a room of his own

Helping Kyle move from his more-or-less agreeable cottage to a downtown residential motel was a morning cheerlessly spent. The move itself was simple—all Kyle’s belongings fit easily into the back of a minivan. It was the circumstances under which he was forced from his home that were so dispiriting.

Carrying the first of only three loads from the curb to his second-storey unit, I did my best to hide my disappointment upon entering his new place. Kyle explained that he had been there for four days, a fact I confirmed based on the number of Slurpee cups on the windowsill. The walls were pitted, punched, and marred by the hideous streaks of what appeared to be some sort of sauce or oil. The bed—a drooping, uninspired mattress cowering close to the fudge-colored shag—was squeezed into the room, leaving only a narrow catwalk around the perimeter. And even this walkway was clogged with boxes of laundry, books, dingy couch cushions, and the inner-workings of a couple walkie-talkies. Sinking onto his mattress, Kyle sat and stared.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly. “I work hard, and things keep getting worse.” Then in a burst of emotion he shouted through grit teeth, “I can’t keep doing this!”

This large complex of ramshackle rooms, referred to quaintly in painted letters above the main entrance as an Inn, features a community kitchen and a would-be progressive co-ed latrine. Walking into the latter after unloading my first armful of items, I was confronted without ceremony by an uneven bank of lackluster urinals. Beyond these was an array of creaking stalls, and set up opposite them, a row of yellowed washbasins. I tried to imagine calling this home.

Then I saw the pair of shower booths at the far end of the room. As I approached them (out of morbid curiosity, to be sure), I discovered that between them was posted a patronizing restroom code of conduct on copy paper warped by moisture. Hung with opaque vinyl curtains, the narrow showers were dank and dim and featured grout freckled by black mold. This is where Kyle will step every time he wants to clean himself.

I arrived back in his unit with my second armful of inside-out clothing and HAMM radio magazines. “I’m sorry,” he began. He looked at me with his small, close-set eyes: “You know I don’t want to ask you for anything,” and again he paused; “but I’m out of food.”

Kyle has a learning disability. He has extremely low-functioning fine motor skills that make it difficult for him to button his shirt and tie his shoes. And he began his first bout of homelessness at age 12 when he fled an abusive foster home.

In sixth grade, after being hit over the head with a bottle by the woman who was responsible for caring for him, Kyle sought refuge beneath a freeway onramp. For a while this is where he slept, and when hunger would get the best of him he would scurry back and forth across the freeway to scavenge food from behind a Safeway.

Eventually a concerned woman who saw Kyle running across the onramp picked him up and took him to Child Protective Services. For the next six years he was shuttled between various group homes, until at age 18 he was once again relegated to the streets.

Now Kyle works as a security guard. His willingness to patrol deserted buildings and quiet complexes at odd hours has kept him employed through the recession despite his lack of a high school diploma or any otherwise saleable skill. His shift has lately been from 8:00P.M. till 4:00A.M., and at 25 years old, his work schedule, his natural difficulty with socializing, and his seclusion in an inhospitable living situation render him effectively isolated from the rest of the community. It is a lonely existence, and it was taking its toll on him.

Upon hauling up the final item—a disassembled futon—we took stock of the dismal accommodations. A man with a long beard poked his head into the room without a word and in an instant was gone just as mysteriously as he had appeared. Kyle then explained to me how it had come to this.

A month ago, Kyle’s former landlord had threatened to raise his rent from $700 to $1000 per month. When Kyle protested, the landlord offered him the opportunity to render the additional $300 in labor. Kyle, not knowing his rights, agreed. He did yard work, minor repairs on the landlord’s household electronics, and even ran his errands. But the relationship soon became so abusive that Kyle could no longer take it … and so out he went. But the move was costly for him. It was only the 10^th of the month, and Kyle had already paid the entirety of that month’s rent. It took his entire paycheck to secure the residential motel, and at his wages, it will take a long time to recover from paying rent twice within ten days.

“If you can just help me with some food, I promise I will pay you back.” His mouth hung slack after he had finished speaking, his eyes red from having had only four hours of sleep between getting off work and his move. I guess I hesitated in my response, for he quickly followed with, “I won’t ever ask you for anything again. I can help you with whatever you need help with. I can volunteer at Sacred Heart. I promise.” And I felt sick.

the value of our possessions

Into the used bookstore Sadie carried a meaty stack of texts, of which the goodly bookkeeper kept seven. This was propitious, she told me, “For it is from Adam’s seventh rib that God made Eve.” I wasn’t sure if she was joking, and I wasn’t sure if this information was relevant. Regardless, she pocketed the happy little sum of $8.75 and set her heart toward what next she would do. “Let’s head downtown,” she suggested.

