Spider (update from 5/28 & 7/25)

There is no getting used to the shock, the sickening mass that rises in one's throat when confronted with this 61 year-old man lying naked on the side of the city street, covered in flies and fungus. Yet there he lies each night.

Wads of soiled tissue debase his surroundings, and his wheelchair, with its one flat tire, simply adds insult to injury. At his side is the waxy cup from 7-11, the one in which he relieves himself, and next to it is a paper plate with some white rice and what looks like beef.

Spider's head rests heavily on the pavement, a stinking heap of tangled hair, dirt, and blood. Just a few inches away is a small gap in the pair of double doors to the vacant building whose doorway he calls home--and through that gap we have seen wiry, brown-haired rats pass, carrying who-knows-what manner of fleas, parasites, and disease. But there he lies each night.

Perhaps we can get used to it.

Or so I would have thought. But for more than a month now, a group of friends and colleagues has been rallying around Spider. Not content that he should be left to molder in the middle of the sidewalk, these otherwise-ordinary individuals have organized themselves to ensure that every evening a couple people pay him a visit, bringing him food, companionship, and hope. They bring bowls of soup, burritos, beans and rice, chicken--anything soft that he can manage without the use of teeth. They bring him adult diapers, batteries for his radio, new blankets, rolls of toilet paper, and whatever else he can make use of. But still, it is not enough. And they know it.

More remarkably, this group has committed to loving Spider as they love themselves. They are in the process of reminding us all just how revolutionary this now hackneyed moral precept truly is. They are working hard to secure humane housing for Spider, something befitting his human dignity. They want to make sure his medical conditions are treated. And they want to make sure he is part of a community that cares for him.

About a week ago--inspired by the devotion of this group--I thought I'd pay him a visit, myself. I approached Spider as he reclined just a few feet from the heavy traffic of a Friday night in downtown San Jose.

After some opening pleasantries, I got down to business: "How does a cheeseburger sound, Spider?"

He looked up, vaguely in my direction, and came out with this: "It sounds about half as good as two cheeseburgers."

"What?"

"My stomach is up against by backbone," he replied, and through the humor I was reminded of his very real suffering. I asked him if McDonald's would suit him, to which he responded, "That would be sufficient," using one of his most oft spoken--if not peculiar--expressions.

I made my way over to the downtown McDonald's, ordered the fare, and handed over the $2.16. And as I did, I looked at just how meagre that amount of money really was. Is that all it takes?

When I returned, I found that Spider had dozed off. I set the bag by his head, but I was worried that the rats would get it if he left it for too long. "Hey, Spider," I said softly, but he jerked awake with such violence that I leapt back. I felt horrible for waking him, but after a moment I was able to re-orient him. "I brought the cheeseburgers. They're right by your head."

A few days earlier, knowing that he was totally blind in his right eye and nearly so in his left, I had asked how he recognized me whenever I approached. "By your voice," he answered. I had hoped that he would tell me that he could still make out faces if they were up close, or that he could tell by the way I carried myself--but his vision is gone.

By now it was after 10:00PM, and I was looking to return home. I began bidding my farewell, when Spider asked if I had picked up any salt. The question caught me off guard, and I really couldn't imagine why he would want it. "Do you want to put salt on your cheeseburgers, Spider?" I asked with both amusement and disbelief.

"Um, yes," he snapped back in a tone of near perfect condescension. I looked up to the night sky, black and starless above the city's lights, and then back at Spider. "You can get it across the street at the Taqueria," he advised me in a little-boy's voice, as if my pause were simply an indication that I couldn't figure out where to get the desired substance. He followed with, "Would you mind getting me three packets?"

Three? How weird is that? That he determined it would be one-and-a-half packets per burger struck me as exceedingly curious, even for someone as curious as Spider.

I don't even think I had it in me to muster a sigh in the face of this crazy, pitiful, gentle, human being, this brother who had confided to me that he cried himself to sleep every night. So off I went, dutifully returning with the three packets.

This all took place about one week ago. Since then, two of the more courageous members of the group dedicated to looking after Spider gave him a hair cut and trimmed his beard. Another has been working feverishly on he trail of his missing money. And last week he was able to get it reinstated. The disability checks are now scheduled to start up within about one week of this posting. And with that funding comes the possibility of shelter. He is literally that close--after 28 years of almost continuous homelessness.

However, the transition from the street to stable housing is almost impossibly difficult--more strenuous on the individual than most of us could even begin to imagine. Please continue to keep Spider in your prayers. It will be not much short of a miracle to get him into humane quarters. But we are so close.

let's call it war

It was dusk, a time of transition throughout the unseen haunts of the homeless. At this hour there is much maneuvering as anxiety begins to rise in anticipation of the approaching darkness. At dusk there is the sense that one's options are diminishing, that events are already in motion that will determine the course of the dreaded night. And yesterday, this is precisely the time at which I met Sam.

