Throughout my trials and tribulations, many people stand out in my mind. Billy was a person who was hard to get close to because he didn't trust anyone or anything. We kept bumping into each other at flops around Chicago. One of us would move there and the next thing you know, the other showed up. We eventually built a rapport that would last for years, until his untimely death. Fumbles sounded like a "redneck," but he was definitely a Chicago native. He had a lazy eye and no teeth. He walked a little off-kilter, but didn't do drugs or drink very much. He was often pegged as retarded or a redneck racist for his appearance. Also, because he had lived in Huntsville, Alabama for twenty years, his accent preceded him. I often defended his honor, but Billy was no slouch when it came time to dance with the small-minded types.

Billy carried a pocketknife, which he would and did use on a couple of occasions. He didn't kill anyone, but as they say on the streets, he left a lasting impression. When we would go out to goof around on the town he would brag of his willingness to teach a lesson to anyone who messed with him. He was, to say the least, a bit on the paranoid side of the tracks. He became a sidekick of mine and we became good friends who vowed silently to lay down our lives for each other. Our adventures took us to Anywhere, U.S.A., and we would go there to the best of our ability. We had good times and knew we were going to remember them. As the years went by, we started to slow down a bit because of our health. When Fumbles was a toddler back in the 1950s, he was sitting on his mother's lap in a car when it hit a telephone pole. Billy went through the windshield headfirst. They tried to put his scrambled brains back together the best that they could and covered the hole with a plate. Billy was illiterate, but very street smart. He always wanted to learn to read and write, but the need to make money was always in his way.

We worked together at a hotel near downtown Chicago once and it truly was a circus. Together we drove drug addicts, drug dealers and prostitutes absolutely bonkers. It was the most fun we had known in years. We began to be known as a team, and where one was, the other wasn't far behind. Billy was high-strung and shook a lot, nervously. I didn't know whether it was from his accident as a kid or his constant frustration with his situation and status in life. He just wanted to be wanted and have a pat on the back for a job well done. When he and I had eradicated so many scum from the hotel, it became a boring, quiet place to live for honest folks and we were fired. Billy never got over that and could bring himself to a screaming rage about double talking, upper management anytime the subject was raised. He and I couldn't swallow the fact that we did what we were told, but because one of the managers was a deviant and liked the circus atmosphere, he had us run out of Dodge!

I introduced Billy to people he never would have talked to, and he learned to respect them for what they believed and what they were. He, in turn, taught me to have patience and compassion for people I previously didn't have time for. When it came to cooking, I did it and he washed up. I never could teach him to cook. Sometimes though, I think he did that on purpose. He had a private side as well, and he didn't le me know too much about it. This usually happened when he got the urge to find some female companionship. They were usually poor and borderline homeless; he would give them a place to stay if they would stay with him, if you know what I mean. They would eventually piss him off and leave, or he would kick them out - literally!

When I would tease him, he would get nervous and drop things, shake, start yelling and sometimes even walk out and not talk to me for a week, but we knew things would be all right in the end. He started to get sick after a few years and it came in waves. First it was a constant cough, and then leg problems, constant exhaustion and he started to withdraw to his cubicle at a local "Y" flophouse, where I couldn't visit because of house rules. He didn't like to show pain much, not even to me. I only saw him cry once in the eight years I knew him. One weekend in March he went home from eating over at my house and that's the last time I talked to him.

They found him on Monday morning in bed with his card curled under his chin and a half smile on his face. He died in his sleep. He forgot to tell me he was going to do that. If he were alive I'd kill him for that move. I'm sure he is in a better place for his mind and body, but I'm still here. He left me empty. He lived up to his nickname, "Billy Fumbles!"

"Many years gone, a sect in what is now Afghanistan declared Despair a goddess, and proclaimed all empty rooms her sacred places. The sect, whose members called themselves The Unforgiven, persisted for two years, until its last adherent finally killed himself, having survived the other members of almost seven months. Despair says little, and is patient." ----Neil Gaiman, from the Sandman

By the time you read this it will be a different day. Thank God for that. I woke up this morning and my depression kicked in so hard all I wanted to do was lay abed and suckle on the teat of Despair. One of my diagnoses is major depression. There are others.

What is one to do when the thought train of negativity is driven by a powerful locomotive of the mind which, given a full head of steam, will end in surrender to suicidality! For me, there are simple, repetitive solutions.

When I wake up in the morning I ask God for help. I thank God for keeping my addiction, I thank God for keeping me from smoking, I thank God for waking me up this morning.

Another tool in my kit of repetitive steps is the ability to begin my day over again, countless times if necessary. I have readings from various books to begin my day. One book I read from is called the 24 Hour Day book and it is put out by Hazzeldon. It helps me deal with my addiction and my attitude towards the day, everyday. Another book is called Letting Go and it helps me with my co-dependency issues. It also helps me stay in the day I am in.

