We Ain't Your Family

There is a small man at the shelter who is the same age as my mother. They call him Littl'un. I had the privilege of filling out some paper work with Littl'un one night and we talked a lot.

He never made it to high school and I didn't bother to ask why. He never got his GED, either. The older guys at the shelter don't think there is any use, because "who would hire someone my age?" Littl'un had a job at a local plant, but was part of a number of layoffs. He also got kicked out of the house when his wife found out he had been sleeping around.

Homeless. No job. No wife. Littl'un drinks and I'm not sure I can blame him. The other night he got "permanently evicted" from the shelter because he came in drunk. Had I been there, I might have let him in. When Littl'un came in drunk, he would stumble onto one of the couches and you wouldn't hear anything from him until the morning.

But the shelter has rules for reasons. You never know when a drunk person will become dangerous. This winter night, Littl'un was rightfully told to leave. Since Littl'un and I talked about the incident, I get the feeling Littl'un felt belittled. Supposedly he wasn't even going to stay in the shelter, he was just going to stop in and say he was too drunk to stay in. Who knows if that story is true. I have no reason to disbelieve Littl'un; I think him an honest man. But we all know a drunk man's plans don't always turn out the way he planned. I suspect Littl'un would have tried to stay at the shelter that night. Who knows?

Littl'un told me the nighttime worker put on an attitude and was throwing around his authority. I imagine Littl'un felt the worker was like a bouncer puffing out his chest (and let's remember, these are the interpretations of what I heard from a man telling of a story when he was drunk, reality may be skewed). Feeling offended and cornered (so I interpret), Littl'un said something about kicking the young man's ass. Later that night, Littl'un was placed on the "permanent eviction" list. He cannot enter the normal program again. He cannot even enter the winter-nights program.

I let Littl'un in before I understood the nature of his eviction. I helped Littl'un file a grievance concerning the status of his eviction. I let Littl'un into the shelter on a number of occasions and the other night I noticed a note saying he was not to be let into the shelter. I read that note too late, too.

One night, Littl'un came into the office and told me he was worried about me not going to Maine to be with my family for Christmas. He asked me what I was going to do and I told him I was going to spend the day with him and the rest of the guys. There are two kinds of family, anyways.

I told Littl'un he and the rest of the guys would just have to be my family on Christmas. Enough of the guys in the shelter have family in the area they won't be spending time with for various reasons. But for some reason Littl'un and the gang still see me as different from them, as an other. And I am. I have two jobs, an education, a home, and lots of food. They eat whatever I am given to serve them. Most don't have steady work if any. They are only allowed to get drunk during the day, in public, if they want a place to stay the night.

Littl'un told me, "We ain't your family. We might be your friends, but it isn't the same," or something to that effect. I still get choked up writing about it. He said "friends."

You're alright, Littl'un.

Since writing this piece, I received a call from the ER while at the shelter. The lady from the hospital asked if I had any space for Littl'un that night. I said I was not allowed to let him into the shelter. And for a moment, I was proud that I had followed the rules, the rules that rightly and effectively protect the safety of the men in the shelter. That pride didn't last long. The lady told me she was looking for some place for Littl'un to go, since he told her he had nowhere to go once she released him. He was taken to the ER earlier that day for alcohol poisoning.

I miss you, man. I hope you'll be OK

A High School Senior Enters

The other night an 18-year old checked into the shelter. He was a high school senior. He only had a backpack with him. He recently made some bad decisions, he told, including marijuana, alcohol, and suspension from school. He told me, because his dad told him he needed to start being honest. His dad told him this at some point before kicking him out of the house to teach him a lesson. He said his dad told him he would end up on the streets later in life if he didn't straighten up. The kid only needed a place to sleep for a few nights, so I entered him into the shelter's "Winter Nights" program, which means he could have some amenities and food if we had enough, but he was only there for a warm place to sleep.

I've met some people green around the edges, but this kid was green all the way through. He looked nervous and scared, but not enough to lose his composure, at least not this early in the night.

I explained as much of the program to him as I could. I was as kind to him as I am to everyone else, although I perhaps took extra care with this kid. I wanted him to learn a lesson, because I didn't want him to ever end up on the streets for good, but neither did I want him scarred for life.

