The Human-ness of Both Our Humanities

“A good way to break the ice,” said Steve “is to look at them and say ‘hi.’”

My lack of action certainly spoke louder than my words on Day One as I realized the homeless, despite my beliefs cultivated from countless liberal arts social justice classes, became non-human. I was in “tourist street mode” when outside the safety of the volunteer office of the Dining Room at St. Vincent de Paul of Alameda County: make no eye contact and ignore them, especially if they ask for money. I had no trouble, however, putting on my out-going and engaging business face throughout the day as long as I was in the office and being introduced to mostly white-faced administrative professionals—a comfort zone established after eleven months of work in Corporate America.

The words of the moderately famous rap song about a bum resoundingly remind me of my first lesson: “Mr. Windle, a man, a human in flesh, but not by law.”

The humanity of the homeless situation, however, became undeniable today, Day Two, when I was assigned the “very challenging” job of escorting and bringing second trays to handicapped men as they ate their lunch in the Dining Room. Physically and mentally it was the simplest job available: carry pre-made trays to anybody who raises his hand if he appears adequately handicapped. Emotionally it was one of the most difficult for a white boy strong on ideas but weak on experience. Never before had I been so close to the homeless—our literal proximity was restricted throughout my life.

Slumber set in at 4:30 pm as today’s images danced across my brain. There was the tall skinny man who skipped the line and like a teenager with a cigarette carried a red and white syringe behind his ear. Joe Rodriguez, experienced help at the Champion Guidance Center, confronted him sternly yet quietly, the tall man left without protest, and Joe mentioned that nobody else noticed. “Welcome to my world,” he said. I liked Joe immediately and realized ideas were quickly replaced by reality: the homeless really are addicted and the street-ridden woman who was invited for pre-meal prayer really did have the best intention when she prayed, “all drug dealers be taken off the street.”

There was the fat diabetic who refuses to take his medicine that called for plates on account of his massively swollen, purple and vein-protruding ankle—an inevitable candidate for amputation according to the resident volunteers.

There was the elder Rafael, an obvious regular who maintained an uncanny resemblance to the father figure in Samford and Son. He spent a long time in the dining room catching up with friends including Joe and other Champion Guidance Center volunteers.

There was the young boy not more than twelve accompanying what could have been his older brother through the line. This one struck me. Was he undergoing survival training under the tutelage of his brother? Or was he there by himself? He should not be here. He should be with the kid I saw on my walk home doing handstands outside the shops, waiting for his mother. Those two should be the brothers. I realized I had not even been behind the curtain separating the men from the women and children.

Unless you are Jesus Christ Superstar in a crowded room with the lame flowing in over the tops, pity does little rectify the situation. At least that was the sentiment I got from Will who said, at the appropriate time, “When it’s closed, it’s closed.”

One meal was served to nearly 1,000 patrons. Doors opened at 10:15 a.m. Doors closed at 12:45 p.m. Where does everybody go after the doors close? Some, like Wayne, head over to the Champion Guidance Center. And then, after 3:00pm when it closes, where does everybody go?

They go homeless.

But tomorrow, at least, I will say “hi.”