Some time ago I was startled to learn that Jesus encouraged his listeners to sell their possessions and give to those in need. He famously invited a rich young man to “Sell your possessions and give to the poor…. Then come, follow me” (Matthew 19:21). But more surprisingly, and perhaps willfully forgotten by us moderns, he asked the same of his followers, who were, well, already following him (Luke 12:33).

However, in a consumer culture, one that elevates acquisition to a moral imperative (our economy, our jobs, our very lives depend, we are told, on perpetual spending), the message to sell your possessions and give to the poor is seldom heard, and when it is, it seems laughable, destructive, or applicable to somebody else. But what if we’ve got it wrong? What if shopping is not the summum bonum? What if this radical, personal divestiture carries with it something wonderful that we have missed entirely?

The experience of the early church offers up a commentary on the possibilities created by this seemingly imprudent behavior: “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had…. From time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need” (Acts 4:32; 34-35). And what was the result of this dispossession? “There were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4:33).

I admit it: I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want the poor to be lifted from their destitution, and I want to enjoy the good life brought to me by my iPhone, my Doc Martens, my Cuisinart, and yes, my modest personal library. It pains me when I hear the chorus of impoverished voices telling me that they are poor because I am rich. Can’t we all just live a life of affluence? Why would anyone ask me to do without—to give up what belongs to me?

 

With $8.75 burning a hole in her handbag (and let’s be honest, a good bit more than $8.75 was in her handbag), Sadie considered how she would take the next step. She had decided that in order to follow Christ’s precept, swift, reckless distribution trumped thoughtful, strategic giving, for in her self-awareness she knew the latter carried with it the risk of inaction.

I followed Sadie downtown (incidentally, this all happened just yesterday). It was dark and rainy, but still it was Saturday night so people thronged the streets. We walked past restaurants and clubs filled with friends, families, and couples enjoying time with one another, and the juxtaposition between them and the people we approached was halting.

Through the mist that ascended from the waterlogged concrete, we watched as a man slowly, laboriously pushed a train of shopping carts piled high with all his worldly possessions. The man, similar to his carts, was wrapped in torn white sheets of plastic. He wore a hard hat.

A block later we came upon an elderly woman who smiled at us from an unlit doorway where she stood trying to get out of the rain. Her wire cart was stuffed mostly with crumpled newspaper, as were her coat pockets. When she opened her mouth, webs stretched between her lips and her hair fell like ashen straw over her shoulders.

The third obviously homeless individual we approached was a garrulous 64 year-old (the first two homeless people declined the money, a fact that should be a challenge to us all). I introduced myself, along with Sadie, and he replied, “W.D.’s the name. Like WD-40.” He was wiry, energetic, and unbelievably cheerful. Sadie dropped the cash into W.D.’s empty Big Gulp cup without much ceremony, and he thanked her sincerely. We talked with him about his situation for a moment, and then we bid him good night.

Walking away from W.D., Sadie reflected: “The fact that I no longer have the Twilight series at my finger tips, or books on the French Revolution and string theory, is surprisingly …” and here she paused, either to search for the right word or for dramatic effect: “unproblematic.” I didn’t argue with her. “But W.D. will get a couple meals out of it, and I made a friend. And if I see him again, I’ll stop and chat with him.” And who knows what might happen as a result of that relationship.

 

One obviously needn’t be Christian to attempt such a counter-cultural act of generosity—no more than a person need be Hindu to practice Gandhian non-violence. With this in mind, I invite readers to give this little act of compassion a try … and then share your experience by posting a comment. What did you sell? Was that process a challenge? To whom did you give? What did you feel when you gave? I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps we can encourage one another in taking one step closer toward a community united to ensure that every child and adult is free from poverty.

new year's resignation

With a blue moon hanging pregnant in the sky, New Year's Eve brought with it an extraordinary sense of promise and expectation. But when the hour of midnight arrived, we got a law regulating tanning salons, a new selection of canned soup, and a particularly savage assault on an elderly homeless man.

I have been working with Spider for about nine months, and every effort to help him to a dignified, humane living situation seems to fall stillborn at our feet (see blog posts dated 5/26, 7/25, 8/31, & 9/26). An ever-expanding circle of social workers, physicians, non-profit organizations, federal employees, and private citizens of conscience have struggled to assist Spider in escaping what he refers to as "My Nightmare"; but the result is always the same.

