Understanding Homelessness

Pen Glut Exposes Me
 
We all have our things. One of mine is hoarding pens. Not expensive pens—just decent ones for signing my name and doing crossword puzzles. A while back my pen accumulation made an indelible point.
 
Chery, a vivacious 18-year-old now living in a tiny room instead on the streets, came to my RV after our interview so I could give her a HEAR US flyer. While we stood and chatted, she offered to write down her email address for me, asking me for, gulp, my pen.
 
I can’t remember the last time I saw someone get so excited about a $2 roller ball pen. She coveted my pen like I crave chocolate. Her eyes got big. “This is a really nice pen,” she gushed admiringly. I hesitated, for what I can’t begin to fathom. Need a pen I asked, knowing I’d have to part with this sleek, ultra-fine tip purple ink beauty. “Yes, I really do,” she exclaimed. OK, I quickly replied, hoping to mask my inner hesitancy. “Thanks!” Use it wisely…
 
On the honor roll at the local high school, this improving student spent a good part of her senior year struggling—not just with classes—but also with homelessness. Not just simple lost-my-place-to-live homelessness (it’s never as simple as we’d like to think), but the really abysmal kind that included being physically, sexually, and emotionally abused for as long as she can remember, with a few bouts of foster care hell thrown in to boot.
 
When I first met Chery and interviewed her for the HEAR US video project, she appeared in her Navy ROTC uniform, Naval Academy crisp and clean. From the streets? But then she started talking frankly about her life’s journey. Actually, living on the streets, dumpster-diving and begging for food, huddling for warmth under bushes across from the hospital, washing up in the swanky hotel restroom, and knowing she had to go to school each day with this secret life churning inside her was the easy part. Leaving her newborn son with a family member back in New York City was the hard stuff.
 
The pen, well, I found a bunch I had stashed, including an identical replacement. Looking back, I wish I gave her 10 pens. I’m not sure she would have accepted, because it was more than she needed and her space, like mine, is limited. I know she appreciated what I gave. I’m honored our paths crossed.
 
Seems to me, in this land of plenty, we could do much better when it comes to sharing our riches. Kids like Chery, tragically numbering over 1.5 million, want to succeed. They’re on the streets, with and without parents, not because they deserve it, but because they have no place to live. Everyone deserves a home. Chery doesn’t want a mega-mansion. She’s pretty happy with the little room she has. Why do we selfishly hang onto our abundance while so many do without? It’s a question I ponder every day as I grab a pen.

Life has interfered with writing regular columns. That’s bad, because these kids deserve more spotlights shining on them than I could provide. But good things are happening that will hopefully lead to attention on these courageous kids, so if you’re curious, head to our website, www.hearus.us, to read all about it. Thanks to Bonnie K, my faithful volunteer editor. If I could figure out how to get rid of the goofy question marks that appear in these columns, well, life would be even better…

Faces Tell the Story

Technology lets me capture each face of the 70+ homeless kids I interviewed on my 20,000-mile HEAR US sojourn, a nationwide effort to give homeless kids voice and visibility. I have plenty of uses in mind for the photos. One use, particularly for me, is to absorb and be inspired by the essence of these courageous kids.

Scanning the hours of video I shot, I sought striking likenesses of each kid to genuinely represent them. My precious time with these young homelessness experts from small towns, resorts, affluent communities and rural areas was too short, but their enthusiasm to participate made us seem like old friends. Their spirit flows through my heart and mind; their faces haunt me.

Their faces, various ages and races probably accurately represent our nation’s vast (easily over 1.5 million) young homeless population. Across the board, these kids openly discussed their situations, their hopes, dreams and pains. Reviewing the film as part of the production process, I’m struck by their various expressions of hope–”I plan to go to college…”–as well as their candid revelations of incalculable hurt–”I grew up to know about things too early in my life…I got to know about sex, drugs…”

One striking observation—some kids never smiled, even at my feeble attempts at humor to make them feel at ease in front of the camera. The most hopeless faces had good reasons to not smile. Their lives, like 9-year old Dashaud’s in Ohio, didn’t seem to have any silver lining. Repetitive bouts of homelessness mired in abject poverty don’t inspire lots of smiling. His young eyes carried adult-sized hurt.

Darting glances, restless bodies, memory problems, communication difficulties—symptoms of inadequate stimulation, insufficient motor skill development, gaps in structured learning opportunities, nutritional deficiencies, and just plain insecurity—were present in almost all of my young subjects. For me, these symptoms were not surprising, considering their insidious lifestyles far from what most people consider “normal.” These kids have known grown-up hunger, violence, despair, rejection, prejudice and more.