Sam was starting to shift on the bus stop bench even before I first spoke with him, but what caught my attention initially were his bulging eyes. A quick google search will point out over 140 diseases that present themselves with this symptom, from iodine deficiency to hyperthyroidism, from goiter to malignant hypertension. But as we began to chat, I realized that Sam was not the least bit interested in this sort of diagnosis; he had far more pressing concerns than the slow, inevitable march of a degenerative disease.

"I can't take it out here," he said plaintively. "I'm a prisoner. I can't escape ... this." At 65 he was ready for it to all be over. His pants were a series of stains, what mostly looked like gravy, and his feet were shod in well-worn slippers. Beside him was the tell-tale grocery cart draped with garbage bags containing the bottles and cans he managed to pull from the city refuse.

As he began to narrate his recent events, I looked down to his left hand resting just inches from my shoulder. His gnarled fingers stretched their thinning skin and curved into thick, yellowed talons--and across his knuckles were the harrowing streaks of blood.

"I just needed a break," he continued, and before long he had described how, in order to escape the violence of his circumstances, deprived as he was of any semblance of human dignity, he had taken matters into his own hands. "I found a busted bottle lying in the gutter, and took it, and went to work on my arm here." And with that he made a vague sawing motion, bubbles of mucus blowing from a single nostril.

On that night, he had sliced and peeled his forearm to a mass of oozing lacerations.

He wanted to die, but this act of self-mutilation was a feigned suicide, for he proceeded to tell me how he sought out a sherif's deputy, this being the middle of the night, and presented himself with ravaged arm in full-view. "The sherif, he called an ambulance, and they took me to the EPS [Emergency Psychiatric Services] down there at Valley Med."

"What happened to you at EPS?" I inquired, not disguising my horror. I watched as his fingers repeatedly straightened, then curled back around his arm, more like tentacles than extensions of a human hand.

"Oh, well, they gave me some medicines, you know. But I got to sleep in a bed that night," he said with a grin that revealed some missing teeth and clearly infected gums.

"How long did they keep you there?"

"Oh," and then he thought for a moment. I was wondering if it was several weeks, or perhaps some number of months. "They let me go after 'bout 18 or 19 hours." He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of prescription medication. It was then that I noticed the orange hospital bracelet still encircling his rawboned wrist.

"What do you mean they 'let you go?' Where did they take you?"

"Nowhere." He said matter-of-factly. "They just pointed me to the door, and out I went. They gave me these pills here, but I ain't taken 'em." He rattled them in their amber plastic, then returned them to their place.

It is difficult to talk to people in Sam's circumstances and not be mindful of the persistent state of war that rages throughout so many of our neighbors' lives, a war with effects just as ruinous as any employing bullets and artillery. Families are being forced from their homes, adults are wandering from state to state in search of work, the elderly are languishing in out-of-the-way places, and children are being denied the opportunity of a decent education. The mental and emotional violence they suffer is real.

When we contemplate armed conflict, we cling to the hope that most nations--certainly our own--will adhere to the humanitarian guidelines laid out in the Geneva Conventions. However, there are no such conventions for our own citizens during an ostensible state of peace. Thousands of our neighbors must even now sift through garbage for their food, spend freezing nights without adequate shelter or covering, allow medical conditions to fester, watch their hygiene needs founder without the means to clean themselves, and endure the indignities that await those whose destitution is put on display for every passer-by to see and scorn.

Here are just a few excerpts from the Geneva Conventions:

Art. 26: The basic daily food rations shall be sufficient in quantity, quality, and variety to keep prisoners of war in good health and to prevent loss of weight or the development of nutritional deficiencies.

Art. 27: Clothing, underwear, and footwear shall be supplied to prisoners of war in sufficient quantities by the Detaining Power, which shall make allowance for the climate where the prisoners are detained.

Art. 29: The Detaining Power shall take all sanitary measures necessary to ensure the [prisoners'] cleanliness and healthfulness. Prisoners of war shall have for their use, day and night, conveniences that conform to the rules of hygiene and are maintained in a constant state of cleanliness.

Art. 14: Prisoners of war are entitled in all circumstances to respect for their persons and their honor.

Given the fact that so many thousands of our local residents are denied these rights each day, perhaps the sensible thing to do is formally recognize that a state of hostilities exists within our society and invoke the Geneva Conventions on behalf of our community's most beleaguered members.

