I like this time of year. While the commercialism leaves me cold, I have made a commitment not to let the desire of some to make a fast buck ruin what should be a time of spiritual reflection for all of us, and, I am proud to say that many in our community do just that. Be they Christian, Jew, Muslim or nonbeliever, many people take this time for such soul searching and act upon those spiritual beliefs.
This is also the time of year that I stop and pay homage to those who have passed on. Obviously, since I work with the homeless, my thoughts turn to those on the streets who have died. I have one bit of good news to report in this regard. Michael B., with whom I last had a conversation at Project Healthy Neighbors and which led me to believe he had stumbled and become homeless again, was in fact on the road to recovery and housed. He was known and loved by many and his passing touched us all.
Chris and I shared a special relationship built around our love of German shepherds. (I hope my new puppy, an English Mastiff, is understanding of this.) Chris’ dog, Max, was a companion dog. All at the shelter that temporally became their home loved him. After Chris’ brutal attack, which left her impaired and drove her to the streets, it was Max she turned to for support. He was also her protector when she was forced to flee to the often-brutal streets. During our shared stories of these dogs, the sadness and pain would momentarily lift from her eyes. She could forget for at least a little while that at one time, she had been a different woman, one who owned a small business. I wonder if the men who so viciously attacked her are proud of what they turned her into?
The cold weather with frost on the roofs reminds me of “Sherry.” The early mornings on Lower State Street belong to the workers keeping our city clean, cops, the homeless and myself. During these reflective times, Sherry and I would often walk together. Her eyes were chiseled hard, hiding the pain that lapped at her soul. I was never able to discover the source of her pain. One morning, I had two winter coats: one was weatherproof, the other lighter with a fake fur collar. Thinking she would prefer the heavier one to ward off the cold, I offered her this. While thanking me, her sight kept drifting back to the lighter one. When I offered her that one instead, a youthful sparkle lightened up her eyes. For the few months remaining of her life, I never saw her again when she wasn’t wearing that coat.
I never did find out the source of the infection that killed Robert. Like myself, he had served in the military. We frequently shared our vets stories. I miss him.
Sadly, I witnessed the slow progression of Joe’s disease, which ate away savagely at his body. His spirit was destroyed a little at a time until the wheelchair that enslaved became his casket.
I would often visit Ross Stiles at his campsites, trying to encourage him to come into the shelters or at least allow the medical staff to treat his crippling disabilities. During those visits, I found myself squatting down so I wouldn’t tower over him. The pain that twisted his body prevented him from standing. I will remember till the day I die sitting at a homeless shelter reading a vicious anti-homeless article that a man who called the streets home had given me. He had been deeply hurt by the tone of the article. I remember trying to downplay it — that that was merely one person’s opinion. The next person in line had come to give me bad news. He knew I was close to Ross and wanted me to know of his death. I sat in shock at first, not believing what I was being told. To this day, the murder of this crippled, gentle man has gone unsolved.
And, it is still a mystery to me how EZ and Juanita died from carbon monoxide poisoning. They had lived on the streets long enough to know not to run a generator within the tight confines of a vehicle. Did the cold drive them to such a fatal decision or was something else at play?
To this day, I am still not convinced that Alan died the way they said he did. How can an amputee who is restricted to a wheelchair, fall forward hard enough to die from a blow to the head? I also understand that he had two head wounds. Facts are hard to come by on the streets — the only certainty is this man’s tragic death.
I can still see the body of Jeremy lying at my feet. He had passed away at a shelter and we were waiting for the coroner. He seemed peaceful, his struggle finally over. The same can be said of Mitch, although the day before he died, he told several people that he felt the presence of Death lurking about.
There were those who died without names, and still others too numerous to detail: Guitar Man, Red Beard, John, Gayle and Ron, Robert, and Damon and Tom, a gifted artist whose talents will now never be acknowledged. May they all pass into a more peaceful hereafter. May we, as a community, stop for a moment and give a simple prayer or take a moment of reflection. May those who feel so moved renew our dedication to the fight to return homelessness as a social plight back into the history books where it belongs. May the soup kitchens and shelters be once again found in the pages of the Great Depression and not in our communities. And, let the families of the men and women who fell in Afghanistan and Iraq find peace of mind during these, sure to be trying holidays — and may no more fall.
Finally, may our deepest values, which hold life sacred, see the light of day.
[A Sad Update: Since finishing this article, I was informed that “Freedom” died during the freezing cold while sitting in his wheelchair on State Street. He had told many that this was to be his last year on the streets: He had heard Death’s approaching footsteps. I was surprised how many knew this homeless vet and how many were touched by his infectious humor. Thank you all who had kind words and took the time to share them regarding this man. I’m sure it meant a lot to him.]
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the last 30 years. He is the author of China White and Shattered Dreams, A Story of the Streets.