A banker I chatted with recently gave me even more fuel for my fire. Sharing the gist of my cross-country odyssey, about making a video of homeless kids talking about their experiences, she asked me, “But aren’t all homeless kids in foster care?” I groaned inwardly, and kindly informed her otherwise. Homeless kids, with and without parents, live in every community across this prosperous nation. They have hopes and dreams. They can be successful, given half a chance. They are resourceful and resilient. They know what’s important and what has little value. Sadly, too many people, like this bank professional, don’t even know they’re out there.

Seems to me these kids represent a national treasure we should be more aware of, and more protective of, in order to harvest the untold goodness at risk of being lost. We claim to want to protect this nation’s vast wealth and valuable resources. How about starting on the streets of our cities, towns and rural communities? Helping kids without homes (and their families) should be a priority. To help them you have to know about them. HEAR US, with the sole purpose of raising awareness of and sensitivity to homelessness, needs support to make that happen. To see these kids’ faces and for information, visit www.hearus.us.

I picked her out as a �troublemaker� as soon as I saw her. Her short red hair matched the sun-broiled skin on her face, broad shoulders and neck, providing a bright canvas for her colorful tattoos. Her tackle shop job in a small town in upstate New York requires that she deal with some pretty crusty anglers, so conveying presence helps when it comes to handling the toughies.

She was standing outside the shop talking with another woman, a highway worker whose dump truck idled nearby. My need was simple, propane fill-up for my RV, and once the women stopped talking I asked if she�s the one to do that. She directed me to pull close to the hose without hitting the building. I inched as close as possible without hitting the building.

I opened the compartment hiding my propane tank. It was filled with well-earned grime of my 19,000 mile cross-country odyssey. �Red� commented on the dirt. I replied I worked hard to acquire it. She asked what I did. I told her I was making a documentary on homeless kids, traveling across the country to non-urban areas, like this, her sleepy town of 2,400 people.

Her indifferent demeanor disappeared, and she shared, �I take care of homeless kids here…� and she proceeded to reveal the highlights of her life and work while she filled my propane tank. By the time she was done I had the picture: a mom of 5 of her own kids who works in a bait shop, probably not pulling down a six-figure salary. She didn�t mention a husband, and I think the subject would have come up if she had one. She takes her parenting responsibilities seriously, expecting her kids to keep her informed of their whereabouts and activities when she�s at work.

She proudly boasted that she�s a troublemaker because she fought to get school breakfasts at their local schools for the kids who need them (73 families below the poverty level according to the Census Bureau) and then brought in a county board member to witness how the slower eating kids were made to toss their food in the garbage because they didn�t have enough time to finish what was for some their only meal since their school lunch the day before. (Speculate with me on the value of that Monday breakfast following a long food-challenged weekend…)

Red said she had to bring in the county representative because the school administration spurned her advocacy efforts on behalf of hungry kids, labeling her a troublemaker. The county �muscle� took care of the shortsighted school policy by getting them to let the nibblers take their food back to the classroom while announcements were being made. (I�d find it hard to digest food while listening to a self-righteous principal over the loudspeaker…)

This fisherwoman also, in addition to professing an ardent sense of responsibility for her own brood, looks after neighbor kids, some of whom have parents with the dependability of a mosquito. She makes sure the kids have something to eat. She keeps an eye on them, worries about them, and fights for them. She wasn�t shocked about homelessness in small towns and rural areas.

Seems to me that ordinary people of America have far surpassed many policymakers when it comes to homelessness awareness. Maybe we should sponsor a fishing junket to upstate New York so they could meet an angling expert�an expert in caring for the vulnerable school of kids in her �pond.�

Classy Class of 2006

Sitting in auditoriums, mortarboard caps with tassels dangling, are a mostly hidden segment of the Class of 2006�homeless teens, with and without parents.

Brad, a hulking blond from Arkansas whose twinkling eyes contradict years of brutal abuse, plans to pursue nursing school. Katrina, a Texas grad with deep scars of parental rejection, eyes her community college, a stepping-stone to a four-year business degree. Beatrice, with a life filled with mobility and uncertainty, aims to pursue studies in criminal justice. Chery, her crisp ROTC uniform belying her haphazard Harrisburg street life, awaits news of scholarships to pave her way to a counseling career. Some of this nation�s uncalculated hundreds of thousands of homeless teens actually make it to high school graduation, with and without the system�s knowledge or help. Some even venture further�to college.

For those who know the rigors of financial aid paperwork, imagine the logistical challenges of getting parents to sign off on their financial data when you have no idea where your parents are or, worse yet, you want to remain safely away from your abusive parents.

