I was visiting a well-known social enterprise in the city. I’d used it as a customer: they did a nice line in lawn care and were a good source for picture frames. It was a great place to take students in my ethics and social engagement course.
I was met at the door by a neatly dressed man, the kind of person who takes a role on the board of a charity because his career peaks before he’s 50 so he decides to take a salary cut and give something back. We were in a compound where all the residents were addicts, combining steady work with participation in a 12-step program.
As he talked, I started to distrust him. How could this tidy man talk in such an easy way about people’s trials and troubles, of the successes to celebrate and the failures to learn from, of the hope and the reality? Nonetheless it was an impressive presentation. The highlight was when he introduced us to a middle-aged woman. She began to tell her story about attending an arts school, finding her voice, and having some success as a performer. Yet she found she couldn’t escape the chastening realities of her childhood, and she turned to drugs—first once in a while, then weekly, then day and night. Her life imploded, and before long the gutter was her only companion.