Let it not be said that open war is safer for our own families and individuals than is our so-called peace.

a tolerable violence

I hesitate to write this blog entry. The violence that exploded in slow motion before my eyes just a few hours ago can be written about and interpreted in any number of ways, but in the end it is a violence that is wholly unremarkable.

Earlier this evening I was in line at a downtown soup kitchen (not Sacred Heart). I was talking with the elderly man in front of me who was sitting with his tired back against the wall. His beard was long and his shoes were mismatched, but the most distinguishing thing about him was his black bicycle helmet that he kept strapped on tight.

We had just begun our conversation when an argument broke out about 15 feet in front of us. It gradually became more heated, and more and more people began shouting at the two antagonists.

I stood up from my conversation and could see the two men that the others were trying to separate. But one man seemed inconsolable. What they were disputing was not at all obvious, but my guess was a disagreement about position in line. Then through all the posturing, the jumping around, and the screaming woman with long, tangled, blonde hair, one man through a fist at his foe, connecting to the top of the other's head.

But just as soon as the one punched, he retreated, and at that point I honestly believe it was still possible to avoid what eventually happened.

The person in charge of the feed line had a moment earlier taken out his cell phone. He did it in plain view, presumably to act as a deterrent of the violence that had yet to boil over. Now that a blow had been struck, it seemed that the one who had thrown it began to realize the consequences of police involvement.

The man who had landed the jab was disabled--one of his legs was twisted in an awkward arc. He then took a swing at the person in charge--a pastor--who was still on his cell phone with emergency dispatch, and that's when the whole group began to move toward him in unison; at first slowly, but then they descended on him like the rush of a breaking wave.

The man stumbled as he backed out into the street, cars swerving to avoid him. One man hit him hard in the ear, and another punched him in the back as he lost his balance. In an instant, it seemed that the whole line was upon him. And at the same time, those who had gathered across the street ran to join in the beating. By now the man with the twisted leg had fallen into the gutter while the mob unleashed their unrestrained fury. They kicked him, they tore at his clothing, they punched and slapped and clawed at him until eventually his limbs stopped flailing, and he seemed to rest peacefully, resigned beneath the torrent of blows.

Those few of us who weren't directly beating the fallen man were circulating through the press of assailants shouting in their ears that the police were there (they weren't) and to stop the assault (they didn't). Running from man to man, I could see the rage in their eyes. Their teeth flashed, they grunted, they frothed and cursed from distorted mouths. Each one seemed to focus his entire being on crushing the pile of bones rolling around on the street within this sack of flesh.

I don't think any of these people had ever before seen the man they sought to destroy. But for that brief moment, they vied with one other to rain down the most violence on this fallen stranger. Having had my camera out to take a photo of the old man waiting in line, I at this point clicked off a single shot from within the fray.

And in an instant, it was over. The throng evaporated and the bleeding victim lay motionless with his head against the curb. I knelt down beside him, and could hear him moaning gently. Then he reached up and grasped my hand. "Please, don't leave me" he begged.

I looked around, wary of a second attack. The street, the whole evening suddenly seemed so quiet, so still. The mass of tormentors had melted back into the park across the way, into the soup kitchen, which had just opened its doors, or had simply walked around the corner and away from the scene all together.

The man gripped me tightly, and trying to rise to his feet, found he was unable. "Please, don't go," he repeated over and over, his eyes rolling about in his head as blood flowed from his temple and from both rows of teeth. I held him and told him to rest, that he was safe, and that an ambulance was on its way. I looked him over and surveyed the damage: his shirt and pants were torn, his flanks were scraped and scuffed, dirt and debris were ground into his hair, the contents of his pockets were strewn about the vicinity, the area around his left eye had begun to swell and darken. He lifted his head, and I put my foot beneath it as a pillow.

Within several minutes, the police did arrive in force. The man I held clung to me with both hands until the police at last took him from me.

It is difficult to reflect on what I've just witnessed--just participated in. So many thoughts now fill my head: Could I have done more to prevent the escalation of violence? There were small steps, each of which edged closer to the eruption of savagery, but none of which were inexorable. Could I have done more to protect the fallen man? I am hardly an intimidating physical presence, but at some level courage and moral presence can command a situation. Why are we as a community content to put thousands into the situation of having to fight for their survival from day to day?

But by far my most disturbing thought is that violence, so long as it remains within the lower economic classes, is fairly tolerable. Most of the violence I have witnessed between the homeless and indigent goes unprosecuted. This goes for rape and sex-slavery as well as street fights. It is primarily when the violence breaks upwards into the middle class that society becomes alarmed and punishes the assailant with full vigor. As long as law-enforcement can keep a lid on things, can keep the violence restricted to the poor, we are pretty well satisfied.

