Beth's Story

A friend of mine sent me this video recently. While this certainly does not reflect the story of every person on the street, it does show something of the progression many of them go through in their descent from "normal" life to homelessness.

A Call for Submissions: What is in a Name?

I have gotten some e-mails from readers recently that have contained personal anecdotes about homeless experiences and/or accounts of their own lives on the streets. Some of them are pretty interesting in their perspective and detail; so I decided to extend an opportunity to anyone who reads this blog.

If you have a story about homelessness that you would like to contribute to the site, please send me an e-mail.

NOTH's new e-mail address is: namesofthehomeless@gmail.com .

I am looking for anything that honestly describes people's condition, that movingly tells their life-stories, and that includes the name of the individual. Names are essential because they bring the homeless into the realm of humanity. It is easier to love someone when you know their name, it is harder to fear or hate them. Knowing and remembering someone's name shows them that you think they matter as an individual; and that they're not subhuman or a meaningless statistic. What would you think if I told you that President Obama knew me, and called me by my name? That would mean that to the Commander and Chief, I stand out as a unique, knowable entity, and
not just another face in a crowd of 300million citizens. I am worthy of special attention, worthy enough for him to memorize the most elemental feature of my person: my name.

Think about how different Reagan's speech would have sounded if he had said: "Whoever-you-are-Soviet-leader, you ought to tear down this wall." Names are powerful. Think about the first time you heard the name of your beloved. Remember how it tingled in your ear and intoxicated your insides? Now you could call to the person who had been distracting your mind all day, and they would turn and acknowledge you too. (Amazing!) Think about Mary, next to the tomb, trying to find the body of her Lord. It was not until Jesus sweetly whispered her name that she recognized him.

If you are interested in talking to a homeless person, but are intimidated by the idea or are unsure how to start, feel free to shoot me an e-mail and I can send you some suggestions.

Thanks for everyone who has given me honest feedback on this project thus far. I appreciate your comments.

100s of Names

I have had the privilege of helping our church's food ministry serve hot meals over the past couple of weeks.

Hispanic women clack and clatter away in the sweltering kitchen (Hermano, ya estas sudando?) serving up delicious plates of food that would easily pass muster in a local restaurant. The can-opener went down this week so we had to use psycho-sized knives to free the canned carrots, corn, and cranberry/apple juices for consumption.
Stir that rice. Cut the bread. Oh, look they're already at the door. We are ready to go.

The homeless file in, one after another. They are mostly men, mostly Hispanic, and mostly middle aged or older. Their first stop in the air- conditioned basement is by the counter where they "sign in" and then receive their utensils: one napkin, one Styrofoam cup, and one plastic spoon. Some of them are amiable and greet the workers, others are apathetic, staring sullenly down at the paper and pen, still others are mentally incapable of any response beyond sticking to the routine as best they know how.

Everyone attempts to write their name, but some are more successful than others. There were Mikes, Albertos, Eduardos, and Johns along with Ms. Park, only the second homeless Korean I have ever seen. There were exotic names too: Angel de Maria, G, XX, along with various lines and squiggles. Some wrote their names quickly and sat down, some bit their tongues and forced the pen down in the painfully laborious strokes of a first grade education. A couple took up more lines than were necessary, straying into other names and margins, like drunk drivers in the world of the literate.

The jobs in the kitchen and serving the food kept me from getting to spend time with many of them. I spoke briefly with John, who was so excited to have someone to talk to that he continued the conversation even while he left the table to get more to drink. He was still talking when he sat down again; I am not sure how much I missed. I did catch that he used to work in construction up in Fresno, before he lost his job. He took some classes at LA City College studying, "a little bit of everything."

I met up with Mr. "G" as well. Thick jacket and a braided beard. He says he is staying cool even with the recent heat. "It doesn't bother me at all."

Hundreds of names, hundreds of stories. Can't wait to begin exploring them all.

 

The Soloist: A Review

If you will remember, in a previous post I mentioned the story of Nathaniel Ayers, a homeless man, and Steve Lopez, an LA Times reporter, as presented by 60 Minutes. The piece mentions that the book inspired by their friendship had spawned a movie: The Soloist.

It has been in theaters for one week now and I had the opportunity to see it this Sunday.

I must begin by saying that this film does a great job of portraying the homeless in their own environment and (at points) from their own perspective. Director Joe Wright (Pride and Prejudice, Atonement) told NPR's Robert Siegel, that once the real Steve Lopez had taken him to Skid Row in downtown L.A. and he had seen the thousands of homeless in the place they call home, his ideas about the nature and cast of the film changed. He says, "I went back to DreamWorks and said, 'Okay I'll make this film on the condition that your lawyers and accountants find a way to pay 500 members of the skid row community." So that is precisely what they did. Real homeless people played the parts of homeless people in the film.

