Hopeful Not Homeless

I saw her out of the corner of my eye, the dirty string backpack caught my attention.  I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned around slowly and carefully.  Her ragged, mustard colored shirt was stained, and I realized her slender frame was drapped in old, ripped men’s clothing. 

Her skin was beautiful, tight, clear.  Her hair rose into a bushy mess and was littered with tiny peices of trash.  But it was her eyes that startled me most.  They were large, intensely brown and watered as if she was on the verge of tears.  They held the fear of a thousand prisoners, and they scoped my face with the uneasy trepidation of a deer staring at a hunter.

I smiled and gently asked her if she was in need of help, I couldn’t give this frightened child my typical talk, there was something different about her.  Yes, she said, I would like help and the other volunteer started digging out food bags and hygeine products.  I asked her how old she was.  “20.  I lived in fostercare my whole life and at 18…well, I’ve been out here on the streets ever since.”  She did not need to explain further, the foster system is as basic as that.  At 18, they free the dog from the cage.  As I started to explain more about who we are and how we can help, a slow smile crept across her face, though her eyes never lost their terrified expression. I asked her what we could help her with, and she said she wanted to go to college.  She has her high school diploma, and wants to go to college very badly.  “Well, my name is Carleigh, it’s nice to meet you.”  I stuck out my hand.  “My name is Happy.  It’s nice to meet you to.”  Her fingers slipped into mine. 

We set up an appointment for this week; I am meeting her on Wednesday.  She is the reason I do outreach.

Last week during Saturday outreach we didn’t meet a single soul.  It was a beautiful day outside, and despite almost getting into a massive arguement with a FNB volunteer, we had little contact with anyone.  (Let me back up and say I completely admire and support the FNB presence in Atlanta.  They serve nutritious meals and provide tables full of information about resources for the homeless, including StandUp For Kids.  The volunteers we spoke with were very freindly and supportive, minus one man who barraded me with politically motivated questions about what to do with the homeless, and to keep it short, we clearly have different ideas about what works and what we owe the homeless.  I didn’t engage him the way my fiery spirit would have liked, but I was representing StandUp For Kids.)

That’s the problem with street outreach.  Sometimes you meet so many kids you can’t keep count, other times you don’t meet anyone.  There is no formula to figure out when or how to meet people, it’s just the chaotic nature of the human spirit I guess.  Street outreach can be isolating for this reason.

This week, I deperately missed the kids.  I was exhausted, emotionally drained and fairly brain dead, but I just missed the energy and love and laughter and pain and heartbreaking reality of the center, who our kids are.  Lots of hugs were given, recieved.  Some personal things we’re heavy on me, but they lightened in the kids’ arms. 

I spent most of my time talking to Egor and working the clothing closet.  Egor thinks I am too skinny, he hates the way I smell and wants to take me on a date.  He didn’t want to talk about himself and sometimes you have to honor that.  I explained to him that volunteers can’t go on dates with kids in the center, and he told me it wasn’t a ‘date date.  just like a friend date’.  I like Egor, he’s one of our most intelligent kids and one of our most hard up, literally living on the sidewalks.  But I can’t just hang out with him; it breaks our rules.  Rules are there for reason, to protect the kids and the volunteers.  But everytime I explain why I can’t hang out with them outside of our center, it feels like I am building walls between us. walls I work hard to break down.  I am an affluent volunteer, you are homeless kid.  I can only see you for three hours a week.  Imagine if a good friend or your mother or your sister or your boyfriend put limits around how and when you spend time together.  It hurts. 

And, to quote my songwriting hero Morrissey, let me dial a cliche here.  StandUp For Kids is undoubtly a family.  We have all the unconditional love, dysfunction, humor, committment and character of a true family. 

Sorry, dear readers, whoever you are and wherever you are, for a most disjointed and less-than-stellarly written entry.  I anticipate more intriguing posts (much less about me, more about our kids) in the future.  Sometimes, no matter how much you give, you just can’t see past yourself.  I am in one of those modes.  It won’t last long. 