On January 2nd, my wife and I found Spider after several days of searching. He had moved without warning from the location where he had been holed up for the past half year, and after scouring the streets and sidewalks where he customarily wheels himself in his dilapidated chair, we finally tracked him down beneath an overpass just outside the downtown core.

"What are you doing over here, Spider?" we asked. It was late at night and he was crumpled on the concrete with one of his badly soiled diapers just inches from his face. "We were worried about you." In truth there had been a flurry of email by concerned friends who had noticed that Spider was not in his usual haunt.

"It's too dangerous over there," Spider began, recognizing our voices. "It's not safe. I was mugged."

Mugged. I seldom consider that someone would be mugged in San Jose. But then he related the incident that had occurred on New Year's Eve over possession of his cigarettes.

"He started hitting me on the back of my head," and then Spider paused as the pain welled up in his throat. "He was beating me with a can of beer, and he wouldn't stop." 

Although Spider's skin is badly wrinkled and his voice is coarse, he never seemed so much like a child. "He kept beating me, but I couldn't do anything ... because of my legs." He motioned to his shrunken bones, and tears dropped from his dirty cheeks. The assailant then took what he was after amidst the fire works, honking horns, and happy couples streaming from the clubs and out into the freezing street to celebrate the New Year.

What continues to astonish me is that in the 21st century, in the Valley of Earthly Delights, it should prove impossible to provide the most basic human needs for a single, disabled, elderly man. While resources have been mobilized on his behalf, they have proved impotent in the face of a society that acquiesces to the occasional sacrifice of the weak.  

Spider drinks incessantly, smokes, jokes, makes friends easily, complains ad nauseam, has a terrible time trying to use a toilet, takes pride in his Native American heritage, makes idle threats, is stubborn, lonely, and nearly blind, loves sports, and most nights cries himself to sleep. He receives a paltry disability check each month, but the money he receives is not enough to pay for even low-income housing. What's more, he is simply incapable of caring for himself; even if there were a place he could afford, he would require 24-hour care. 

A few days after I had spoken with Spider regarding the assault, I found him back in front of the abandoned downtown office. I was dismayed to see him back so soon after his attack. "What's going on, Spider?" I wondered what could have happened that would have out-weighed the vulnerability to assault that he obviously risked in this spot.

He looked at me, anger in his eyes, and spoke quietly: "I was sitting in my wheelchair underneath the freeway, listening to my ball game, and a couple of kids came along and started harassing me." He then turned his face to the ground, his voice barely above a whisper. "One of them grabbed the back of my chair so I couldn't move, while the other one stood in front of me ... and pissed all on me."

it's christmas

Perched on some crumbling front yard retaining wall, his body shook and shuddered like a bedeviled puppet. His arms hung slack, his head stared vacantly, and from his open mouth came stuttering moans that turned my stomach. 

It was Christmas morning, and I had run out to grab a paper. Everyone else in the house was still asleep, gifts gleaming beneath the tree, and I wanted to be certain I was back before they woke.

After briefly looking over the paper at the 7-11, it occurred to me that the world was much the same as it had been the day before, so I left empty-handed. That’s when I saw Joshua sitting across the otherwise deserted street. It was 36 degrees, and even at that distance I could see that beneath his jacket he was bare-chested. His breath formed a halo around his anguished face as he grunted and exerted himself in his convulsions.

Walking briskly across the road I pulled my coat tight and watched for him to notice me. But even as I drew quite close, his gaze continued fixed in front of him while the rest of his body undulated with a mind of its own. He sat in the shadow of a pleasant looking home and was enclosed in a field of urban filth: a dented can of bean dip, a broken light bulb, a walker hung with damp clothes, some dried up lasagna, a crumpled surgical mask, and numerous wrappers, each bearing the rotten marks of their former contents. 

I sat down next to him, and the odor was overpowering. “Good morning,” I said cautiously. He gave no response, ankles rolling about as he pushed out muted gutturals. I continued. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m fine,” he said, suddenly ceasing his gyrations but keeping his face forward. There was ice in patches around his feet, but his voice was clear and lucid.

“Do you know what day it is?” I braced myself for his reply. I couldn't decide what would be more tragic, his knowing or his not knowing that it was Christmas Day. 

“Wednesday, I think.” 

