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For the past three years, my family has enjoyed Thanksgiving at Venture House in Jamaica, Queens. My mother was one of the founders of Venture House, begun 15 years ago. Venture House, based on the much larger facility in Manhattan, Fountain House, trains the mentally ill and finds jobs for them. Venture House’s clubhouse offers a friendly, supportive atmosphere where people can hang out. Through Venture House, my brother and his girlfriend live in a two-bedroom apartment in Flushing, Queens. They have lunch at Venture House and spend most weekdays there.
We arrived Thanksgiving Day. The modest exterior of the building gives no sign of the sleek, modern architecture within. You’d expect to find the award-winning two-story building’s design, using vivid primary colors on the walls in midtown Manhattan, not on Hillside Avenue surrounded by grubby used-car lots.
The energetic executive director David Lehman greets us warmly. He is very fond of my mother and gives her a big hug. He remembers the early days of struggle before the fund-raising began, when my mother offered to pay Venture House’s first phone bill. She was their board’s first treasurer. I remember when someone would bring checks to her apartment in Forest Hills for her to sign. Now she can barely sign her own checks. A man who was on the board with my mother tells me she was a valuable source of ideas that helped to launch Venture House. I feel proud of my mother’s accomplishments.
We are surrounded by friendly staff and clients. Here are people, all or most of whom are in therapy with all sorts of problems, who know that whatever happens to them, they are welcome here. Only two rules are strictly enforced: no illegal drugs and no drinking.
One man is wearing beads, amulets and a long skirt since he became a Buddhist. He is accepted without smirks about his skirt.
We decide to move outside to the garden in the back of the building. The sun feels strong, more like spring than late November. My brother and his girlfriend have arrived and join us. We photograph ourselves with my disposable camera. In the pleasant garden are faded plants and flowers hibernating until spring. This is where clients smoke in peace.
It is time to go indoors to the cozy dining room where the tables are set with pretty autumn flower centerpieces. Volunteering clients will serve us. An earnest young man with an Indian accent announces his name and tells us he will be our waiter this afternoon. Soon he brings out heaping plates of food from the crowded kitchen: the turkey and ham have already been sliced up, surrounded by several side dishes. The tastiest item on the plate is squash with mushroom pate.
The executive director offers a toast with the non-alcoholic Champagne. Last year he served some of the food himself. Not many executive directors would serve food.
Last year there were so many people, the meal was served in two shifts. This year, I’m told the turnout is lower because many clients are communicating better with their families, and the stigma of mental illness is finally beginning to fade: progress.
We go into a small room where slices of pumpkin pie, apple pie and homemade cookies are waiting on paper plates.
Catchy music from a 2-piece band plays old, soft rock songs with a lively beat, beckoning us into another room. My brother dances to every song with graceful, bouncy energy. He does exercises for hours every morning and it has paid off. He has lost 35 pounds, looks boyish at 45, but he refuses to stop smoking. He has recently shaved off his beard and mustache and never looked better, or happier. He is a joy to watch. Some people dance by themselves. I join the dancers for one song.
Several people tell me how much they like my brother. I feel proud of him, of the progress he has made as a manic depressive by sticking to his therapy and taking his medication. Many years ago, when he didn’t, he would land in the hospital. That’s where he met his girlfriend. I am grateful that coming here has helped him so much. Sometimes he writes articles for the newsletter, like the one about their recent, seemingly futile annual bus trip to Albany to lobby for funding for the mentally ill of New York State. He also participates in various other group events. No therapy is offered here, but the friendships formed with others and the very caring professional staff is itself therapeutic and healing.
Soon it is time to call for a cab. While waiting, a woman creates animals from a single balloon. She gives my mother a cute balloon mouse. Here’s the cab. We’re back home by 3:30, before most people have even begun their Thanksgiving meal. But that’s okay.