StreetViews
February 2002
IN THIS ISSUE:
StreetViews is published by the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless, 907 Logan Avenue, Cheyenne, WY 82001-5247. Views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless, its staff or board. Copyrights revert back to the author upon publication. WCH is a 501(c)(3) all volunteer non-profit agency depending upon the community for funding. Š 2002. **In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this material is distributed without charge or profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving this type of information for non-profit research and educational purposes only.** By David Harris, December 21, 2001 I am a forgotten one My home is the concrete Your eyes stare without seeing; You donšt see the lines and scars on my face Your vision of me: A nuisance if not a menace; And in the rare moments And as you settle down to bed Top of page by Morgan W. Brown another restless night doubt arises too burnt out trying since they simply rerun thoughts surface sparing a little mercy hope soothes wounds Top of page Marc D. Goldfinger Reprinted from Spare Change News Cambridge, MA Deprivation. One of the main ingredients. Frustration. Another important ingredient. Intelligence. Ahh, yes. Not all the ingredients needed for creating a terrorist have negative connotations. Once upon a time I was a little boy growing up amongst the savages in the city of North Arlington, New Jersey. I wore glasses in the first grade. I was the only child in my class who wore glasses. I was also Jewish, which made me more of a minority. I was chubby and short and not a good fighter, which meant that I was afraid of those who bullied me. There were those who bullied me for various reasons, some of which I stated above. It angered me to be beaten up by anyone. The boys who picked on me were bigger and stronger and fear got the best of me. I thought of myself as a coward, which did not do anything for my self-esteem, which was minus 67 degrees Centigrade due to parental dysfunction) and by the time I was 12 years old, suicide was an option. I sought the company of other children, some like myself, and we began to run in a small pack. There were the bigger boys, the super-school patriots who excelled in sports, there were the good kids with the proper nurturing that thrived, then there was us. I had a rough summer between seventh and eighth grade at a camp which I despised, but I learned a trick that season which, although it was an anti-social coping skill (in some instances), served me well when I went back to school. I learned that the bigger stronger guy doesn't always have to be the winner of a fight. Technique was everything. I entered eighth grade and one of my old tormentors let me know that he was going to "kick my little four-eyed ass" after school. I was afraid but I had built so much resentment and had so much simmering anger within me that I decided, out of sheer terror and desperation, to try one of the techniques I learned from two city kids who had befriended me at camp. It was lunchtime and the school cafeteria was hustling with activity. My nemesis was chowing down, unconcerned, because he thought he knew the outcome of the battle. I cam quietly up behind him, lifted a cafeteria chair over my head and smashed it down on him. I hit him with the chair again and again, the years of resentment and anger flowing through me into the chair, before the teachers dragged me off of him. And when they were taking me to the principal's office I snarled at him, "If you come after me I'll get you one way or another. You don't have eyes in the back of your head." I had learned a tactic of terror. It isn't always the man with the biggest fist who wins. Sometimes technique is everything. Likewise, it isn't always the country with the most modern weapon system, the most aircraft, and the largest armies which wins. I have to say, right now, no one is winning except the terrorists. Innocent people died here. Innocent people are dying over in Afghanistan. Every time the bombs drop, the recipe is completed for more terrorists to be created. They will become the enemy of whoever they perceive to be the most arrogant power that bullies their torn land into submission. A terrorist is born every minute. He lives in poverty, his skin is the wrong colour and his life is nothing like ours here in the United States. Because the survival rate is so poor there for children, only the strongest live. He grows muscular, his eyes are keen, his hand are familiar with tools that kill. He is taught notions that our fat, stuffed lazy minds don't even need to consider, notions our sensibilities can never agree with. He sees his land ripped apart by our bombs, his sisters die in his arms because of hunger or lack of antibiotics due to embargoes, his mother prostitutes herself for a mean so not all of her children die. He sees who she sleeps with. When someone places the rifle of death in his hands, he will know who to place in the crosshairs of the gun, then there will be no doubt in his mind. In his world there are no innocents. All of the innocents are dead. Only he is left, guilty of one thing: remaining alive while those he loved died. Guilty of remaining alive. And soon, soon, he will remedy that. Here he comes, riding over our sad city streets, driving taxi cabs, flying our planes, using our mail systems, using even our own media against us. He has technique. He also has company, many brothers from his village, the village of death. They have studied the art of war well, for it is all they ever had. And they know us. They have come to walk among us, single minded, relentless in their purpose, ready to die. The finished product of a recipe of deprivation, frustration, fear, starvation, hopelessness, intelligence and a believ system which, for them, really works. |
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The Resurrection of Sylvia Plath $5.00 Available from Marc Goldfinger |