It was Friday. I would have to ask again. “Do you know what is special about today?” I noticed a half-eaten, unwrapped sandwich leaking from his pocket. There was some sort of crust on his face and neck. The street was so quiet.

I stared at the side of his face. Here was a breathing, stinking piece of human waste amidst the garbage of a convenient store, a fast food restaurant, a gas station, a supermarket—and the society that spawned them.

 

The Jesuit theologian Ellacuria, martyred in El Salvador during their civil war, employed a pregnant metaphor in thinking about the poor who persist in the midst of a prosperous society: coproanalysis, the study of one’s excrement to diagnose disease. 

Admittedly, although the analogy is indelicate, it is telling. The suggestion that the poor, the destitute, the needy are the societal equivalent of excrement offends our sensibilities, but that is generally the extent of the offense. We might believe in the equality of all people, but we allow thousands of our neighbors to subsist on garbage; we might believe in inalienable human rights, yet we allow thousands of our neighbors to wallow in their own filth, sleeping in soiled clothing on sidewalks or in the mud beneath an overpass; we might believe that all humankind is endowed with inherent worth and dignity, yet we allow thousands of our neighbors to languish with untreated medical conditions.

Those whom I encounter on our streets, while possessed of many wonderful qualities, are also sick, lonely, frightened, hopeless, weary, cold, hungry, betrayed, abandoned, dejected, afflicted, and in some cases longing for death. The question that coproanalysis poses is this: what is this disease, this plague that infects us? What malady would produce such symptoms in our resource-rich society? What disorder would lead us to go about our daily lives while such suffering continues all around us?

The truth is that these children and adults are treated just as unclean, just as untouchable, and just as unholy as human feces. While we might do our best to place the blame for their conditions on their own shoulders, pointing to their inherent qualities, character flaws, personal proclivities, poor judgment, the result is all the same. And maybe it’s true. Perhaps human waste is just what they are, and we are otherwise relatively healthy.

 

I waited for Joshua’s answer. It was freezing, and I was close enough to see the goose bumps on his chest. I thought about my wife and children, warm beneath their covers. They would soon be waking.

For the first time since I had seen him he turned and faced me. His eyes were bright and alert. He smiled and answered, “It’s Christmas.”

emptiness

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and there was only an hour left before we would close our doors until the following Monday. Crowds still pressed through the halls, tracking in leaves and cold blasts of the November wind, but the place felt warmed by the smiles on people's faces. Our phones had been ringing feverishly all week with families desperate for assistance, but by this time the calls had begun to quiet. 

As we served this final press of families, staff were already talking about their holiday plans, buttoning their coats, and wishing their colleagues best wishes for the long weekend. And that’s when Jasmine rang.

“Do you have any food left?” Those were the first words that came through the receiver. Her voice was breathless. 

After being assured that we did in fact still have food boxes available, she asked how late we would be serving. “I’m not really sure how this works.” She’d never sought this sort of assistance before, and she was uncomfortable with the thought of accepting the gift of food.

“We only have about one hour left,” our staff informed her. The other end of the line went silent. “Can you make it here by then?”

“I’m …” she started, but then paused. “We’ll try,” she finally replied.

She never made it. But a half hour after we had served our last meal and closed our doors, the phone rang again. Most of our staff had tidied up their areas and had gone to be with their families. We answered the phone, and it was Jasmine. She explained her situation and pleaded with us to make an exception by delivering the food box to her. After listening to her present conditions, one of our staff members volunteered to make the delivery.

It turned out that Jasmine and her two-year old daughter were now homeless. They had come up with enough money to stay in a Motel 6 for the night, and that is where we met them on the evening before Thanksgiving. At that time all across the country there were warm and wonderful homecomings: students returning to their parents after their first semester away at college; grandparents flying across country to spend the holidays with their grandchildren; friends reuniting after years apart. But for Jasmine and her daughter, things were happening in reverse. Their lives were fracturing.

When we brought the food box into Jasmine’s room, she thanked us with what seemed an outpouring of all the grief she had been carrying for her family. In the cold, sterile, artificial furnishings of the motel room, everything she had ever associated with Thanksgiving seemed a mockery--something for somebody else. Yet even in such circumstances, in the midst of so much despair, she was overwhelmed with gratitude at our offering. And as she shared her appreciation for the food we had brought, her daughter’s eyes remained fixed and inexpressive. I think I would prefer to have seen her daughter express anything at all, rather than such emptiness. At two years old, emptiness.

