Another Outsider

One of the occupational hazards of working with the homeless is that I see them no matter where I am. Because, as I like to remind my friends, "The hobo shuffle is the same in every country." My latest international visit took the form of my first cruise in the Caribbean. Before I left, a friend of mine advised me to "take about 20 minutes to feel bad about the opulance and then get over it and have a good time, because its a lot of fun."

As the trip went on, I better understood what she meant. Not only could I pick out the many homeless people on each island, and furthermore, I don't know that I saw a single American face at work on the ship, though I did see plenty of Eastern Europeans and East Asians. On shore, the port area was extremely built up, pandering to the expectations of the "Northern" tourists, but the wealth disparity once one passed the inner circle was immense. I realized how insightful my friend's advice during the many moments of discomfort I felt. It raised a number of questions for me, the most important being: how does my life as a privileged American contribute to this disparity?

This ties into another significant aspect of my future a requirement for my Master's program in Social Work. I will need to do a practicum, or internship, however, and trying to select the site is a challenge. I know that I would like to work in poverty, homelessness, and economic equality, and in order to do this effectively, I've thought that I needed to get outside of my "first world" bubble and see poverty from an outside perspective. Something this past trip showed me, however, is that I will never be able to excape this bubble. There are a number of privileged categories that apply to me: white, educated, Christian, English-speaking, heterosexual. They always will. Even if I go live in community with the underprivileged, I will still be an outsider.

So instead of becoming like them, as though I'm from that community, perhaps there is another or a better way I can use my gifts, even though I'm an outsider.

Getting back up

I was present to another miracle today and I was so excited I wanted to share it with you. There was an alcoholic client I had several months ago that cared about a little more than most. I don't know what it is about some people, some of them just sit a little closer to my heart than others. Several months ago, he completely fell off the grid - he lost his job, lost his apartment, and lost contact with everyone he knew. Several clients and the mobile outreach team talked about seeing him once in awhile either passed out in the street or on a bench. He is a good and honest man and a hard worker, and his disappearance bothered staff and clients alike.

He re-appeared on Tuesday, slumped against my building. He had asked for me, and when I went outside to talk to him, he grasped my hand tightly. His face was swollen, his eye was blackened, and his eyelashes, eyebrows, and moustache were all singed from clumsy cigarette-lighting attempts. He was about ready to break, and heartbreakingly wanted to come back to the program, come back to acceptance. I rubbed his back and told him that he had a place with us. I was able to get him up to our facility for lunch. When he started to get sick and we started talking to him about going to the hospital to detox, however, he blanched. "Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked my co-worker. She said, "What you need is outside of our scope of care - you need medical help." He wasn't open to any offerings of help. "I'll do this myself, get my own scope of care." He stumbled out of the center with promises to return, sober, the next day. The next day, however, he was nowhere to be found, and I was afraid it would be another two months before I saw him again, if I did.

This morning, another client came for me and told me he was outside. I went to him, his face was still puffy, his pupils still tiny black dots, tears already forming in his eyes, his self-loathing written plainly all over his figure, and I took his hand. He had whiskey and soda with him this time, and while he couldn't stay on property with that, I didn't want to send him away. I again brought up the idea of a hospital and pointed out to him that when he tried to sober up on his own, he couldn't. "You can do this again, but right now you need help, and the hospital is the place you go for that." He started talking about what happens when he goes to a hospital, and I said, "I've been in a hospital for four months; I know what it's like. I also know that's where I got better, and that's what you need." He softly agreed to be taken, and I scampered off to find the worker who could take him before he changed his mind. The worker was gone, however, and I had to stay, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma. I felt terrible sending him away, away from help he needed, away from his willingness to go to the hospital, but he couldn't be around with that alcohol. I told him as much, and sugggested he come back in 30 minutes, lunchtime, for a ride. He said he wanted to do that, but he didn't move. Thinking he wanted to stay, I said, "Or, you can give me that bottle and let me take care of it, and come upstairs with me right now." "No ma'am," he answered firmly, "I'll take care of it." I helped him up, and he shuffled off in his too-big pants and socks (no shoes on), arms full of bottles and a sweater. "I'm going to throw this away," I could hear him tell people as he scooted past them, "I'm going to the hospital." It was ironically cute and laughable and saddening all at once. I was wracked with uncertainty in my decision - did I do the right thing? Would he come back? Did he think I blew him off?