He was definitely surprised by a lot of the goings on of homeless people. The shelter closes during the day and he asked me what he was supposed to do during the day. He asked me where the people in the winter nights program sleep when they aren't at the shelter. He asked me questions with pretty obvious answers, but answers outside his realm of experience, answers many people are afraid to ask, because they don't want to know the obvious answers.

One of the younger guys (just 18 or 19 himself) this 18-year old under his wing. He made sure the kid got what he needed and they hung out a lot. I let them chat loudly and longer than I am supposed to, because I wanted to hang out with them. I wanted to counter the things the other gentleman was saying, things encouraging this kid to get out of his father's house. The kid was sent to learn a lesson, but I saw him having fun at the shelter by someone he thought could be his friend and being encouraged to do the things his father didn't want him to do.

I countered what I could, but what really could I do? I could have made them stop talking. Maybe I should have, but I couldn't stand the thought of that kid lying on a lumpy couch in a dark, unfamiliar place, reflecting on his past, present, and future in tearful solitude.

Obviously my imagination had taken off. I didn't know what the kid would do in any situation, since I had only met him a few hours earlier and let him loose in the shelter after filling out paperwork (I had others to attend to, after all). And who was I to take that kid's moral education into my hands that night? I'm certainly no authority on moral education, let alone how to handle any teenager. Still, I had trouble focusing on anything after all the residents went to sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about that kid, wondering how he was doing, considering things I might say to him in the morning. Would I take him aside and debunk the myths he was told last night? Would I continue to be nice to him or purposely ignore him? Would he be OK?

He didn't come in the next night. Or the next. He hasn't been in since. I don't know if he's been with friends, on the streets, in jail, with his family, or alive.

Upon reflection, I'm reminded how self-centered I am. Granted, I have been generally worried about that kid, which is by no means self-centered. But I felt sorry for myself after I left the shelter the next day. I thought of how little work I got done as my attention was given to possible ways to help that kid. I told this story at first because I thought it was a story people needed to hear. Now I wonder if I tell this story because I let it weigh heavy on my heart and mind. Is that why I tell any of these stories? Is all of my storytelling about the storyteller? Perhaps I want people to look at me with their eyebrows curved in slightly as they let out an almost instinctual, pitying "Oh." Maybe I just want praise and attention.

I want them to think about that kid prayerfully, but maybe for me, too.

I didn't realize it at first, but I've been presenting that kid's story completely from my perspective, which is the only way I can tell it. But in doing so, my emotions come out and I implicitly ask people to praise me and feel sorry for me. They praise me for helping out that kid and feel sorry for me as I obviously pretend the weight of others' problems are upon my shoulders.

Or I am projecting: I praise and feel sorry for myself, so I assume others are when I tell them stories.

Last night I thanked a group who donated goods to the shelter. In turn, a few of them thanked me for working at the shelter. I'm no hero. The heroes are the guys living in the shelter, trying to get back on their feet while society sweeps them under the rug, tosses them in a corner, or simply ignores them. They haven't killed themselves and some tell me they don't think about suicide (I have to ask). That's heroic.

I'm no hero. Don't thank me for anything. I have trouble handling knowledge of their suffering and oppression. They live with it daily.

In spite of my fear of projection, of pity and self-pity, of praise and self-praise, I'm not going to stop talking about that kid or any of the other men in that shelter. The shelter purports to be a guiding light in the darkness, trying to give hope and direction. But the shelter is not that light, the men are. They are guiding lights in the darkness. They are angels I get to entertain while fully aware. They are unsung heroes and I must tell their stories, reflecting their light. Whether by intention or not, too many are ignorant of their light and stumble in the darkness. If you cannot or will not see their light, perhaps I can lift my voice, pointing to them. I can only tell their stories as their stories become part of mine. But it is with their light that I can see enough to read my story and tell it to you.

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live."

--Joan Didion

"Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these [...], ye have done it unto me."

--Jesus, according to Matthew's Gospel

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."

Hebrews 13:2

A Shelter of Extraordinary Gentleman

No one is normal, because normal doesn't exist. Despite this reality, most of us still have some sort of amorphous idea of normality. So do the men in the shelter.

