Without a Place to Call Their Own

The town I live in is currently experiencing a bit of an issue with the most marginalized citizens we have; the homeless.

Recently, a shelter had to close down. This has led to all manner of strangeness in the way people are responding. On the one hand, you have people supporting them in whatever way they can. On the other, you have people confused about why there are open beds at other shelters.

I am writing today to address what is happening, in the only way I know how, sharing a few true stories and a piece of fiction I wrote based on my experience. The fiction is the closest I will ever come to writing poetry, but don’t let that scare you.

Oh, and for the record, my wife and I did do something more tangible, but that is far from the point. I am a writer, so I write. You are a reader. Read, and hopefully come away with something.

Not all shelters are created equal. Each has a different atmosphere and a different set of rules and leadership.

The one night I tried to stay in a shelter, I decided it was not for me after about 3 hours.

I walked in to YMCA House in Toronto (many many moons ago) and was met by two people who were clearly tired and not at all comfortable in their job.

They grilled me for a bit on who I was and why exactly I was looking for a place to stay for the night. I lied to them. I told them I was 16 and just arrived in town. They took pity on me and allowed me in. All they really did to prepare me was to tell me no drinking, fighting or fucking.

I was not a fan of booze at the time and really didn’t find other men attractive, so I figured, for the most part this would be easy.

They invited me to the common room to hang out before dinner. It was a large basement room with a few couches, a pool table and a tv. I was thinking this would be ok. If someone was making a walking tour of the empty facility they might even think it was inviting and borderline too comfortable.

About a half an hour later, the usual residents started arriving for dinner.

I had very few preconceived notions about people at that time, I was naive and inexperienced in the ways of the streets. Thus, when a bunch of hairy tattooed men walked in, I was thinking, oh cool, I recognize these types as kind uncles and psuedo-uncles. There is nothing to worry about here.

I was shy, and did not want to disturb people. While naive, I was not dumb. Jumping in with both feet and trying to get to know these people was likely not a good idea. I sat in a corner and just observed the way they interacted with each other. I didn’t even comment on the nondescript bottles they were drinking from.

As we sat down for dinner, I did not see the danger coming until it was too late. Two of these men started fighting. I was flabbergasted, as remember, the rule was no fighting.

What was the cause of their pugilistic display you might ask? They were fighting over my dinner. Two grown men were so passionate about my dinner, they felt the need to kick each other’s asses. It took me a moment to realise that I was in real danger. These two men had decided that my meal was theirs and were willing to fight to get it. The problem for me was that neither saw me as the stumbling block for their attainment of said meal. It was clear to them I was not going to be a problem.

That was when I noticed one of the other men at the table was drinking a beer. What was the rule about drinking again?

I saw that the chaperones of this party were in the room, but they were not stopping any of this rule breaking.

That was when I remembered the third rule that had been told to me, and I left. I like to think of myself as enlightened and accepting of alternative lifestyles; however, I also feel like that doesn’t mean I have to take part in them. Maybe I was over reacting. Maybe. Yet clearly the rules were there for a reason right? These things must happen on the regular, and it was equally clear the people working their lacked the power to stop these things from happening.

I later found out that YMCA House was often used as a half-way facility for the recently incarcerated. Not every shelter is like this, and this was a long time ago, but the images and events have stuck with me.

I once knew a girl who was not what you would call a good girl. She made the kind of choices that make people blush and shake their heads in disapproval. Don’t get me wrong, she was not a bad person, but as Benny would say, “the game was rigged from the start” for her. Not a single person in her life could be called a caring adult, not even the ones who were paid to be such.

At the time of this anecdote, she was 16 and trying to find where she belonged in the world. She went and stayed at what was a reputable facility in the town she lived. In fact, the place was designed for people her age to use.

She stayed there a few times before one of the male staff began grooming her for sex. She was used to this behaviour from men and knew exactly what was happening to her and another girl at the facility.

She chose to go with the flow in this case because it ended up getting her some of the things she wanted. This guy in his mid to late twenties did not see what was happening, or the effects of his abuse.

The girl began to spiral. You see, rather than take advantage of the opportunity to better her situation in the over all sense, she had used the chance to make things more comfortable in her current lifestyle. She was able to use more drugs and have freedom to break the rules.

Eventually the story of what was happening got back to somebody who saw it for what it was. Rather than look at this girl as complicit, because in a sense she was consenting to it, thought for the record I believe she was completely incapable of giving consent properly in this situation. This person was stuck in what to do. The legalities and other factors make this a hard one to deal with. She was 16, which means she can give consent.

Long story short, this place had a predator problem. These two girls were vulnerable and needed support, not a rogering. Eventually, staff and others were able to help these girls, and shortly after his behaviour was revealed he was released form his duties. Charges were filled.

These are just two examples of why someone may not wish to take advantage of the lovely facilities that are offered to them.

I know many other stories, some not as bad, and some far worse. I am hoping that this can give you a snapshot into why someone would make the choice I made. Why someone would put themself in a position like the one of the young man in the following piece, and live outside, on the fringe of society.

A truck backfires, for a moment drowning out the rumble of distant traffic. The grass is soft and moist, cold yet yielding;  the smell of the dew far outpaced by the smells of the city; dirt, sweat, rotting food, rotting flesh. Steam rises from the sewer grates cascading across the landscape, obscuring the buildings a short distance from where the man lays motionless.