After even the least bit of reflection it seems foolish that anyone would put himself in harm's way for someone mired in poverty and more than likely accustomed to violence.

The question I now ask myself is, Would I have done more to protect someone who looked more like me?

ann's story

At 22, Ann was struggling. Working nights at the Jollibee was an anemic, minimum wage affair, and when business was brisk she would stay late to finish out the closing procedures: bleaching towels, filling condiment bins, stuffing napkin dispensers—critical jobs one and all.

But for Ann, staying late meant missing the evening’s final bus home. “What was I supposed to do?” she asked me. “I needed the extra money.” (The extra hour netted her about $4.90.)

“The problem was that I had to ask one of my co-workers for a ride home. I felt so ashamed.”

“What?”

As it turned out, when Ann and her fellow employee would get close to her place, she would initiate an elaborate ruse. “Okay, here we are,” she would say, having her colleague drop her off around the block from where she actually slept. Having him pull over in front of an apartment complex she had never, in fact, visited, Ann would exit the vehicle with a chipper, “See you tomorrow!”

“Do you want me to wait until you get in?” the driver would inevitably ask, to which Ann would reply, “Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you—good night."

She would then walk up the path to the complex, and as soon as her friend would drive off, she would retrace her steps and walk back around the block to where she actually spent her nights: the homeless shelter.

“I hated being homeless.”

That was seven years ago, and a lot has changed for Ann since then. She has two beautiful children, her own car, and lives with her children’s father in her own place just around the corner from Sacred Heart.

But she is still struggling.

Ann now works three jobs, and even these aren’t enough to provide for her young family’s basic needs. The four of them are squeezed into a one-room apartment; her boyfriend is unemployed; they have no health insurance; and she relies on CalWORKS for her childcare.

She has come to Sacred Heart for help with obtaining employment, for her Thanksgiving turkey, for her infant’s diapers, and not long ago she received an eviction notice that she was only able to fend off through the help of Sacred Heart’s Emergency Rental Assistance program.

Recently, when her car broke down, she took it to a mechanic. Unable to pay for the repairs, the car is still being held at the shop until the entire bill can be paid. And as of today she has been unable to pay this month's rent.

We have asked Ann to help those of us who have never experienced the frustrations, the desperation, or the hopelessness of poverty. Within the next day or two, Ann will begin using our Facebook page to give regular updates on her day-to-day activities. We invite you to comment on her posts, ask questions, or otherwise share your reactions (although we can't guarantee that she will respond).

This is an experimental program, and we are grateful for Ann’s vulnerability and willingness to take this on in service to the broader community. Our hope is that this conversation will begin to build the foundations of solidarity between the poor and the prosperous, and that on this foundation we might create a culture in which poverty is no longer acceptable.

a dog noticed none of it

There was something terrible in the cold, polished chrome of the walker. Glinting yellow in the streetlight, it looked new and flimsy and cheaply made, but worst of all it seemed cruel as it rested idle on the sidewalk. Laid out on the bus stop bench next to the apparatus was its presumptive owner, like so much afterbirth spilled onto the side of the road.

Tonight I had simply wanted to take a stroll. When the night air is cool and my kids are tucked safely into bed, I enjoy a turn beneath the stars. But it is difficult to go far in the heart of Silicon Valley without being confronted by the destitution that haunts so many of our neighbors.

On seeing this gleaming appliance and its benched wreckage, I changed my course without thinking, crossing the darkened street to do I know not what. (I feel, in the face of such outrage to human dignity, the overwhelming urge to draw near. Seldom am I conscious of any intention beyond this visceral pull.) As I reached the sodium-lighted bank of newspaper racks, I walked to where the man's head was resting. His face was covered, just as it someday would be within the morgue, and the only visible part of him at this end was some wiry hair, thinning and gray. At the other end were his feet, still within their shoes, peeking chilled and child-like from beneath the covers.

I took out my phone, but who could I call at this hour? Who would have him? Where was the warm, safe haven for him to take refuge? I certainly couldn't call 911, for this was hardly an emergency. No, this is normal in our community.

The man on the bench had tucked his knees up toward his chest to make himself fit, drab and shabby in contrast to the clean lines of the medical device. He had shrouded himself beneath a black sleeping bag while behind him the smug and smiling Foster's Freeze mascot stood beaming in its neon emptiness. Across the street, though it was nearing midnight, the two teens working within the gaudy red and yellow A-frame of Der Wienerschnitzel continued to do a brisk business in milk shakes and chili cheese dogs. The customers came and went.  A patrol officer rolled by. A couple walked past, arm-in-arm. A dog trotted along the sidewalk without noticing any of it.

And I turned around and went home.