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Top of page From Dear Abby 01/28/2002 Dear Abby: I have a brother, "Stan," who has been homeless for a decade. Stan is borderline schizophrenic. He goes through periods when he hears voices, believes things to be true that aren't, and does not keep himself clean. He has always had trouble dealing with people. Although I am younger than Stan, I have taken on the responsibility of sending him money, getting him out of trouble, etc. He is often unappreciative, but I realize his problems are beyond his control. Every day, I thank my lucky stars that I am mentally healthy and can get up every morning with the resolve to work and enjoy my life and relationships with people. I'm writing because I often hear others make comments about "the homeless" - that they are lazy, drunk, etc. People don't realize that while they're airing their distorted views, a relative of a homeless person could be in their presence. I have struggled with Stan's mental illness and the problems it causes him, trying to get him proper treatment and shelter. For people to imply that I should tell him to get a job conveys nothing but ignorance. Homeless people have a disability that is not visible. So why do people persist in believing the homeless choose their fate? Because it means they don't have to feel compassion or try to help. Please print this so people will open their minds before making insensitive, ignorant, black-and-white statements. SISTER WHO CARES IN NEW JERSEY Top of page |
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Homeless People's Network
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Top of page StreetViews Index WCH Home by Josh Brandon Originally published in STREET SHEET a Publication of the Coalition on Homelessness San Francisco http://www.sf-homeless-coalition.org I live under a San Francisco bridge and panhandle to survive. Itšs a hard life -- one that I did not choose, nor want to continue. As a longtime San Franciscan I have lived in housing ranging from a Haight-Ashbury flat to a Tenderloin residential hotel. I have earned my living here by working for a community newspaper, for a non-profit agency, and for San Franciscošs Department of Public Health. My only immediate family is two Siamese cats, Dungee and TL, and a wide circle of friends. Contrary to the recent sensational headlines in our daily newspapers, I did not wake up one morning and decide that my life would be better if I simply camped beneath a bridge and asked people for change. I did, however, wake up one morning, went to work for the Health Department as a homeless death researcher (as I had for nearly three years), and was told I was laid off. The last thing my supervisor told me as I cleaned out my desk was that perhaps I could get on SSI -- a Federal income security program for disabled people. The bone in my right hip is dying from lack of circulation, which restricts my mobility. Since I have lived on the streets, my hip condition has worsened with severe arthritis. As a result, I now use a cane to go with my pronounced limp. My meager unemployment benefits barely covered my rent, and when they ran out I tapped into my pension to keep my housing. Soon, faced with dwindling resources and a tight job market, I had no other option but to move. It was an inevitable situation. No income usually makes for grumpy landlords, and mine was no different. My choices now were as slim as my wallet. Going to a shelter came with many problems. For one, shelter space was as rare as Mayor Brown with a warm heart. People are routinely turned away, or compete with one another in a Dickensian lottery where the WINNER gets to sleep in a chair or on the floor. By the time one lottery is over for one shelter, the others are closed, or too far away. And therešs no guarantee of space, either, once you do get to the next one. To make matters worse, most shelters kick people out at 6 am and then ban them from returning until they reopen for the following night. But the biggest problem is that shelters are a dead end if you really want to leave the streets. Too few people ever enter a shelter and later leave with a key to their own room or apartment. As rare as the shelter spaces are, affordable housing here is even more rare, with even longer waiting lists and even more people competing in housing lotteries for housing vouchers. I couldnšt carry all my possessions on my back or in a cart all day long, not with me using a cane and my two cats to care for as well. So I gimped over and through San Franciscošs many bridges until I found one with a nook and cranny away from public view -- a place where I could set up a permanent camp where I could keep my clothes and food and my cats. Once I settled in, I had to earn money, which I have done since I held my first job picking blueberries when I was five years old. Although I had papered businesses and non-profits with job applications, I still needed to eat, to buy my medications, to keep my clothes clean, and to feed my cats By that time two other homeless people had moved in nearby, and they had money they had earned everyday -- enough for them to eat well and take care of their daily needs. They were panhandlers, and they laughed wen I told them I could never do that. I am a child of the fifties, when being a beggar was as loathsome as being a politician or lawyer is today. But they became my mentors. They explained that they panhandled differently than most people, and they did it by using two cardinal rules: They never asked for change and they were always polite to the people who passed by -- even if they swore at you, or called you names, or vented all the fears and frustrations and anger from their own lives at the one group of people who could do nothing in return. The first day I panhandled was, and continues to be, a hardship. Panhandling is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. I have a morning shift across from Pac Bell on Third Street between Folsom and Harrison Streets. I wake up at 5:30 am, feed