You can find me, if you know where to look, lurking in public parks by day and parked on dead-end streets at night, wary of police attention. Weather and holidays don’t deter me. I’m always out there, and I’m always alone. Who am I, and what’s my story? You probably don’t know me, and my story isn’t all that interesting, but it distills down to this: I’m homeless.
I sleep in my car — assuming you read this before it breaks down for good, which I wouldn’t bet the 37 cents in my bank account on — and I shower fairly often, at the Salvation Army. I have a part-time gig, which at my age and in my condition is about all a poorly rested and inconsistently washed individual can hope for. I’ve never stood on a street corner with a cardboard sign, have never stayed in a shelter, and receive no government benefits. My greatest sin has been the rejection of the American Dream.
I’m here to share my observations of the homeless experience, maybe challenge the odd preconception, and make a humble suggestion or two.
I wasn’t interested in the high-paying job, marriage and kids, a dog, a new car every two years, a mortgage, television, keeping up with the Joneses, or what anybody thought of me. I’m painfully shy and have always preferred anonymous night work. I was never one to strive for more; I lacked the virtue of greed. Instead, I followed my muse, loving books and trying to write them, which today finds me with twenty years of experience in the custodial arts.
My full homeless bona fides are available on request, but fortunately I’m not here to elicit pity for myself. Rather I’m here to share my observations of the homeless experience, maybe challenge the odd preconception, and make a humble suggestion or two.
I’ve heard it said that, for the most part, the homeless are substance abusers reaping what they’ve sown. This is an opinion of the ignorant. The homeless are not primarily drunks and addicts; in results of a nationwide, decades-long study by the National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty, substance abuse accounts for only 26% of homeless cases. Along with those affected by the obviously high cost of housing and low income, the other 74% includes women fleeing abuse, the mentally challenged, the elderly unable to make it on a retiree’s income, disabled vets ill-served by their government, and a panoply of individuals blindsided by circumstance.
I’ve heard it said, too, “There’s plenty of help out there.” This opinion isn’t merely ignorant and wrong, it’s dismissive, and doesn’t even pretend to care about being right. There is some help out there, true, but it’s limited and specialized. It depends on many factors, including the size of the town, available resources, and qualification for services. But ask any hardworking, caring individual at any charitable organization whether there is enough help for those in need, and if they haven’t already lost their sense of humor they’ll probably laugh in your face.
Some people may actually try to tell you that homelessness is a lifestyle choice, a kind of freedom from responsibility. If it was a choice, it wasn’t made by an informed, rational mind. Few sensible humans of my acquaintance would choose to eat out of garbage cans and sleep under bushes. I’ve never met a homeless person who seemed to be having a great time, and while some have gotten good at it, none has ever told me, “Yeah, being filthy, hungry and alone seemed like what I was after, so I thought I’d give it a try for a while.”
The late, great George Carlin once suggested golf courses as appropriate places for low-cost housing, but let’s not go there just yet. How about city parks, though? Did you know that parks have a closing time, and that if found there after hours you can be cited for trespassing and fined? In addition to public parks there are parking garages, vacant lots, cemeteries, closed roads, hiking trails, scenic overlooks, and uncultivated fields, and the homeless are unwelcome in all of them once the sun goes down. Yes, there are campgrounds, but these require payment of ten or twenty dollars a night, and camping gear. There is National Forest land, usually beyond walking distance, where time spent is limited by law. (Incidentally, out-of-towners take precedence over locals, which I discovered upon being kicked out over a recent holiday weekend.)
Then there are churches, some 400,000 of them in America. A church is a building used for its primary purpose only a few times a week, and almost always stands empty every single night. This, to me, seems an utter waste of perfectly good shelter. I myself have observed that many have NO TRESPASSING OR OVERNIGHT PARKING signs posted in their parking areas. This, to me, seems utterly and hugely hypocritical, unless I misremember Matthew 25:35-40. How’s that go again? “When I was hungry you fed me, when I was naked you clothed me, when I was homeless you told me to get lost,” was it?
