There were a lot of suicides in the United Kingdom in the early 1960s and Church of England vicar Chad Varah didn’t like it. I suspect many felt the same, but Varah decided he was going to do something about it.
He talked to his parishioners and many volunteered to staff a phone line where distraught suicidal people could call and find a listener. These volunteers for the most part were not doctors or mental health counselors. They were just ordinary folks who cared about their fellow humans. They did not preach. They did not tell the callers what to do. They did not promise what they could not deliver.
They listened. But didn’t judge. If they felt it was appropriate to make a referral, perhaps to a professional, they might phrase it something like, “Have you considered speaking to a counselor?” If the caller indicated there was no way he’d do that, the volunteer would back off.
This group took on the name Samaritans.
They soon discovered the need they were filling. The number of calls increased dramatically. The callers felt comfortable speaking to nonprofessionals. Many callers indicated there was no one else they could talk to or receive understanding from.
The movement grew. It still exists, and now there are more than 200 branches in the United Kingdom and Ireland. The idea traveled the ocean and branches appeared in various spots in the United States. I believe the one in Boston is still in operation.
And one was established in the late 1960s in Orlando, Florida—where I live. It wasn’t called the Samaritans. Its name was We Care, and it billed itself as a suicide prevention and crisis intervention agency. Because if you were in crisis—no home, no food, no access to medication, thrown out by your parents, fifteen and pregnant—the thought of suicide often seemed appealing. We Care was available 24 hours per day, 365 days per year.
There were two telephone numbers that could be dialed, both answered by the same person. One was known as We Care. The other Teen Hotline. Because young people needed a place of their own.
I became a volunteer for We Care/Teen Hotline in 1972 and remained with them for 22 years. Before I was allowed near a phone, I had to take several evenings of instruction on how to listen and how to talk nonjudgmentally. I participated in make-believe practice sessions. I had to learn to be caring and not try to be Mr. Fixit. I was impressed with the necessity for total confidentiality. I had to understand that I could not become too emotionally involved with the caller, and that my mental health was important too.
Finally, I was allowed to take incoming calls and I was terrified. I never lost the trepidation felt before answering the ringing. Probably kept me alert.
I was amazed to learn that the training I’d been given actually worked. The callers responded favorably to the idea of being listened to. Such a simple concept but such a novel one in many of their lives. When I answered Teen Hotline, I thought the kids would blow off this old guy, then in my thirties. Never once did that happen. They didn’t care I was ancient by their standards. They cared that I listened.
I think most of us volunteers learned a lot from the experience. I know I did. For example, I learned that so many of the sound bites spewed by Republicans simply weren’t true. I never came into contact with a “welfare queen in a Cadillac.” I saw people weren’t poor because they were lazy. They were poor because even working two or three jobs at miserable pay still couldn’t make it possible to support their families.
Perhaps the most important lesson was learning how to listen. It came in handy in my dealings with students.
I had the opportunity to hear Chad Varah speak when he visited our facility. I’ll always remember a story he told to indicate the dedication of the volunteers. An illness had forced a scheduled volunteer to cancel a shift and he needed a replacement. He called a young woman volunteer to see if she could fill in. He said if she had a date that night he would understand. Her reply? “Of course I have a date, a good looking bird like me. I’ll break it and be in.” That speaks to the dedication of the vast majority of volunteers with whom I was associated over those 22 years.
During that period I served in many capacities. A phone volunteer for all 22. One of a team of two who would visit people who had made a suicide attempt (again almost always received with appreciation), Board member and Board officer.
I kept statistics for We Care on suicide attempts in the area. There were a lot. Most were overdoses, and fortunately very few of them were successful. Gunshot wounds were a different story. While they were significantly fewer than overdoses, they were significantly higher in success rate. Yet we continue to love our guns.
We Care doesn’t exist anymore. In the late 1990s a new director replaced the volunteers by professional counselors. That format eventually failed but I think there are similar organizations in operation now.
But it’s not the same. I believe we provided an important service. I think there were people who would call us but would not have called had they known they were going to speak to a professional. Yet they might have the courage to contact a professional after speaking with us.
I think the work was important, and I’m proud to have been a part of it. I believe I and my fellow volunteers got some people through the night, at least for that one time.