One of my mind's tendencies is to wander ahead into events which are not taking place yet. It runs scenarios of how they will play out, as if they are synaptic videos, and leaves me wandering through the moment I am in, totally unaware of what is really taking place around me. I have learned to stop the "projector" in mid-stream and come back to where I am. I can ask myself, "is this where I want to be, wrapped up in my head, where I am almost always out of my mind?"

My negative thought train smashed into a wall of recovery. I step out, unharmed, smile and continue my day from an entirely new location.

Now I am located "right here." I may do this as many times as necessary during the course of my day. I have support groups which I attend regularly. Rooms full of people, not empty rooms where despair dwells. I sit and listen to others and their experiences about what takes place in their mind's eye. I share my own experiences with them. Our spirits are lifted together.

I realize this: my eyes are windows. I look out of them and see only a small part of the world. Could you imagine if I looked out the window of my kitchen and concluded, "yes, what I see out this window is truly all the world is made up of?" My eyes are as limited as the view from my kitchen window. When you share what you see out of your windows and I share my view with you, both of our worlds widen.

When many of us share together, suddenly the world becomes more and more visible. We are animals of community for a reason. God is made up of all of our eyes put together. His/Her/Its vision is totality conceived, our vision needs to be shared so we might have a chance at survival.

Interestingly enough, the key to my survival is you. There is something about my small mind, the one that lives in my head, which is counter-productive to my life. My small mind is a skilled tool, a true gift from God, and when it is attending to the tasks it does well, it is a jewel of a tool.

However, it has side-effects. These side-effects are my thoughts about you, my thoughts about me, and my thoughts about what is right or wrong with the way you think, or I think, or the rest of the world thinks. Methinks I can think too much, so much that I can dig a hole with my thoughts and bury you, me and the rest of my family of humanity.

We have all arrived at where we are today because of a succession of events which took place in our lives before we even developed our conscious thought train. Events which took place in our infancy, possibly even events which took place before that, created what I "think" is my self.

Today I will step out of the past and free myself from the burden of self, moment by moment.

What I must do is focus on what is really happening right now. I must focus, not on what I think, but on doing the next right thing. I must lift myself into the God-self which is a part of everyone and know that when I look into your eyes, I am seeing into my own.

As I finish this article I realize my outlook for the moment has changed. The dark lonely silence of despair has lifted. I know I am not alone.

We humans have long had ceremonies and rites of passage to celebrate and consecrate our important events in life. We've created rituals that honor birth, coming of age, marriage and death. In times of drought some of us have performed the Rain Dance. We've recognized the importance of community ties with barnraisings, and welcomed new neighbors with casseroles. Some of us bless our homes each time we enter or leave them.

Hsun Tzu, Chinese philosopher who lived during the Chou dynasty (approximately 298-238 B.C), wrote:

"It is through rites that Heaven and earth are harmonious and sun and moon are bright, that the four seasons are ordered and the stars are on their courses, that rivers flow and that things prosper, that love and hatred are tempered and joy and anger are in keeping. They cause the lowly to be obedient and those on high to be illustrious. He who holds to the rites is never confused in the midst of multifarious change; he who deviates therefrom is lost. Rites- are they not the culmination of culture?"

And so it is that through ceremonies and rites of passage we are brought together into families, tribes, cities, and nations because these ceremonies and rites of passage help us to achieve a sense of place, boundary, shelter, protection, recognition, and inclusion. It is these bonds that have helped us survive as a human race, and it is these bonds, or new bonds, that will help us survive in the future. This becomes our "comfort zone" and our social sense of identity.

Yet even as we mark certain events and people in life with positive ceremonies of inclusion, so also do we have the sad history and present practice of excluding with brute force, hostility and neglect anyone who seems different from us in any way. There are many, many different people who have suffered and who continue to suffer from our inhumanity. The particular focus of this writing is the homeless.

Increasingly, homeless people in many countries have been subject to verbal abuse, harassment, sleep deprivation, beatings, being set on fire, and being murdered. What few belongings they have are often seized by city officials and/or policemen. Homeless people are not afforded the same rights and protection under the law as are people who have homes. Teenage gangs consider the homeless fair game.

We exile the homeless by telling them they don't belong "here." Not in our back yard, not in our neighborhoods, not in our schools, not in our business districts; in fact, nowhere at all. Even Napoleon had a place to "be" when he was exiled!

Furthermore, society willfully remains in the dark about the different causes of homelessness. We have settled, time and time again, for the over-used stereotype of the bum in the gutter. We have closed our eyes to the increasing numbers of homeless families, homeless women, and homeless vets. We have closed our eyes to the needs and rights of the disabled and the mentally disturbed. In almost every instance we have chosen to consider the housing needs of the affluent over the needs of low-income people. If affordable housing units were considered to be part of the Environment, they would be on the "Endangered" list.

Arthur Miller once said "Few of us can easily surrender our belief that society must somehow make sense. The thought that the state has lost its mind is intolerable, and so the evidence has to be internally denied."