He didn't come back for lunch, but folks told me he was around. About an hour and a half after lunch, he came to the door of my center, arms clear of belongings, shoes on his feet, and said, "I threw that bottle away. I'm ready to go to the hospital."


I could have cried for the many feelings I still have to think about it: relief, love, respect, humility. It's just another thing to love about the job.

What it means to be a lady

There's a lady, Shelle, that I have that I've known for a few years. I've seen her when she was "out there," the colloquial term that clients give to being in their active addiction. When I first knew her, she was still actively using and prostituting and had attitude to spare - she would lash out at someone before taking their help. This last time has been different and she's been more earnest about her recovery, and more successful. She hasn't used in over a year, after 20+ years on the street.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.

Black Boots

I was at work one weekend when a former client dropped in. Nida (not her real name) was a chronically homeless addict with two sons in prison, and her time with my program was the first time that she was truly serious about her recovery. She has an incredibly humble spirit, works extremely hard, and its precious to be with her as she discovers this world sober. It's much the way I imagine a parent would feel to watch their children make discoveries.

She and I were catching up on her job and her upcoming move from transitional housing into her own apartment when a yellow-shirted woman approached me for a pair of shoes from the downstairs clothing room. It was a Saturday, and I don't have access to that room on Saturdays. I told Yellow-Shirt as much, and she lamented that she needed them for work that evening. After several minutes of silence, Nida pointed out, "You know, you could get pair of black shoes at Wal-Mart*...it'll only take one bus ticket to get there." A few seconds of silence streched between us as Nida studied Yellow-Shirt's face. "You don't have it, do you?" Yellow-Shirt shook her head. "I can see how bad you want this; I can see it on your face," Nida said, knowing from years on the homeless street. "If I give you $10, will you take it to the store and get shoes?" Yellow-Shirt said yes, and silence fell as Nida weighed the decision. To take the heat off her, I said, "Let me check the back room," referring to a small closet on our floor with toiletry items and socks and underwear.

I knew there weren't any shoes back there, and if there were, they wouldn't be black, but I was absolutely blown away by the "Pay it Forward" gesture that Nida was making. I know she was thinking about people who had helped her when she was struggling, and she may have been making an amend for those she hadn't helped when she was using drugs. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. Chills covered me as I spotted one pair of shoes on the low shelf - black boots. I flipped them over to see the size, and they were just right.

Another good thing about the job: miracles happen everyday, and sometimes I get to be present to them.

Epilogue - I still don't know Yellow-Shirt's name, but the shoes are very comfortable and exactly right for the job. She enjoys it and is doing well in it, and she is interviewing for a second job in a few days.

*In no way is this an endorsement of Wal-Mart. I'm just sayin'.

Miss Sarah, why me?

One of the religious communities in town offers weekends of reflection and rejuvenation for homeless people in recovery or with mental illness. The folks that go on this weekend are typically chronically homeless and usually forgotten, or when they're considered, it's with distain. During one of these weekend, there are different activities set up to encourage them to think and reflect on the current state of their lives and what they want, as well as have an opportunity to grow spiritually. Every single person to have gone to this event returns with positive feedback and having gotten something from it, if only to feel unconditional love for the first time in their lives.

Several weeks ago, I told one of my clients, Dinky (name has been changed), about the weekend, and because we trust each other, he signed up. As the time has approached, however, he's become more and more anxious about going. Last week, he said he was mostly just confused but by this afternoon, he was truly upset. He couldn't sleep this week and he had a headache. He said, "Miss Sarah, I know this is a good weekend and you recommended me and all, but what if I do something wrong? I've never done anything like this before." He thought for several seconds, and then sat back in his chair. "I just don't know why you recommended me for this. Why me?"

My heart absolutely broke. Dinky is one of the most thoughtful, considerate and honest clients I have. He works hard to know the right thing to do and does his best to do it, even when he doesn't want to, even though he's living on the street. I told him all of this, and as I went on, his body lifted incrementally. By the time I finished, he said, "Really? I'm all of those things?" I assured him he was and that I had faith in his ability. He nodded, a big smile on his face, and said, "Okay."

One of the most special things about my job is that I get to love people. My hope is that the love I show to them, they show to other people.