ON BEING HOMELESS
Living in Fort Worth, Texas, near the Burlington Railroad main switching yards was sometimes an annoyance since it was a stopping off point for the vagrants who often took advantage of free transportation. Dense woods flanked the banks of the Trinity River near the railroad yards making a perfect place for the homeless to set up their camps. Although I would often see transients as they passed through, there seemed to be a core group of homeless men who appeared like specters and then quickly disappeared into their surroundings, almost as though they were trying to be invisible.
Some of them obviously needed to be institutionalized, however they posed more of a threat to themselves than they did to the casual passersby who politely ignored them as they went about their business. Oftentimes my wife and I would seek them out as they sat on the benches overlooking the river. Sometimes they would welcome our company and our offers of food, but more often than not, they seemed to shrink as we approached them; their way of telling us the bench was their private property with an invisible No Trespassing sign. As you might assume, I never envied their position, in fact, I felt sorry for them and wanted to make their lives better. That is until I joined their ranks.
It’s really not important how it happened or how quickly it happened; it just happened. I had always said that what separates the homeless from the others was one bad break, an unfortunate accident, an unforeseen tragedy, an untimely loss. And, I can tell you from what happened to me, each one of you is just a heartbeat away from joining me and my friends as we huddle around the meager campfire we’ve managed to keep going through this endless, wet, damp, miserable rain.
As my other fellow homeless nomads have finally accepted me into their brotherhood, I’ve learned they fall into two distinct categories: ones who can’t let go of the past and accept their current plight, and those whose eyes seem to cloud over when you ask them why they are homeless. Those who want to talk about how important they were in their previous lives are soon relegated to join the others like them as they talk endlessly about their BMW’s, Mercedes, large houses, travels to far-distant destinations, and the important business decisions they were constantly making. What difference does it make anyway? After all, homelessness is the great equalizer, isn’t it? When I look at those stuffed shirts, they are just as in need of a shower and a shave as the rest of us, their bellies are constantly growling in chorus with ours, however, all they want to do is complain about how unfair life has been to them. Hey, let’s face it; we all feel that way, but most of us have accepted our fate and have moved on. What other choices do we have?
I’ve certainly had plenty of time to reflect on how I got here, and although I would like to go back and change some things, I can’t. I just have to move forward. What intrigues me, however, is how easily it was for me to become trapped in a life surrounded by things, things I treasured, things I found I couldn’t live without (how quickly that changed); things that became anchors that weighed me down without me even realizing it. Of course, this happened over a long time; it certainly wasn’t as abrupt as my suddenly losing them. The more philosophical of us love to sit back and talk about society and its penchant for accumulating things. When did that all start?
Although as children we treasured our things, some more than others, we never realized the hidden and underlying basis for having them; someone had to pay for them. It might not have been until we proudly drove our first new car home dragging our first encounter with car payments behind us like cans tied to a newlywed’s car. Of course, we now had to purchase car insurance (liability, uninsured motorists, collision, comprehensive, etc., etc., etc.). In addition, cars don’t run on air, so we proudly inserted our brand new Visa card into the pump when we bought gas. That was easy, that is until we got our first credit card statement. Wow, that’s really easy; we don’t have to pay the full bill, just the minimum amount due. Did we ever read the fine print? If we paid just the minimum amount due, our credit card balance would joyfully be paid off in fifteen years!
You get the picture. Adulthood slowly and gently eases us into a lifetime of accumulating things along with having to pay for them. Of course, not everyone is seduced by this siren, and many have carefully planned for their “golden years”, however that planning is so easy to put aside on the shelf when you’re young; it’s something you’ll get to later, but never do.
Someone anonymously wrote there is “Honour among thieves”. I do have to tell you there is “Honour among the homeless”, well most of us, anyway. There are certain unspoken rules the newly homeless have to learn; however, there just isn’t a Book of Rules published for them. I’m not going to take the time to elaborate on them, as I’m assuming you will never be homeless; well maybe not. To do so would be a waste of our collective time. I will tell you, however, there is one thing that upsets the truly homeless more than anything else; panhandlers. To us truly homeless, panhandlers are people who don’t want to adapt and accept their plight, but rather prey upon the generosity of those more fortunate souls who fear seeing themselves in us.
Believe it or not, most homeless people are proud of their situation and their ability to survive. I know. That doesn’t sound possible, but it is. We collectively view ourselves as pioneers, just like the pioneers who courageously left the comforts of home behind and struck out into unknown territory in the early years of our country. There weren’t any Seven-Elevens along the way, no Motel 6’s, no internet, phone service, and only rudimentary maps at best. My family’s ancestors arrived in Boston in 1639, settled for a while in what would eventually become Cambridge, Massachusetts, but soon tired of “city life” and struck out through the wilderness to settle in Hartford, Connecticut. I often marveled at how they were able to pack up their meager possessions into their ox-drawn wagons and travel one-hundred miles or more through the wilderness and yet survive.
Not only that, once they arrived, their need to survive off the land soon became foremost in their minds. Survival was a necessity, not a pastime. What would they have said if they were to happen upon a fellow pioneer sitting in the middle of the wilderness by the side of the wooded trail holding a sign saying, “I’m homeless. Please help me.” Since they were very Christian, I’m sure they would have stopped and helped him, however, along with their charity would come an unspoken, “Hey, we’re taking care of ourselves. Why can’t you?”
Surviving homelessness is an art; an art of knowing where to get a free shower and shave, how to get your clothes washed and dried, which restaurant has the best Dumpster, which homeless shelters are safe and which ones aren’t, where the nearest Salvation Army is located, and everything else that is needed to survive on a day-to-day basis. My daily needs now are very basic: how am I going to eat and where am I going to sleep? That’s it. Of course, there are long stretches of empty time between meals and sleeping that I need to fill.
In my former life, I would spend that time watching TV while drinking a beer, taking short trips into the countryside, reading a good book and many other activities often revolving around my cherished things. How could I ever survive without them? At first, I struggled with that, however, I now cherish those times; times to relax, explore my surroundings, time to sit on a bench by the Trinity River and watch the colorful wood ducks as they bob up and down on rippled surface. These were things I never stopped to think about before I was homeless; I was in too much of a hurry to stop and enjoy them.
Sometimes I walk the short distance to downtown Fort Worth, sit on a bench, and watch the world pass me by. -- Why are people always in such a hurry? – I wonder, as I watch the traffic zoom by, often with impatient drivers honking their horns at anybody and anything. Even pedestrians in the crosswalks aren’t safe! As people hurriedly walk past me, I can feel their eyes avoiding me, almost as though acknowledging me would be acknowledging their own vulnerabilities and unspoken fears. What they don’t understand is that I am actually enjoying my current living conditions, probably much more so than they are.
After all, unlike you, I never have to dread going to my mailbox only to discover another telephone bill, internet bill, cable bill, gas bill, electric bill, credit card bill, water bill, sewer bill, health insurance bill, life insurance bill, homeowners’ insurance bill, flood insurance bill, windstorm insurance bill, car insurance bill, car instalment payment bill, department store bill, American Express bill, property tax bill, federal Income Tax bill, state Income Tax bill, etc. I don’t have a mailbox because I don’t even have an address! How about that?
So, the next time you encounter a homeless person like me, especially one who is smiling, don’t feel sorry for them, envy them; you just don’t know how close you are to joining us someday. Perhaps you might even enjoy it!
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