I think the state has lost more than its mind. I think Society is rapidly losing its humanity. I think society needs a new "Rite of Passage." We need some deep-reaching ceremony that will bring us back to being human. We need some kind of rite that will restore compassion, decency and fairness to our souls. And it is we who so desperately need it, not the homeless whom we have wronged and whom we continue to wrong; the homeless have always been human.

On one of my forays through Chicago one summer, I stumbled upon a person talking to himself under a park bench downtown. Usually I don't engage in conversation with people of this type. I couldn't resist though, because the guy was talking in a British type accent. I sat down on the end of the bench and said, "Hi." He answered and asked me the time. I told him I didn't own a watch and considered myself timeless. He laughed and decided to come topside and have a seat. I asked him where he was from and he told me he was from New Zealand.

He went on to tell me he had come to this country to attend college in California twenty years ago. When he finished he took to the streets. He said he had started off to explore this country. He found it too large to do that in one lifetime, so now he just roams around content to learn about life. I asked his name and he said "Bench" and that it was given to him in college. I didn't push for his Christian name for fear of invading his privacy. I was wondering, though, about the under-the-bench thing. I figured the worst thing that could happen is that he would kick my butt, so I asked.

He told me a story about a night in L.A. when it was raining heavily. There were no shelters close by, so he slept under a bench. He said he found a sense of security there. He slung a poncho over the top and weighted it down with some rocks and he kept dry and out of sight of the law. He said he had been sleeping under benches ever since. He went on to tell me which towns had the best benches and which were terrible. San Francisco came in as last on the list because the cops use dogs to find people in bushes, etc. Chicago was near the top of the list because there were so many parks and benches.

He said he did some of his best thinking under benches and has talked to some of the world's most interesting people from down there. He has also met some fine animals that share his beliefs in habitat as well! He told me the story of Sally Squirrel from Albuquerque. He said that "SHE" used to spend the night at times when it was cold out. Then one day she brought a friend, and the next thing he knew she had a family. He said it started to get crowded so he had to move. I laughed and told him he was the first guy I knew that had been evicted from under a bench by squirrels. "What a world we live in," I mused.

It was an experience to meet the man from down under who talked up to the world and loved it. We walked over to the liquor store and bought some wine and some nuts for his new pets in the park. Between the two of us, we had enough for a cheap loaf of bread and some bologna and cheese. We went back to the park and had a feast and entertained a half dozen squirrels, not to mention about ten thousand pigeons. When I left, Bench was crawling back under his roof to sleep off the dinner and booze. What a night, what a guy and what a day.

Being currently homeless, and hoping to be able to find and get an affordable place of my own to live independently, I have to be even more careful than usual. Recently, word was received that I am nearing the top of the Section 8 Rental Housing Voucher waiting list for the county I reside in. So I am doing everything possible to reserve as much of my income for when I have a place to move into.

"Home is Where One Hangs One's Hat"

If, as the saying goes, "home is where one hangs one's hat ," where does a person who is homeless hang their hat? If they hang their hat someplace temporarily, does that mean they can consider themselves not to be truly homeless any longer even if, in fact, it is not really their home?

The 'Who is Homeless?' Fact Sheet, dated February 1999 and available at the National Coalition for the Homeless (NCH) Web site, provides information concerning definitions of who is considered officially homeless, as well as providing other general information about people who are homeless.

Hanging on to Hope

As close as I am to possibly getting housed again, after being homeless in its various forms for nearly five years this time around, one would think nothing could easily stand in my way. Fact is however, as near as it may appear to be, it still seems so far away and I find myself having to find and renew my hope, strength and faith in everything in every way possible which I can imagine. Having my own place to live has always held a lot of importance. Though somehow, it never seemed as important as it does now. While I was trying it on, it dawned on me that I really needed the hat more than I ever dared to allow myself to realize something like that before. Having a hat, especially of this good quality, means - for me anyway - that I will have to work even harder to find myself a place of my own to live in again. It seems to have given me a new purpose and personal mission: I have to find a home in which to hang my new hat.

Never Give Up

Once again I have been reminded that whatever the circumstances, or how they may be experienced and felt, there are always other ways of thinking about them and, other ways of accomplishing something when it is waited for just a little bit longer and, they are looked for even deeper than we may believe is possible and, the support needed to do so is received. No one should ever under estimate the value of the smallest or seemingly least important thing to provide inspiration, often found in what we may perceive to be the most unlikely of places or persons, especially when it is needed the most. For myself, I have learned to never again discount the value and importance of a hat. Mine will be worn with pride no matter how well-worn it may get or how poorly it may appear over time. It will be my lasting reminder to never, ever, give up on anything or anybody - especially never on myself. When I do find and move into a place of my own, that hat will always be hung in a special spot where I can grab it at ease when needed. Then, whenever the hat is off of my head and in its usual resting place, I will know I am home.

Morgan W. Brown is an activist, poet and writer living homeless in Montpelier Vermont.

Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless
907 Logan Avenue
Cheyenne, WY 82001-5247
307-634-8499
307-634-9089 fax