my cats, gather my gear, and get cleaned up at a nearby drop-in center or the bus station. By 7:30 am, I am at my spot. In order to panhandle, I have to psychologically convince myself that I am not begging. I know that I am not the village drunk or the village idiot, but when I am working I do become the village greeter. I never ask the people who pass by for anything, but simply say, "Good morning, Sir (or Mašam)," and smile. I never sit down, so I can look them directly in the eye with as much pride and confidence as I can pull up from deep inside. By 10 am the sidewalks are nearly empty, so I take a break and read the newspaper over a cup of coffee. If I need to, I go to St. Anthonyšs for a meal, then head for my afternoon shift. I go to a fire hydrant between the Museum of Modern Art and one of the luxury hotels. Here I work, sometimes for several hours, never sitting down, greeting people, and trying to make the best lemonade I can from the worst tasting lemons I have. By the end of the day, after four or five hours of standing stationary on cold concrete, I can usually make anywhere from $25-35, roughly minimum wage. But because I am always at those spots at the same time, I can earn this amount almost every day. There are worse days, and there are better days, but both are seldom. I now know several panhandlers; most are happy to get $15-20 per day and they usually work longer than I do, so I consider myself fortunate. I have panhandled during the wettest February and December in San Franciscošs history, as well as during the hottest July. I have shivered from the cold so violently that my hands turned blue, my cup would shake and I couldnšt count my money. I have sweated in the sun so much my clothes were as damp as if Išd been rained upon. My hip has hurt so much from standing that I could barely walk back to my camp, and sometimes I had to crawl to make it up under the bridge. So when I read our daily newspapers and see the latest media Jihad against homeless infidels who panhandle and donšt use shelters, I can only shake my head in disbelief at their arrogant ignorance. Because I am a beggarman troll, I do not steal, or rob, or become violent. I earn my money, and it comes at great personal cost. And I earn my privacy away from the public eye as I quietly, desperately apply for jobs. But I am still standing on my own two feet and my cane. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Josh Brandon was an editor for the now-defunct Tenderloin Times, and originated the "homeless deaths story" for that publication, later publishing exclusive articles on that topic under his byline for the Chronicle and Examiner. He was also my writing coach back when I was still busy determining whether I wanted to write about homeless deaths, or become one myself. -- chance martin)
chance martin, editor Labor Day every year is marked by a day off for most workers and by the Jerry Lewis telethon.
For over seven million Americans though, it's just another day of survival. Shelters closed for
the summer start to open and the food lines grow longer. I heard a stoy the other day about Al Capone
and how he would set up soup lines for the poor during the Depression and how it infuriated the government
because they were not involved. Of course, they never did get involved. After all, the G-men were
after the distilleries and after hour speakeasies. It cost the taxpayers at the time a lot of money, but
the unemployed and poor were left to their own demise. The liquor poured
in and Al Capone went about his business as usual.
The government recently gave the taxpayers back some tax money and yet the poor are still out there on the streets.
Now the government is finding itself a bit short on that monumental surplus.
Are you surprised? The homeless and poor would love to, in most cases, have tax money coming back to them. The trouble
is they don't have jobs. The jobs that are open to them will not support a family or, barely for that matter, themselves!
These individuals even have a label, "the working poor." That statement is nothing more than a cover-up for corporations
using the poor as cheap labor. Using these people because they are not trained in any particular skill is a form of present
day slavery. From one slave to another, read my mind:
Money is my honey because with it I shall not want.
It buys everything I want including my ever-present haunt.
Yet, it leaves me empty like a never ending daunt.
Money is my honey like a poison that slowly kills,
With it I die every moment with all my unlearned skills.
Could it be that I yearn for the moment when I die to see the light?
Never ending I'll see the lust and see the fallacy of my plight.
When life's trepidations are exposed that threw destiny to and fro,
I think that I'll still be standing there not knowing where to go
What have I gained in my quest to be best?
Perhaps a speck in history that still left me in a quest.
I work, I toil, do the bump and grind, only to find I'm still a pest
This planet doesn't serve me well
any more than going on a tour to Hell.
So what do I do in my travels to lust?
Perhaps just return the body to a bed made of nothing but dust!
I've been down the way where a lot of people go,
where they walk up and down and to and fro.
Some are black and some white,
some are very young, and some very old,
then there are the ones that are exceptionally bold!
They are the homeless, the hopeless,
the ones out there on the cold streets,
where the public goes by so easy, so neat.
They don't hear the cries of those that sleep on the public way at night,
how can they be so rude and yet so contrite?
What they do is lengthen the endless homeless plight,
when all the homeless want to do is end their miserable fight.
Yet the public keeps walking by
ignoring their struggle to return to a normal life.
The homeless, the homeless, what are they to do?
It's so hard when the world doesn't know how to end
their ever impending doom.
See you on the streets!
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