I like to run the shower and laundry list at the center.  Maybe it’s my inner camp counselor or my understimulated maternal instincts that likes making sure each kid who signed up for a shower or laundry is well taken care of, and that it’s done in a timely and efficient manner. 

We give them fresh hygiene packs and clean new cloths when they take a shower, and I love seeing them emerge from the bathroom smelling sweetly.  They have clean teenage skin, and shiny hair and bright white shirts, they remind me of dandilion’s after a long rain. 

Ricardo was first to go last week, and as I was putting together his shower bag, I realized we had no new underwear.  The bin was empty.  We didn’t have any lotion or shampoo either.  “Um, Ricardo, unfortuanently, we just don’t have underwear or shampoo, you’ll just have to make due with what we have.”  I handed him bar soap and a wash rag.  I did manage to find a nice long sleeve shirt and some new jeans, and even though I could tell he was disappointed in our lack of underwear, he said “You know, I really appreciate everything you give me.  I know I don’t say it enough.”  “We like giving it to you, and I really wish we had some boxers, man, I’m sorry.”

I can’t handle the idea of Ricardo and Egor and all our other boys sleeping out in neverending spring rains, waking up with damp underwear and soaking socks.  So I wrote an email to all my good girlfriends when I got home.  If they go to Target this week, would they consider buying a pack of boxers, some socks and large sized bras for our girls?  We are desperate.  And if they are feeling really generous, we are in grave need of people to serve meals to our kids, our resources are running out and it’s only a two hour committment. 

They responded and acted immediately, and before the weekend was over I had undershirts, underwear, socks, bras, hygiene products and serious interest in the meal service.  I can’t thank them or the dozens of people who donate enough.  We could not operate without a solid support system.

But more so, I realized that all you need to do is ask—people will act.  It’s easy to think we live in a greedy, self-obsessed culture.  But I’ve seen something very different.  I see a reliable group of people who genuinely care about others, and have the bravery and generosity it takes to help.  And to borrow the words of my good friend Ricardo,  ”You know, I really appreciate everything you give me.  I know I don’t say it enough.”

No one loves the warm weather more than the homeless.  Atlanta was kind enough to show us spring this Saturday, and the warm sun sprinkled smiles and peace across even the weariest faces. 

We went down to the homeless shelter and it was strangely empty on the women’s and children aside.  The woman working at the front desk said they are placing a lot more families now, and I hope that means in stable environments where they have a chance to plant some roots.

As we walked through Woodruff and Hurt Park, many old-timers recognized our big purple StandUp for Kids shirts and started talking to us, “StandUp?  Where you’ve been?”  or “StandUp for Kids, holla!”  or “I know you!”  I can’t express the ease and satisfaction I feel when we are called into the nests of the homeless, it’s such a testiment to the dedication of our volunteers, and the five years we’ve been roaming the streets. Personally, I feel more rewarded when a homeless man remembers my face than a store clerk or an old college friend.  When I am recognized on the street, and invited into a conversation, I know that the level of respect and sense of equality I feel between my life and his, is mirrored in his own heart.  Plus, homeless adults are our biggest allies, they often pass our our cards and tell us about kids. 

I had several new volunteers with me, and I am glad they watched my conversations unfold, how we approach and treat homeless adults, how well regarded our organization is among the people who need it most.  One of the new volunteers asked me how long it took before I felt like I ‘knew’ the streets.  I guess I knew my way around town in about two or three months, I felt very comfortable engaging in conversation around six months, I felt at home and confident on the streets in about a year.  He said one reason he wants to do this is to leave his comfort zone.  Ha! I thought, wait until you are more comfortable here than anywhere else.  Then you are changed, and you know the whole world is your comfort zone.

Now that it’s been two and half years, I think I love the streets.  I am not always at my best, and sometimes I stumble in conversations, or my mind is distant or my will is tired, but I love the streets in the same way that love people.  No matter my mood or personal problems, I will always be there for the other.  Always.   