When I was still working on becoming a volunteer at the shelter, the case manager told me one day how the guys like to visit with volunteers who come into the shelter. They told him they like to talk to normal people. Apparently having a residence is "normal" to some of them.

It should be.

And no, the men in the shelter are not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Neither are they abnormal. Rather, they are extraordinary.

I am continually struck by how the men care for me. It is a missional cliché to say how the ones to whom you attempt to minister become ministers to you. I didn't go to the shelter as any sort of missionary. I just wanted to help and love. In turn, I have, of course, received help and love.

It wasn't right from the beginning, but pretty early on some of the guys started commenting on how I was different from a lot of the workers they've encountered. They started with surprise, asking me why I was there and why I did what I did. Then they lost any shyness when it came to gratitude. More recently, they've stated a desire to do things for me. In the span of one week, two different men said they wanted to do something for me.

Pie Tin

One--a peer of mine--brought me leftovers from a dinner prepared for the homeless, because he knew I was sitting in the shelter waiting to eat. This same man gave me a box of snacks someone gave him, a box of snacks he doesn't like. I suggested he leave the box out for the rest of the men, but he wanted me to have them, because of what I do for him.

And what did I do for him? Stay a little late in the mornings. Come a little early in the evening. Let him watch TV with me. Drive him around town when he needed to file a police report for his stolen scooter.

Yes, I did things for him. He was my friend. I didn't do anything truly special. I treated him like a normal human being and found out he was extraordinary. As of today, he has moved to a different shelter in the area.

Papaw

An older gentleman at the shelter took a real liking to me over the course of our time together. One of the other guys at the shelter told me he is just a loner. He does keep to himself a bit. He obviously can fend for himself. But he isn't antisocial, either. He was often a little grumpy, but no more than should be expected of an older man who has been homeless for a while.

It didn't take long for him to warm up to me. We aren't the closest of friends, but our relationship is what can be expected of two men with an age difference of 30 or more years. He isn't about to watch Futurama or Family Guy in the office with me, but we still shoot the bull some.

He constantly expresses gratitude, praising me much more than I deserve. Recently he said, "I don't know how I'm ever going to repay you."

He said it as I was walking out the door and I didn't stop, since I didn't really know how to respond. I thought about what he said while outside and I had one of the moments where I fought the tears. I don't want to know how the guys will react if I cry in front of them.

When I came back inside, he hadn't gone far, so I responded to him. I don't remember exactly what I said, something pithy, I'm sure. "You don't need to do anything to repay," probably. I'm sure my tone communicated more than my words, but still reflected how I was struck dumbfound, although the shock-and-awe revealed truth, too. My tone said, "I never expected anything. Just being here is reward enough. I won't thank you for being in the shelter--I wish you were not here--but I thank you for letting me come." At least, I hope that is what my tone said.

Man Up, Christian!

Over the course of my stay at the shelter, three different men talked to me about how I looked.

The first was a man on the younger side of being middle-aged. He isn't shy about his Christianity. Knowing I was a Christian, he came up to me one day, pointed at his eyebrow and asked, "What's this?" I smiled and stated the obvious. "I have my ears and eyebrow pierced." He said something about what people will think about me when they see those and what the Bible says. He didn't let me finish responding, ensuring me he was concerned as a Christian brother and because he like me. I thanked him and assured him I was not offended by our difference in opinion.

Littl'un took a fatherly role when he commented on my piercings. He told me I need to look like a man and get the metal out of my face. I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed at the difference in opinion and the joy of receiving his care. I broke some rules for that man, some while he was sober and a few others while he wasn't. It meant the world to that man. You'll hear more about Littl'un another time, as he is one of my favorites. I haven't seen him since Christmas. I hope everything is OK.

The third man commented on my piercings pretty early on. He came in one day and pointed at his ears, which sported two hoops in each ear. He told me he saw my piercings and recently shoved his earrings back through his holes. He looked and sounded so proud to tell me. I can see his face right now and I am still elated to think about it.

===

Every man in the shelter is different and each one is in the shelter for a slightly different reason. Don't expect any of them to fit any homeless stereotype you've ever heard. If you try to fit any of them into such a mold, I will probably react negatively. I'll try to stay calm, but no promises.

They are extraordinary men and I can't help but be fond of each and every one of them.

If God is love, then I bring God to the shelter and God finds me there.