He is not asleep, nor is he truly a man. Of course, the definition of man is lost on him, almost as much as it is on us. The rites of passage in his world are more elusive in definition and clarity, but more readily apparent in their effect on someone. He is a teenager, a lone lost teenager under a bench.

It occurs to him briefly the chief reason for the bench, indeed for the park itself. He ever so gently fantasizes, just for mere moments about the family sitting down at the bench, enjoying the warm summer sun, combined with a beautiful spread of food fit for a king and his royal family. His stomach rumbles, and this forces him into action, even if it is just to roll over and suffocate these thoughts.

He’s not sure if his fantasy is anywhere near reality. He thinks back to his family outings, rare as they were. They always seemed to center around a bar. Ontario Place for the air show, at a bar. Booze infested family dinners. His memories do not fill him with light.

He groans softly, realising his thoughts betray him, make him soft and weak and vulnerable. This will never do, not now, not later, not ever. He resolves then and there to be unquestioningly strong, unfailingly cold. Just like the morning grass.

The sun is threatening to bring its warm face out and mock the man-child. It seems lately like all the sun does is mock and cajole, promise light and warmth, but only bring exposure and boredom. All day, what does he have to do but wander and ponder? He’ll think about what led him to this spot, what made him the way he is, but in the end all he will find is silence, because the answer is so obvious that he should not even bother with the question. He did this. He made it. But still he looks for a place to lay the blame, some way to alleviate his anger by focusing the relentless rage.

He knows the rage will betray him as all his other emotions will. People use this to their advantage. Twisting, manipulating, forcing him into action he previously would never have considered. But really, what is he now but a clean slate? He is but a newly formed machine of cold unfeeling malevolence for those around him.

He tries to fight this, but knows he will lose. It is not mere abandonment he feels. Nor is it hopelessness. It is calm resolution; an acceptance of fate if you will.

The anger rises, tasting like bile in his throat, but of course it is the best thing he has tasted in three days, so he welcomes it. He wants to scream out. LOOK AT ME NOW! You say you care, you say you love me, but look at me now. Look at where I am, and what I am doing and tell me this is love, tough or otherwise.

This makes him ponder love. Has he ever really felt it? He has been told I love you, but like the ghosts of a thousand dreams, all those that say love with their lips, and even with their eyes, walk away. Is that love?

He knows in the back of his mind and in the front of it when the sun crawls to its height and brings out all the happy souls for play, that things will get better. They will change as all things must. There is one small problem that he sees. It will get bad again. Then better. Then bad. The lesson his father imparted doesn’t leave him, and maybe he should be thankful for that at least. Life is a series of waves, sometimes you are cresting, riding high and feeling no pain; and sometimes you are in the trough, surrounded on all sides by your anguish and loneliness, engulfed by your sadness, in constant fear of  the devastation of the undertow. This he now knows to be true.

Things will get better, and he will forget the lesson he learned that night. When he lets the emotions run and lets people in, he will feel pain because he knows no other way, knows no other form of living than this. As luck will have it though, there will be others to teach him this lesson over and over again. They will be unwavering in their support of the trough theory.

Down in the trough, he will find the sweet escape of chemicals. They will surround him in a blanket of warm lies, and he will, for a time, feel nothing but happy. It is a happy he can control though. A happy he can bring on at will, not matter the circumstance. A happy without fetters to others. A safe happy, even as it consumes him.

There is one final lesson the street will teach him that night, the lesson that will be his downfall for all eternity. Loneliness is a killer. Being alone in a city of millions makes a hard man crumble, and let us not forget, this is really not a man we are talking about. Loneliness will force him out from under the bench. Loneliness will introduce him to all sorts of wonders and he will ride high standing on top of the crest, his feet barely brushing the surface of the water, a smile on his face that no feeling person could resist. But loneliness will cause him to stop thinking and start feeling, and that he cannot allow, even though he will. The problem for him is not the people he chooses, it is in fact the people that choose him; that break their own waves across his body; that will search to use him to climb out of their trough, to avoid their loneliness, to embrace their darker passions.

You and I will come to doubt that he will need to be taught these lessons many more times before they make him or break him. But there is always once more. There is always that one last time to dream, to hope, to persist and to reach for the stars, because in the dead of night, all alone in a city of millions, the stars are your friends, and they are all just people who he has yet to meet, and a few of them will be the bright beacons in life that they are in the sky. This too he knows is true.

He rolls over, the growl of his stomach can be heard from 20 feet away, and he sleeps. Tonight he will sleep, for one day, sleep will betray him too, but that day is yet to come, those memories are the future.

Was this his choice? Is it ever a choice one makes? It is just a series of consequences for choices you don’t even know you are maing at the time.

The boy who is not a man, the man who is only a boy sleeps.

In the end, the take away here is that every single one of us has a story, and it may not fit in to the box that others want it to. Every single homeless person has a story of their own. There is no single solution, and in my heart, I doubt the solution can come from us exactly. It has to come from them.

What we need to do is ask how to help, not dictate what the help looks like, otherwise we may end of like me, or that 16 year old girl, or like the sad sack of meat under the park bench.