We didn’t meet any new kids on the street, though we saw Ricardo who was being his typical, playful self.  Meeting new kids is obviously the biggest goal, but I think we reinforced our presence on the street, and we all went into the rest of our Saturday a little happier. 

Her cold, little hands grabbed my wrists and it surprised me.  I looked down and she slid her hands into mine, smiled and asked me what my name was.  She was probably five years old, and I was taken back by her unexpected gesture.

We were at a homeless shelter, and even though I am trying to target older kids, I had to take the time out to talk to this little girl.  I didn’t do much talking though, she just wanted to tell me her big news: they were getting a house for real this time and her mommy was going to have a sister.  I smiled at her, but had to keep going, we were there to meet older kids.

I met a gang of teens, between the ages of 15 and 20, and as I explained about our center and handed out food and hygiene bags, another girl about age nine came over to us and asked for a bag.  I know her mom is older than 21, and I tried to explain to her why we only help older kids with out mommies or daddies.  She kept persisting that she needed a bag and that her mommy needed help too.  Explaining demographics to a child is nearly impossible, but we can only help unaccompanied youth under the age of 21, those are the rules of the organization. 

Part of the challenge of doing street outreach is denying people in need.  It’s heartbreaking to tell a child she can’t have a bag of fresh hygiene products, or to tell a gaunt, starving old man that he can’t have a food pack.  Often, it’s those faces and voices that haunt me the most. 

Another insane evening in the center.  Actually, things felt quite calm and went relatively smoothly, but there were small moments that sent my heart straight to the asylum, either laughing uncontrollably or weeping silently.

Moment One: I keep seeing Rashad hanging outside the library during Saturday outreach.  He runs his mouth like an eigth grader on a sugar rush, a harmless menace but a little gnat of energy nonetheless.  He was kicked out of the library, and now spends his Saturdays trying to get back inside.  (The library is like the Chateau Marmont of the street. Always perfectly heated or air conditioned, clean bathrooms, water fountains, Internet, cubbies, books, quiet)  For weeks now I’ve asked him why he was kicked out of the library, and his answer is usually “Man, I didn’t do nothing and I didn’t deserve it.  Seriously!  I didn’t do a damn thing!” But out of the blue, as we went through the dinner line, he just casually said, “I threw a pen at a librarian,” with the same tone as he asked a volunteer for another scoop of lasgna.  “You did WHAT?”  I tried not to laugh, but the idea of this young rowdy man tossing a pen at a prim, crochety librarian was just hilerious.  “Man, she deserved it!  She was being such an-” “RASHAD! You can’t throw pens at librarians, just like you can’t hit a woman no matter how mad you get, or throw a punch at a policeman. You may dislike these people, but you’ll get yourself in a world of trouble over a two-second reaction.” He persisted that she deserved it and that he didn’t throw it hard and it didn’t even hit her.  His friend told me that’s the fourth library in the city he’s been exiled from.  I understand why the libraries are doing it, but I wish they also understood that this man stopped developing his mataurity around age 10, when something traumatic landed him in his first of many foster homes. 

Moment Two: A nurse came and spoke to our kids about healthy development in children, and it was aimed at our kids who are mothers and fathers.  But many of the other kids sat and listened, and Stevie was the most interested.  No one is quiet sure what is wrong with Stevie, he’s a kleptomaniac who seems to lose everything we’ve every given him. He obsessively twists his braids in his hands, he can’t make eye contact and he mumbles about things that have nothing to do with reality.  The nurse explained about healthy touch, and how babies need to be hugged, wrapped tightly and gently carassed so they are happy healthy adults.  Stevie raised his hand.  “See boys learn about themselves when they are beaten, see boys get beaten.  Boys learn when they are hit all the time.  Girls learn when people like them more.”  The confused nurse was quited, the told him boys shouldn’t be beaten and continued on in her presentation.  I froze and withheld tears.  This weren’t the words of a man, these were the words of a small child rationalizing lifelong physical abuse.  I went and played with a baby.