Assemble these grads in an auditorium with Congresswoman Judy Biggert (IL-13) as the keynote. To less knowledgeable speakers, addressing homeless teens would be a daunting task. But Mrs. Biggert has made time in her busy legislative life to learn what barriers keep homeless teens from developing their potential. She understands the impossibilities of the FASFA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) requirements for parental signoff. She�s working to responsibly remedy those stumbling blocks.

Ben, an articulate 18-year old whose �home� consisted of shrubbery shielding him and his girlfriend from natural and human predators on the streets of Harrisburg, PA, shared how he sat cross-legged on his grass-green �carpeting,� holding his diploma in hand, musing about his post-graduation activities compared to his classmates. Yes, he missed the graduation parties and congratulatory messages from family and friends. No, he didn�t regret leaving a hopeless abusive situation and taking his chances on the streets.

When asked about how he survived, Ben points to several unlikely characters�Chris, his mentor and friend, who encouraged and helped Ben navigate logistics and even provided a nondescript hotel-style room for Ben and his girlfriend to stay, no strings attached. Ed and Chuck, who exhibit father-like concern for Ben and the handful of teens who land on Harrisburg�s streets. �We make sure nothing happens to them,� assured Chuck, pointing at Ben and his girlfriend. �We saw to it that they�d get to school and that they�d graduate. We don�t want them to end up like us��

The dubious team of mentors, all familiar with life on the streets, proudly pointed to their unofficial offspring. Graduates. With a little help from an otherwise distracted Congress, maybe they�ll be graduates with hope for the future.

Seems to me these kids should get credit for life experience. They’ve learned to survive and succeed, lessons that for many of us take a lifetime. If only our nation�s leaders would recognize the bounty of perceptive, motivated, diligent teens and make sure they had a roof over their heads, a desk to study at, and a bed to sleep in�

OK, I’m back. Being in the Fox Valley (near Aurora, IL) last week was great but our HEAR US board had me hopping morning, noon, and night! I’m not complaining because I connected with lots of people, sold lots of books, and raised some much-needed money for HEAR US. Sorry to neglect the Blog…

I wondered what would be happening back in Aurora, IL on May 1st as marchers across the country demonstrated their solidarity with/as immigrants. Looking at the online version of Aurora Beacon News? ?We Are America? photo collection, I found myself going, ?Wow!?

*Wow for the huge numbers of people who peacefully and powerfully participated in the area events, at great risk for some, and much sacrifice for others.

*Wow for the courage to take a massive civic stand on a complex, heated issue, bringing it to the forefront of public discussion.

*Wow for the coverage given by the Suburban Chicago Newspaper chain, and the fine photo work that was available to us vagabonds in other parts of the country.

*Wow for how the issue of immigration has taken over public and political discourse, possibly a distraction from the more basic, painstaking peace and justice issues our country has seemed to ignore.

*Wow, what if we could generate this level of response for other complex, widespread issues like poverty?health care?and peace?

*Wow, what if faith communities could generate some honest discussion about our prejudices, fears, and misplaced anger toward people from other countries?

What if leaders?local, state, national, religious, business, community?encouraged enlightened dialogue and action on the true issues of immigration reform?

It seems to me our immigrant brothers and sisters from nations all over the world are demonstrating how democracy works. They?ve realized they have a lot riding on the outcome and their voices need to be heard. Wonder if they give lessons?

(Since this country is focused on the immigration issue, for better or worse, I thought I’d share an essay I wrote a short time ago…read it and think…DDN)

As steady as the clock�s heartbeat, the stooped laborer scraped the grass overgrowth from the edge of the road. Scrusch, Scrusch�the sound of his shovel echoed reassuringly through the RV park. His sweaty cowboy hat and landscaper green long-sleeved shirt offered him little protection from the relentless heat of Florida�s sun. His rhythmic work provided benefits of manicured campground for the retiree-residents and an aerobic workout for this Mexican laborer, a win-win situation�

Aside from his impressive work ethic, I know nothing about this man. I don�t know if he gets paid a fair wage, what he does with his paycheck, where he sleeps, or if he is a year-round resident of this vacation area. I do know he�s good at his job, a task that people wouldn�t line up to do unless they had to, and even then, few would choose his profession.

Having a conversation with a high school pal who is now a prominent and nationally recognized coach and athletic director at a parochial high school, I was dismayed to hear her passionate thoughts on immigration. I can�t even recall how it came up, but she, a product of Catholic education who was mentored by a Cuban refugee who coached our girls� sports teams, wants to put troops along the border, southern I�d assume, to keep out those �illegals.�

Uh oh, I thought as the conversation unfolded. This is where I can�t keep silent. I�ve known too many people who have risked their lives to enter this prosperous country because they want to earn enough to keep their families alive, an opportunity that doesn�t exist in their impoverished countries. Paltry laborers� wages far exceed what they�d earn south of the border. The rate of return on their paychecks�the sum sent to family back home�probably far exceeds the rate our native workers contribute to their own families. Their payroll taxes bolster the U.S. Treasury.