What’s the worst that might happen if a homeless person used a space for the night — they might leave a mess? This is sadly true (consider the restrooms at the public library or convenience store), and it gives us all a bad name. So designate a place, supply a trash can and port-a-potty, post some rules and patrol the area. Yes, yes, I can hear the City Council even now, bemoaning the establishment of a local tent city or the like. But why? Hide it out of view, and you’d have all the undesirables in one easy-to-monitor location, instead of sleeping in random places, wandering all over town and upsetting the customers — sorry, tourists. Sounds like it would benefit the city as much as anyone, and I suspect most who used it would be respectful of the rules. And if some weren’t, so what? Because a percentage of a group is unworthy, no one should help anyone, ever?
These are human lives, people exposed to weather and insects, isolation and despair, scorn and disdain. What’s it like to be homeless? To be homeless is to belong and be welcome nowhere. To be homeless is to be without purpose or prospects, to be suspect. To be homeless is to smell bad and be unkempt, to be bored and lonely and to never sleep enough. A happy memory or an act of kindness can bring bitter tears, because to be homeless, often, is to be ashamed.
Think of this: You may decide to roll over in bed and sleep another ten minutes. You may watch TV or play a video game or simply sit on the sofa in your climate-controlled living room and pet the cat for a while. You may take pleasure in cooking a meal and sitting down at your table to enjoy it. You may have friends over. You may look forward to holidays or take a vacation. You may go to the bathroom at need, and shower luxuriously. When night comes you may lock yourself safely in your home, maybe order a pizza or stroll to the refrigerator for a beer or glass of wine. You might crawl into bed with a book or just snuggle beneath the covers. Ah, won’t sleep feel good tonight? Simple pleasures. I, homeless, can do none of those things. It’s not your fault, nor should you feel guilty for what you have. Indeed, you should treasure it. In appreciating what you have, you can better understand what the homeless do not. It isn’t just about a bed.
The homeless exist. They’re citizens of your town and your country. As sure as their number includes criminals, predators and the lowest form of humanity, it includes artists, unsung heroes and the manifestly decent. If we turn a blind eye, we lose by it. We know the government will do nothing. Why? Because we homeless don’t — or are not perceived to — pay taxes or vote, despite studies showing 40-53% as being formally employed at some level, so why would any politician so much as acknowledge our existence? Being compassionate might be construed by the electorate as condoning the “lifestyle.” And if the wealthy complain enough about us loitering in their city streets, no doubt we’ll be force-marched into the desert to be lost and covered by drifting sands, solving the problem.
What can you do? Only you know that. There’s a saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but never believe that for second. Good intentions, in and of themselves, make this world a kinder and safer place for us all.
As for myself? Think of me, if you must, as the mildly autistic grasshopper from Aesop’s fable, opposite the industrious ant. Granted, the grasshopper wasn’t kicked out of his home of 18 years during a housing boom so his landlady could renovate and double the rent, and he, along with many co-workers, didn’t lose his job of six years because his incompetent new boss (who shortly thereafter lost his job too) wanted to appear proactive and hard-nosed. Still, I’m responsible for being in this situation, I know that. There are obstacles on everyone’s road. That I was unprepared and made poor decisions is undeniable, and really, the ant hasn’t been the totally self-righteous creep he was in the original tale, either.
But I don’t want to live like this. I certainly don’t want to die like this. I made mistakes, but must I pay for them with the rest of my life? I’m trying not to. If I can’t halt the nosedive my life has entered, what’s the point of enduring — morbid curiosity? I’m a cause of concern to my friends, an emotional burden to my family, and no doubt an object of scorn to many. There is a constant murmur of despair in my head that I must prevent from getting too loud. At least the Bible, in John 12:25, assures me I have a lock on eternity.
As you spiral into homelessness, you watch as pieces of your life fall away. You’ve lost your security. Your belongings go next, a few at a time, to the pawn shop or the dumpster. You’re on your own. Dignity erodes at the food bank and shelter, and washes down the Salvation Army shower drain. (I do not fault these organizations; the erosion is inevitable.) You cling to whatever fragile hope you can patch together from the remnants of tattered dreams. And when at last you lose that? I don’t know. I’m trying desperately to avoid finding out.
The original version of this story, "Obstacles," is available on Amazon Kindle.