Moment Three: Egor finally got into Job Corps. He wants to be an electrician and a plumber.  Not only did he actually follow all the steps to get enrolled, he has rational dreams to help him succeed, which is giagantic considering most of our make kids want to make millions writing rap songs.  Anyway, he was very excited and more talkative than ever.  He told me he hated that one of our volunteers was wearing ash on her head as a symbol of Ash Wednesday  (we are not a religious organization, but respect all the religions of our kids and volunteers).  “It’s dirt and filth!  I don’t care about symbolism!  Dirt is disguisting and nasty and she is covering herself in germs.”  I let him win this one.  This was coming from a man who lives on the street, has leg problems from sleeping cramped up on MARTA, who wears the same cloths every day.  Dirt isn’t something you think about when you live in a clean, sanitary home.  A little dirt is easily wiped away. You have bleach.  You have paper towels.  Dirt is terrible thing when it is your bed, when it is your table, when it is your home. 

Mentoring 101: Before you accuse the youth of irresponsibility, ask what happened. 

Tanisha didn’t come to her tutoring session last week. I wasn’t surprised, getting street kids to make and keep an appointment is difficult.  Their lives are unpredictable, they don’t have moms and teachers reminding them, they don’t have reliable transportation.  But she could have emailed me and said ‘I can’t make it.’  Her lack of communication must be addressed, I thought, she just doesn’t know how important it is.  She’s a child, and I, I am the brilliant, kind-hearted patient volunteer who will enlighten and inspire her to be more responsible.

So I wrote a very long, very verbose email about how communication will improve her relationships, communication will garner her respect from adults, communication is the one attritribute that makes people successful.  Don’t worry, I said, I am not mad and am still here for you.

Her response was short and curt, she said I didn’t need to write her an essay, she didn’t come because she thought I cancelled it. And why did I write that essay?  She doesn’t need help with her relationships or life, she can handle herself just fine.  And did I think she was slow?  Cause she ain’t slow. 

A single blow that shot me sqaurely off my soap box.  I landed on my backside, out of breath and embarrassed.  She was absolutely right.  Why didn’t I just ask her why she didn’t come rather than accuse her?  Why didn’t I give her a chance to explain herself, start a dialogue rather than present a monologue?

Because I had volunteer worship fever; I thought of myself as her savior.  I am not her savior, she needs no saving.  She’s survived on the street by herself for three years.  Her ability to survive and ‘handle herself’ is all she has, and I spat on it for three paragraphs of professor-like scolding.  So I apologized profusely, spoke more plainly and assured her I think she is very smart.  I think she will kick ass in college.  Forgive me?

Tanisha is probably not the only person who has rolled her eyes at my lengthly, pretentious lectures.  Friends come to me for advice, and I like to give it, but that occassionally morphs into a self-righteous ramble. What I must work on is slowly giving a small soundbyte of advice, a short pause for thought.  The person seeking help can engage as much as they want; I will follow their lead.

She responded that she wasn’t mad and forgave me.  She just took a pre-test and hopes she passes.  She would still like to tutor. 

Here is where our relationship begins.  As patient as I must be with her, she has to be equally patient with me.  As much as I  enrich her life, she will enrich mine.  She doesn’t need me, we need each other.

Despite the cold, nasty weather that loomed over the city this Saturday, our street outreach team hit the pavement in search of homeless kids.  We didn’t meet anyone new, but we saw several of our regular kids spending their rainy Saturday in the library or at Underground Atlanta.

Egor sat in the corner computer station at the library, his skeleton leather jacket makes him easy to spot.  We went and chatted for a bit, I wanted to know if he called Job Corps.  He did call, but he ended the conversation quickly since the receptionist was prying too deeply with questions like what was his address, who his parents were, what his education history was like.  Basic questions that the rest of us can answer mindlessly strike panic in the heart of a homeless teen, with no address, no knowledge of his parents, an embarrassing educational history that includes many, many schools and no degree.  It was the address that troubled Egor the most, admitting you have none is much harder than explaining you dropped out of school or don’t keep in contact with your parents.  Everyone has an address, right?

