Most mornings I take our dog out in the morning to eliminate, as “they” call it. Usually, there’s a steady stream of regulars going to and from the homeless shelter that sits adjacent to our condo building. The presence of a homeless shelter next to my home, let alone the existence of one period, may have shocked the suburbanites reading this. Please, take a moment. Demographic diversity is real, and you can’t hide from it forever!
Most of the vagabonds are single black men, donning layers upon layers of borrowed clothes to stay warm in the winter. They appear and disappear on 15th Street, coming from or going to any host of destinations. Some have chemical dependencies, others have mental disabilities, and yes, some are just the lazy and entitled who are enabled by a broken system of support. Generally these folks keep to themselves, their heads sheltered by hoods and their eyes focused on the ground. A few are frequently in inexplicably good spirits and will say hello, talk directly to the dog without acknowledging me, do a combination of both, or immediately try to sell me a serving of Jesus – because, you know, it’s working out so well for them. Even rarer is the irate man, like the one who verbally abused my wife and dog on Wednesday night. He was out of his mind, but that’s no excuse.
Most of these people I’ve seen off and on for years. They are the chronically homeless. I feel terrible saying this, but being so close to the misfortune has made me numb to it, but only to a degree. Dare I say the sparsely attended parade of the downtrodden adds a bit of life to a relatively quiet street.
Most recently, I’ve noticed a different demographic of American patronizing the shelter – entire families. I’m not referring to the occasional single parent and child, almost always a product of a similar situation, a generation removed, mixed with a hearty helping of gross irresponsibility and lust. No, I’m referring to a nuclear family – father, mother, and child(ren). These people are clearly new to the party.
Most of the fathers are surrounded by a cloud of humiliation and defeat. They make weak eye contact, embarrassed to be towing everything they own and swore to protect from a place to sleep to a place to eat. Still, the inate instinct to protect remains. They’re cautious in engaging anyone, anyone at all. Their eyes are constantly surveying. The mothers are usually occupied by their children. When they have a precious free moment, they become muted caricatures of their husbands, careful but more disarming. A smile is often faintly detectable and the eye contact a little stronger, longer. I think they’re trying to tell me they’re okay, almost apologizing for letting me see them like this, even though they’re shredded on the inside. The children are seemingly ignorant to the strife. Surely they are uncomfortable and questioning the situation. But, they’re too young to comprehend the gravity of the here and now. This sucks mom, let’s go home.
Most of these new homeless have nice teeth, nice clothes and strollers. They’re hair isn’t deshelved and they enunciate well. Give it time. Most of me hopes this trend has peaked, while a small part of me wishes it will get bad enough that people – you and me people, not the digusting shells of people we elect to help us - are forced into a state of awareness and action. No more bandages. It’s time to break the bone and reset it. Patching up a flawed model of life, which we do so often with great intentions and limited results, is a terrible, terrible waste of time and money. If you promise to help, I’ll promise to have whichever sadistic organ that wishes further ill on the suffering removed.
People are suffering in greater numbers every single day. If you don’t believe me, come hang out any given morning on 15th Street.
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