Sketches from the Bottom: A Serving of Dignity
Part III of a series
Men lined up on the side of the building in anticipation of breakfast, bellies growling after a long night. Many had scuffed duffel bags with them, while others had suitcases or shopping carts loaded with plastic bags.
At the beginning of my summer internship at a homeless rescue mission, I passed the men each morning as I walked to the front door, avoiding eye contact and hoping that no one would talk to me. I was at ease with the residents in the addictions recovery program, but I didn’t know how to interact with the men on the street.
Avoidance was cowardly, but it felt safe.
During the summer, I learned that the homeless population was predominantly men, though the numbers of homeless women and children had risen dramatically in recent years. Some people had lost their homes, others had chosen the streets, and still others had self-destructed through alcohol and drugs, losing everything that was once an anchor. There were others with untreated mental health issues that had led them to the fringes.
The mission had separate service centers for men and women; mine was the former. At the mission, I often saw the men staring as they waited for mealtime. Were they wondering where to get their next meal or dreaming about a place of their own? Some men had clear eyes and talked loudly, while others hunched down, trapped by internal voices and paranoia. Many wore the musk of the street, that unmistakable tang of sweat and urine. A few wore long overcoats, layer after layer suffused with body odor.
Though the men had many needs, only some wanted help. Sam*, a fixture in the homeless community, came into the short-term housing program after years of asking on the part of our staff. Inside, he received regular meals and warmth, but he returned to the street after his stay ended. In the summer, I watched Sam lay on his stomach in the side yard between the plots of zucchini, tomatoes, and lettuce. He was reading a battered book while propped on his elbows. He looked content–was he?
Homelessness is a daily struggle. Every seasons carries a threat: frostbite, dehydration, heat stroke, and even death. Men and women must find a place to sleep each night, watch their backs, and carry valuables with them. They quickly learn not to trust anybody. When people stayed overnight at the mission, they had to check their belongings, though the men fought to hold onto their bags.
What was inside those grocery bags and old backpacks that made them so important? In some cases perhaps, that was all they had in the world. It was theirs, and letting it go after working so hard for it must have been very difficult.
When the men shuffled into the mission for breakfast, they could have basic needs met: food, warmth, and the chance to use a real toilet. In the dining room, they received a heaping plate of food served by volunteers and residents in the addictions recovery program.
The men from the program dressed better and stood straighter since they had left the blurry jungle of addiction. But their stories were often similar to those whom they served. Nothing but a couple of decisions separated the men on either side of the meal line–or me for that matter.
Our lives were so fragile.
Even as I struggled to understand, I watched Justin*, one of the program graduates, at work. He knew what the bottom felt like, thanks to a long struggle with alcohol addiction.
One day, he shared his story with me. When his mother died, Justin lost his only relational support and his housing provider, so he decided to drink himself to death. His clothes flopped around him as alcohol poisoning stripped pounds from his body. One evening, he lay drunk in the creek bed where he used to drink as a teen and prayed to God for help. That was his last night homeless. Soon after, he entered the recovery program at the mission, where he was set free from addiction.
Homeless people did not intimidate Justin. He gave hugs and handshakes to all mealtime guests without reservation, and he addressed every man as “sir” or “brother,”—that is, if he didn’t already know their name. Whether they were dirty, smelly, or fighting with mental illness, they received a gracious welcome and a plate of food from Justin.
But he gave more than a hello and a slap on the back. He recognized them as an individual, not an embarrassment. In the middle of their survival-centered lifestyle, Justin’s welcome honored their humanity and dignity.
A man might be drunk with a week of stubble and clothes that smell like urine.
But he is still a human. And he still has a name.
*Names changed to protect privacy.