Skid Row comes to the screen in vivid color, and it makes you cringe. In several scenes you watch Steve Lopez's character (played by Robert Downey jr.) trying to find Nathaniel Ayers (Jamie Foxx) in and around the Skid Row section of town. He searches through human wreckage and is appalled by what he sees. Crack pipes, street fights, murders, overdoses, police brutality, and mental illness run rife through the streets and are hardly any dramatic departure from the reality that I have seen there myself. It gave me a sort of flashback to my first time on Skid Row, as a part of an Urban Research class.

We went to the Midnight Mission in the early afternoon; a small clump of white middle and upper-class students never looked or felt more out of place. We were there to speak to the director about his strategies in presenting solutions to the homeless environment, but the hundreds of people lining both sides of the street called us the "lunch crew" or the "volunteers" as we walked along, naming the two most common categories for cultural outsiders in that part of the city. We looked like suburbanites-with-a-cause, on Skid Row to assuage our guilt-ridden consciences, but we weren't even worthy of that misnomer. We were only there because of a class requirement.

It is impossible to describe that walk along the streets where these people live. If you don't live close enough to LA to see it for yourself, then you need to see this movie. People call out and cackle to one another across the street, they exchange drugs openly in full view of the authorities, and as an outsider you can literally feel yourself being strip-searched by their eyes. There is no question that you are on their turf. As we approached the entrance to the Mission, a lady and a man both in their late twenties began to have an altercation about an exchange of crack. The man came out on the short end of the exchange. The lady punched him in the eye with her fist. From where I stood it looked like she had several rings on her hand with the diamonds removed, this was confirmed by the fact that the man came running past us bleeding profusely. He walked up to the guardhouse of the Mission, got a paper towel, and continued on his way. The woman laughed at him the whole time, she held the bag in the end.

Like a pithy line taken straight from a movie script, the cigarette-smoking guard looked at us lazily and said, "Welcome to the Mission."

You see the rough side of homeless life in The Soloist, no question about it. In one of the most moving scenes of the film, Lopez spends the night next to Ayers on Skid Row, and records their conversation. As Ayers is praying the Lord's Prayer several scenes flow in succession showing the inhumane conditions of the people around him, and the nature of life on the streets. However, The Soloist also shows a sweetness and camaraderie that many of us don't know exists among these people. There are several scenes where "homeless couples" are seen in genuine affection for one another caring for each other's needs and completing each other's sentences. The film leaves you with a sense of hope for the individuals living there, at least they have each other.

As with most films, there was some poetic license taken with the factual events of Lopez' and Ayers' life stories. It also fabricated a well-meaning, but stupid Christian character who acts aloof and insensitive; which I found to be both offensive and misleading. There was no reason to go there, especially because the vast majority of the organizations that work in Skid Row are run by Christians. Perhaps that is Mr. Wright's view of the nature of Christian work among the Homeless. Maybe he feels all Christians only care about filling their church rosters or their church coffers. I would invite anyone who feels this way to view the program created by Central City Church of the Nazarene less than a few blocks from where The Soloist was filmed. The program is not obsessed with making conversions, or trying to pump someone for money, it simply gives the homeless community a chance to enjoy life for a few hours, in a safe, free environment. Need I remind the world that Christ Himself was homeless? That he invited a man who wanted to follow him to first sell all he had and give his possessions to the poor? Mr. Wright was wrong to caricature Christians as being out of step with the real needs of the homeless.

This brings us full circle to the purpose of this blog. I found myself quite moved by The Soloist's story, and am glad that I began this blog several months before I knew the story existed. The point that the film pushes is that Mr. Lopez is entirely incapable of "fixing" Mr. Ayers' problems, but at the same time was able to give him the one thing he needed: a friend. I want this blog to inspire people to get to know the homeless in their area and befriend them, because it is what they need, it is what you need, and it is how Christ Himself would approach them.

In the film Mr. Lopez is asked why he wants to write a story about the homeless Nathaniel Ayers in the first place. This is his response, "Because I am a writer and that's what I do. Everyone has a story and that story is interesting."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Mr. Lopez Meets Mr. Ayers

Watch CBS Videos Online

This is the story of Mr. Lopez, an LA Times reporter who was intrigued by beautiful music he heard coming from under a statue in Pershing Square. The chance encounter led to a relationship between himself and Mr. Nathaniel Ayers. Nathaniel was once a student at the prestigious Julliard School of Music, but because of insufficient treatments for his paranoid schizophrenia, ended up on the street. This story, and the book that Mr. Lopez wrote about his subsequent friendship with Mr. Ayers, has inspired an upcoming movie starring Robert Downey jr. and Jamie Foxx.

