Warehouse living—or whatever happy-ass euphemism a clueless social worker might use—routinely dehumanizes residents. What’s more insidious is that warehouse administrations blame the infirm for their own subjugation. Before the warehouse consented to admit me, they insisted that I scrawl my misshapen John Hancock on an assortment of legal documents that gave the staff legal permission to open my mail, snoop through my drawers, administer what they deemed “appropriate” medical care, and generally butt into my business. They also required that I authorize the state government to address my benefit checks in care of the warehouse, and permit the administration to disperse my dough as they saw fit.
Then the owner’s forced me to sign a document that gave the warehouse my consent to exclusively serve kosher meals to me, and in particular inedible Passover fare that I later found out was prepared by unworldly Filipinos. I’m not Jewish, nor do I buy into silly voodoo. Nobody chooses to live in a warehouse; a potential resident is usually wracked by illness, injury, or the ravages of time. It’s a safe bet that the prospect of banishment to an impersonal facility—regardless of what anybody claims—provokes emotional distress in future residents and their families. My high school civics teacher taught the class that it’s illegal to obtain a signature under duress. And it’s clearly a violation of residents’ rights to impose any facet of a religion on them (though I’m certain a lawyer employed by the warehouse owners discovered some arcane legal precedent that permits religious propaganda under certain circumstances).
Residential health care doesn’t nurture self-sufficiency so much as cultivate dependency. Of course some people might require professional round-the-clock medical attention, and still others don’t possess the mental capacity to care for themselves. But a growing number of residents in urban warehouses allowed their own formidable stupidity to thrust them into a dismal living situation—association with violent youth organizations, dumbass injuries sustained while under the influence of low-rent recreational drugs, etc. Predictably, politically correct ninnies refuse to acknowledge that fact. Warehouse administrations tacitly recognize and embrace unsophisticated pawns. They operate secure in the knowledge that poorly educated people accustomed to the welfare and legal systems will sign anything; are almost always subservient and therefore easy to manipulate. Many residents I encountered deluded themselves that they daily scammed “the man,” but such delusions are no skin off “the man’s” ass. He knows his pawns will eagerly scramble for the bone he throws.