn’t know what he meant so I asked.
“It means they’re all locked up and I don’t have to tell you anything.” He looked away as if to show me he could ignore me just as easily as he could talk to me. I dropped it and moved on as it wasn’t essential to the paperwork anyway.
I started getting the impression that Ryan, in addition to his homelessness, was also suffering from some mental illness. Not only the depression invariably attached to the homeless condition, but something more severe persistent. Despite not being qualified in the least to diagnose, I wasn’t alone in my thinking here; working on our ACT team we also had a quarter-time psychiatric nurse and a quarter-time psychologist. Though their interactions with Ryan were limited, they were also picking up on signs of possible schizophrenia, however Ryan reported no history of mental illness nor did he have any medical records which indicated a mental illness. At least no medical records to which we had access.
Things progressed fairly smoothly with Ryan. I helped him apply for a new social security card, birth certificate, and ID (although this would happen much later, around a year after being in housing.) Because of the unavailability of affordable, habitable housing stock in our community, the wait before Ryan could move into an apartment would be a couple weeks to a couple months. In the meantime, I also assisted Ryan in signing up for food stamps. Despite him almost certainly qualifying, he had no interest in getting on Medicaid or SSI; furthermore, this was one of the few topics of conversation which seemed to anger or irritate him.
Eventually, Ryan was able to move into a one bedroom apartment. We felt good about the location of the building as it was close to a lot of the areas Ryan was already familiar--the library, the grocery store, Kilowatt park. We were able to get him some furniture and other items for his apartment including a new bed, TV, kitchen supplies, and about a month’s worth of food. Ryan added his new apartment into his daily routine. He no longer had to sleep in the shelter or outside.