I think our present very mixed-up society needs something like We Care.
He talked to his parishioners and many volunteered to staff a phone line where distraught suicidal people could call and find a listener. These volunteers for the most part were not doctors or mental health counselors. They were just ordinary folks who cared about their fellow humans. They did not preach. They did not tell the callers what to do. They did not promise what they could not deliver.
They listened. But didn’t judge. If they felt it was appropriate to make a referral, perhaps to a professional, they might phrase it something like, “Have you considered speaking to a counselor?” If the caller indicated there was no way he’d do that, the volunteer would back off.
This group took on the name Samaritans.
They soon discovered the need they were filling. The number of calls increased dramatically. The callers felt comfortable speaking to nonprofessionals. Many callers indicated there was no one else they could talk to or receive understanding from.
The movement grew. It still exists, and now there are more than 200 branches in the United Kingdom and Ireland. The idea traveled the ocean and branches appeared in various spots in the United States. I believe the one in Boston is still in operation.
And one was established in the late 1960s in Orlando, Florida—where I live. It wasn’t called the Samaritans. Its name was We Care, and it billed itself as a suicide prevention and crisis intervention agency. Because if you were in crisis—no home, no food, no access to medication, thrown out by your parents, fifteen and pregnant—the thought of suicide often seemed appealing. We Care was available 24 hours per day, 365 days per year.
There were two telephone numbers that could be dialed, both answered by the same person. One was known as We Care. The other Teen Hotline. Because young people needed a place of their own.
I became a volunteer for We Care/Teen Hotline in 1972 and remained with them for 22 years. Before I was allowed near a phone, I had to take several evenings of instruction on how to listen and how to talk nonjudgmentally. I participated in make-believe practice sessions. I had to learn to be caring and not try to be Mr. Fixit. I was impressed with the necessity for total confidentiality. I had to understand that I could not become too emotionally involved with the caller, and that my mental health was important too.
Finally, I was allowed to take incoming calls and I was terrified. I never lost the trepidation felt before answering the ringing. Probably kept me alert.
I was amazed to learn that the training I’d been given actually worked. The callers responded favorably to the idea of being listened to. Such a simple concept but such a novel one in many of their lives. When I answered Teen Hotline, I thought the kids would blow off this old guy, then in my thirties. Never once did that happen. They didn’t care I was ancient by their standards. They cared that I listened.
I think most of us volunteers learned a lot from the experience. I know I did. For example, I learned that so many of the sound bites spewed by Republicans simply weren’t true. I never came into contact with a “welfare queen in a Cadillac.” I saw people weren’t poor because they were lazy. They were poor because even working two or three jobs at miserable pay still couldn’t make it possible to support their families.
Perhaps the most important lesson was learning how to listen. It came in handy in my dealings with students.
I had the opportunity to hear Chad Varah speak when he visited our facility. I’ll always remember a story he told to indicate the dedication of the volunteers. An illness had forced a scheduled volunteer to cancel a shift and he needed a replacement. He called a young woman volunteer to see if she could fill in. He said if she had a date that night he would understand. Her reply? “Of course I have a date, a good looking bird like me. I’ll break it and be in.” That speaks to the dedication of the vast majority of volunteers with whom I was associated over those 22 years.
During that period I served in many capacities. A phone volunteer for all 22. One of a team of two who would visit people who had made a suicide attempt (again almost always received with appreciation), Board member and Board officer.
I kept statistics for We Care on suicide attempts in the area. There were a lot. Most were overdoses, and fortunately very few of them were successful. Gunshot wounds were a different story. While they were significantly fewer than overdoses, they were significantly higher in success rate. Yet we continue to love our guns.
We Care doesn’t exist anymore. In the late 1990s a new director replaced the volunteers by professional counselors. That format eventually failed but I think there are similar organizations in operation now.
But it’s not the same. I believe we provided an important service. I think there were people who would call us but would not have called had they known they were going to speak to a professional. Yet they might have the courage to contact a professional after speaking with us.
I think the work was important, and I’m proud to have been a part of it. I believe I and my fellow volunteers got some people through the night, at least for that one time.
I think our present very mixed-up society needs something like We Care.
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