After a few minutes of thanks and reassurance, we felt compelled to ask the disturbing question regarding how she planned to prepare the food. She held her daughter close, adjusted her little knit cap, and—as if apologizing—pointed out that the motel lobby had a microwave.

sacred & profane

I am ambivalent with regard to the notion of fate. That said, I believe that Wednesday morning, when the temperature had again dropped below freezing, our encounter was as predestined as the fall of any sparrow.

Just before sunrise, well wrapped in layers against the coming of the cold, I opened my front door and with a deep breath stepped outside. My eyes immediately began to water in the bitter air. Parked cars, rooftops, lawns—even dead leaves—were white with frost. My tears flowed slowly.

I had hoped I wouldn’t see it, but I never really doubted. I didn’t know who it would be, only that I dreaded the encounter. It was so cold. I even took a different way to work this particular morning, trying to avoid the meeting. But my altered path led me inextricably to what was determined to happen, regardless.

Before having passed beyond the shadow of my apartment building, there it was. Like a sacred object—ancient, wise, terrible—he sat immovable amid the scutter and scurry of morning traffic. Untouched by the world around him, he instead drew the world to himself.

Poised on the bus stop bench, a child’s pink blanket draped over his head and concealing his body, he filled me with foreboding. A jacket stiff with snow lay at his side, along with the other articles that might have kept him warm: pants, gloves, sweaters, shoes, a sleeping bag—all bristling like cacti with spines of white frost. The clothing formed an unbroken trail into the gutter. A brittle shell of ice encased his swollen feet, his socks stuck and stinging on his useless toes like the carapace of a mottled crab.

I stood for a moment, unsure of what was supposed to happen next. It seemed he had found me. How many times had this encounter taken place throughout the course of the world?

I moved very close.

“Hello?” I whispered.

He slowly drew back the blanket, eyes rolling in his head, and as he did, the sweet aroma of vegetable matter filled the space around us. And with the lowering of the blanket I could see that besides his sweatshirt, he was wearing only a pair of ratted underwear. His thighs were blotchy, and all his skin seemed tea-stained and scaly. It was 31 degrees, and he was perfectly still. I wondered if he was dying. 

“Are you okay?” 

His eyes, cloudy and congealed, wandered past me as mucus bubbled from his nostrils in a way I had only before observed in infants. His mildewed beard of brown and gray was chunked with globs of glistening ice, and coiled across his baldhead was a deep, undulating scar. Something had long ago reached in and touched his brain.

For a moment more I stood in awe of what was before me. I felt small, my words like throwing apples at a god.

the only gift he had

Shoddy tattoos are scrawled over his arms, across his chest, and up onto his neck. The ones that aren’t profane are pornographic, and combined with his shaved head and swagger, it's easy to believe that at 24 years old, Brett has spent more time in prison than he did in high school.

Yet three days ago, Brett—a former gang member—came to my door late at night with the question he had been struggling to ask me for weeks. His over-sized jersey made him somehow look child-like as he stood in the yellow light of our porch lamp, awkwardly steeling his courage with half-hearted small talk. He couldn’t look me in the eye when he finally got around to asking, and when he spoke, he stumbled over his words: “Are you proud of me?”

Brett spent his entire youth in group homes. Dirty carpets, dead-bolted bedroom doors, and communal kitchens were what the world held out for his adolescence, and once he turned 18, he found himself homeless, sleeping in cars, in shelters, and on bus stop benches. Brett has never had a family.

And this time of year is difficult for Brett. It was one year ago that he succumbed to the loneliness and isolation he felt without the support of any meaningful human relationships. He swallowed 28 capsules of prescription medication on the day before Thanksgiving and awoke after two days, a breathing tube scorching his airway and IV's piercing his appendages; his arms were restrained.

Having spent the recent summer months without work, Brett’s diligent search for employment finally bore fruit, and he was able to begin a new job a couple weeks ago. As he awaits his first paycheck, he has received the financial assistance to stay in a motel, but the motel is no substitute for the stability of his own place. And it is lonely. And it is Thanksgiving.

After assuring Brett that indeed I was proud of him, he asked the next question on his list, this time looking directly into my eyes: “Can I spend Thanksgiving with you and your family?” 

The question caught me completely off-guard and sent my mind swimming in all directions. What could I say? 

And then, before I could say anything but after my obvious hesitation, he offered the only gift he had to give: “I could bring the turkey I get from Sacred Heart, that way you don’t have to buy one.”