I gave him StandUp for Kids street address, and said he can always use it when he needs an address, whether it’s a job application or a place to receive mail.  He smiled widely and put the address in his wallet, but spent a few minutes memorizing it first.

Tanisha gave me a sideways glance, paused and said “Am I in trouble?”  Should you be, I thought.  “No, not at all, in fact, I think you are quite lucky.”  I laughed and shot her a quick smile.

We went into the office and shut the door.  Nervously, I told her I’d be mentoring her more closely, I rambled, because of her unending potential and incredible growth and obvious maturity, and ah, to hell with it, because I like you.  She grinned, slouched back in her chair and uttered “ok.”

“Let’s get down to business then.  You’ve been in a GED program for a year.  Last week you told you me you were going to take it.  What happened?”

“I am afraid to take it and fail.  I have already taken it once and failed.  But I like the classes.  And I want to go to college, I like helping people.  Working in fast food, that isn’t the place for me.  I don’t want a little shit job.  I don’t know what I want to do, but I want to go to college.  I like helping people.  The problem with the GED is I don’t know what to study and the stuff in the books isn’t the same stuff we learn in class and that’s not the same stuff on the test.”

“Have you ever spoken to your teacher about it?”  She looked puzzled.  “Talk to the teacher?  Um, no.” 

“Pull your teacher aside after class and ask him these things.  He is there for you, do not be afraid of your teacher.  Would you be willing to be tutored for the next 8 weeks?  I think if we stick to it, you can take the GED in March and be finished in time for us to apply for financial aid in the spring.  You could be in a college program in fall. If you don’t know what you want to do, look into a technical school for the first year or so.  You’re just taking required classes, it will be less expensive and a good place to establish your grades.  Then you can transfer to a university.”

Sigh of relief, she wants to go to college.  Much easier to get her in college than find her a job, much more opportunity, oh thank you god. I know I can get her into school.  Most of our kids want to find housing on a minimum wage ($5.15 in the state of Georgia, lower than the federal rate), and it’s just impossible.

“Where are you staying?”

“With my mom.  She drinks beer, you know what I mean?  I hate living with her, she’s agressive when she’s drunk, she likes my sisters and brothers more than me.  I was raised by my grandmother but she died when I was 15.  I didn’t want to go with my mom so I went on the streets.  But it’s better with her than on the street.  But I gotta get out.  You know,  gotta leave there.”

“Well, financial aid will often help pay for living costs, it’s meager but you may be eligble for more, you can get a work study job and make a little extra money.  If we can get you in school we can get you out of there.  It’s going to take work and patience.  You have to be patient.”

“What drugs are you doing?  Be honest with me, I am not going to tell anyone or judge you, I just have to know what we are battling.” 

“Weed, I swear that it.  I smoke a little pot.  Look, you know I ain’t a bad kid.  I just need a little guidance, that’s what I need.  Guidance.”

I saw Louie last week while running errands.  He proudly wore his new security guard outfit—shiny shoes and all.  He is a good kid who’s had incredible trouble finding a job, but finally landed a great security guard gig working 32 hours a week.  (Louie’s record is still marred by a felony from high school, when he accidentally brought a pocket knife to school.)  He showed me his schedule, which was crumpled in his pocket like a high school freshman’s schedule on the first day of school.  I couldn’t be more proud of this young man. He is 100 percent drug and alcohol free.  He attended the civic volunteer day I organized for the kids in November (we cleaned up Piedmont Park), and his spirit, sense of humor and amazing workmanship really shined through that day.  Cheers!

This week I am not going to the center because I am attending orientation for a violence prevention workshop in my neighborhood, Reynoldstown.  I am very excited to learn new strategies to fight violence (great choice of words, Carleigh).  Anyway, violence is pervasive in our city, partly because of gangs and drugs, but also because there is honor and valor in being able to defend yourself well, and I understand that aspect of violence.  But I’ve also seen lives ruined and ended, mostly young lives who never had a chance to define honor themselves.  So I have to do something.