I thought that this was a fascinating story and am looking forward to seeing the movie. This is exactly what NOTH is all about. Nathaniel had a story that no one would have heard or believed if someone hadn't stopped to ask. He has a name, and he is worth getting to know. He is a human being with innate value as such. It is not what someone does that makes them worth paying attention to or caring about, it is who they are. The members of the orchestra and the media have displayed a small glimpse of his innate value by telling his story, and accepting him on the basis of who he is, not where he lives. I sincerely hope that this story and movie inspire many people to see the homeless in a different light.

www.soloistmovie.com

Ricky and Stephanie

Last night I met Ricky and Stephanie. Ricky looked to be in his mid-twenties, and Stephanie a bit younger. They were at that same ramp off of highway 101. They live a fascinating life that I didn't know still existed. This guy and girl ride trains, semis, and hitch-hike across country... just because they can. They eat what they can buy or what people give them and sleep under overpasses. I was surprised to learn that there are large communities of these people who do this all the time. They travel to a town, split up, meet a new group and start all over again finding people who will help them along the way. They aren't trying to get anywhere, they just want to travel around. Their worldview and attitude are very different from the "normal" homeless people in our area. They could very easily get jobs and a place to stay, but were on the streets simply for the experience. They had just gotten in from a long trek that started in St. Augustine, Florida.

The guy had tons of stories of "living outdoors" as he called it. "There was this one time me and my buddies were in the back of a truck outside of Shreveport and were stuck in the rain for three hours. That was weird."

"There was this one time that me and a group a' guys were ridin' the trains around. Right when it stopped we decided to get off. It was a Sunday morning and there was a church nearby. We walked up to it and were like, 'How do you go in?' then we saw there was a sign on the door that said 'sanctuary'. I turned to my friend and said, 'That's weird.' so we walked in. It was like, a bunch of gray-headed old people. They kept turning around and looking at us; then they would smile, and wave, and come up to shake our dirty hands. I only had like 40 cents in my pocket so I put it in the basket they passed around. After the service the pastor gave me a Bible with 40 dollars stickin' out of it. Weird man, totally weird."

"There was this one time I was picked up by this guy just outside of Indianapolis. He was a real clean-cut guy in a nice suit driving a new minivan. There were no seats in the back, just a couple of boards and a lawn chair. I had a dog with me at the time, and he started going nuts when he sniffed one of the boards. 'Oh, don't worry about the dog.' the man told me, 'He probably just smells the dead bodies.' I thought to myself, 'Oh %$*&! I am about to get chopped to pieces by some crazy guy in a minivan. I don't want to die in Indianapolis. I don't want to die.' I didn't know what to do. If we weren't going down the highway I could have kicked him in the face and run away or something. I've never been so scared in my life. I thought I would just keep talking to the guy and maybe he would have second thoughts about throwing me into his freezer. While we were talking I came to find out that he's a mortician. Thank God."

I asked them if they ever missed the "normal life" of living indoors with beds and kitchens and stuff. Ricky resolutely shook his head and talked about sleeping under the stars and having the passing traffic lull him to sleep like waves on the seashore. Stephanie, though, looked very homesick, and even said as much. It was obvious that she was only going along with this lifestyle so she could be near him.

I told them that they reminded me a little bit of Jesus, that he was homeless and traveled around all the time too. They seemed to appreciate that. I shared the gospel with them, told them about our hot-meals at church, and took them up to Hollywood (they wanted to try to see some stars leaving the academy awards). I gave them a couple of gospels of John with tracts in the front, and told them the best thing they could ever do with their lives would be to give them to God, and they seemed genuinely grateful for our time together.

If you see them (the curlicue tattoo on Ricky's right cheek gives him away) tell them hi for me.

Solomon

Maybe you have met him. He is a tallish white guy with his face tattooed to make him look like a clown. He lives in the Mid-Wilshire district of Los Angeles. Every once in a while you can see him Northbound 101 off ramp at Vermont Avenue holding a sign that says, "Help this poor clown buy marijuana." Solomon has seen quite a bit in his 23 years. He gestures with a half-eaten Subway breakfast wrap as he tells me that he was kicked out of the army because he is "A little, you know... loco." Apparently Subway breakfasts always taste better in pita wraps rather than bread, he told me that it had something to do with how they warmed them up with the eggs; I didn't quite understand what he meant.

He told me about the time he was kicked out of "that one mission" downtown. He had gotten angry at a security guard who was pounding on the bathroom door while he was trying to shave. He yelled at the guard and called him "gay." "I didn't really mean all that stuff I said. I was just angry. I've got a few anger problems." he recalled pensively. It is hard not to notice that Solomon has a big build and big hands, I wouldn't want to be around when he was angry.

He still gets a stipend from the military for his service: $900 a month. Aside from occasional meals, he sinks the money he gets into marijuana and trying to get an old astro van running again. He proceeded to tell me all of the things that he thinks are wrong with it and all the tools that he bought from the nearby Autozone to fix it. A couple of minutes later he told me that he fixed it all using "bare hands", but I'm sure he just meant that he did all the grunt-work himself.

He told me about how he refuses to do any drugs harder than marijuana because his mom did and he saw what hell that put her through. He told me that some of his relatives died in 9-11. He never referred to his mother in the present tense, or mention his dad.

When I told him that I was a pastor at a nearby church he said, "Really? Are you incognito or something?" I said, "No. Why do you ask?" He replied, "Because you aren't wearing black with that box on your collar." I told him that not all pastors wear liturgical collars, and that he was welcome to come and check out the church on Sundays. "Really?" he said again, "I've been to that church for food hand-outs during the week, but I didn't know they were open on Sundays."

Solomon and I are the exact same age.