Lest one think that this land of milk and honey is one big picnic, talk to the workers who have been seriously injured on the job about how much they were compensated for injuries caused by unsafe work conditions. Inquire about their trip Norte, how much they had to pay the corrupt coyote, a fare far higher than overpriced first class flights. Read dreadful accounts of how people died in the back of semis as heat baked them alive. Imagine their peace of mind, or lack thereof, as they worry about immigration raids, wonder about their families and loved ones back home, and struggle with their sense of justice as their employer short-changes their paycheck.

Seems to me that we�ve confused discussions about immigration with bitter hatred for strangers from other countries. Complicated policies�economic, social, human rights, justice�need a fair airing, not a one-sided, hatred-filled diatribe. Having immigrants get sucked down this nation�s sewer-like judgment process will do no one any good. The energy used to spew hatred could be much better used trimming one�s own lawn edges.

Doing without doesn�t kill most of us. In fact, we have so much that it�s a good exercise in self-denial. For kids, doing without is different. Kids I visited this week in an unnamed Nevada town are doing without, and will probably survive their lack of heat, toys and TV, too. But it struck me as patently unfair in this affluent, glittery, out-of-balance city that these homeless kids, and lots of others are doing without the basics�

These three girls, with their newborn sister and their mom, are staying at this town�s only emergency shelter for families. The shelter, in a rotation of churches, serves for a week, and then moves to another congregation�s building. The three (yes, three) families can come in at 5 p.m., eat, wash up, and bed down on �roller beds� as the 9-year old called them. Families must leave early every morning, which is fine for these three on school days because school is fun. Mom and infant tromp around looking for infant care so Mom can then look for a job (that needs to pay about $18 an hour so she can afford rent).

As I spoke with the kids, who were most happy to be interviewed for the HEAR US video project, the one theme that recurred was BOREDOM. �There�s nothing to do here, and at the day site (where they can go after school to wait with their mom for the shelter to open) they make us sit in a chair, and we can�t even watch TV,� was the serious complaint. And it�s cold in their �bedroom,� which is not just a comfort issue because of the newborn. The church volunteers apologized and got blankets.

For me, the saddest sign of shelter programs being out of touch with kids� needs was their policy not to allow kids to celebrate their birthday. Saturday, �Tricia�s� birthday would come and go without the usual fanfare that surrounds 10-year olds� birthdays. Fortunately a guidance counselor who has befriended this family will see to it that something fun happens. Tricia can�t celebrate with her friends because�the shelter has a policy�

I guess one could think these kids should be happy to have a place to get in from the cold and rain. But that assumes homelessness should be allowed to deprive kids of being kids. They didn�t do anything to deserve their deviant fate. Not that it should matter. They�re still kids�

What�s wrong with this picture? Nevada�s gambling industry in 2005 netted almost 2 billion dollars in PROFITS! The state�s share of that was roughly $885 million. In a clogged, unbalanced trickle-down system, somehow the state�s homelessness expenditures only allow for literally a handful of volunteer-based shelter beds for families and a couple of partially state-funded shelters for men.

This emergency shelter network doesn�t begin to meet the needs of this community. Shelter space in these glittery, greedy playgrounds is not a priority, even for families. So they turn to alternatives�doubling-up with family or friends, moving frequently to stay ahead of disapproving landlords; living in vehicles, most often not equipped for essentials like heat, hygiene, etc.; camping in the woods, trying to avoid detection by property owners or the authorities; or pay out the wazoo for a seedy motel room.

Yes, motels are expensive, but they don�t require security deposits or good credit ratings. Families struggle to eke the $40-50 a night room rate. Some end up working at the motels, getting stuck in this slavery-type quicksand. Some do other things, not always socially acceptable. But, parents can�t be condemned for doing what they can to keep a roof over their family�s heads.

Housing costs�the median in Reno is $300,000, Las Vegas even higher. People freely plunk down billions of dollars on various games of chance. A 10-year old girl can�t celebrate her birthday because she lives in a repressive shelter.

This family has mountains to climb. Mom has an infant who needs child care. She has no income. She also has too many kids to make it easy to find a place to live. She probably has bad credit, eliminating her from public housing possibilities, although the waiting lists are years long. Sure, the family will find something�when they hit the jackpot.