Sacred Heart Community Service

willing and abel

2010-04-27T15:10:00.000-07:00

For many, the Statue of Liberty is our nation's noblest symbol. The idea it personifies is arguably our culture’s highest aspiration, the paragon of our national panoply of civic virtues. But for Abel, the jutting diadem and emerald robes are marks of humiliation.

Abel has post-traumatic stress disorder, but he has never seen combat—at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, his PTSD is derived from trauma far more domestic: he was regularly sexually abused at home from his toddler years through preschool and kindergarten until finally being removed from the situation by the state. From as far back as he dares remember, foster placements and group homes are all he has known—slippery, shifting places where one does not get too comfortable.

Complicating his shallowly buried trauma, emerging erratically in fits of rage or tears or both, Abel also suffers from bi-polar disorder. It is not entirely unexpected, then, that Abel has difficulties dealing with the waves of anger that wash suddenly over him. Negotiating this relentless struggle with his emotions has taken him in and out of gangs, transitional placements, prison, homelessness … and he is only 23.

The room he was until recently renting from a downtown homeowner was more than he could afford. At $650 per month, he lasted only six weeks. On his last night, the 28^th of February, he confided in the landlord. The truth is that from there he was headed to wander the streets until dawn. In a moment of sympathy, the landlord asked if there was anything she could do. Abel replied that he would be grateful if he could rent the couch. He would pay her $200 per month for the opportunity.

But this was not the plush and cozy sofa before the fireplace, the central area of the family’s home life. It was a couch in the backyard, under the covered patio. There is no heat, no electricity, no restroom—just a discarded piece of second-hand furniture situated on an enclosed slab of concrete.

And so, sleeping at night in the yard through the rainy month of March and into April, Abel worked a position with a tax preparation firm. Dressed in a woman’s gown in the most highly visible spot the management could nose out, drawing attention to himself with the waving of a sign painted in bold red lettering at a busy intersection, Abel worked 8 three-hour shifts per month, getting paid $8.75 per hour.

Not surprisingly, the mere act of putting on his costume filled Abel with dread and irritability. Walking out to the patch of turf in front of the McDonald’s where he held his sign, he wouldn’t even be in position before the honking would start, the caterwauls, and the long, amused stares of the hundreds, the thousands who passed him by each hour. The job didn’t even quite pay enough for his couch.

Abel has recently enrolled in an anger management program. “There are other people who have this problem,” he told me the other night, realizing for the first time that he is not alone. “I’m doing good, right?” Behind his tattoos, his prison record, his history of violence, he is in many ways the most innocent of children. We stood beneath a sky full of stars, and for a moment the city was quite and still. “You’re proud of me, right?”

Abel has been betrayed so severely so many times by so many of the adults in his life—what he wants more than anything in the world is to be loved, to feel some semblance of dignity and worth.

After April 15^th, the tax preparers had no more use for Abel, so they let him go. And a few days ago, Abel was told by the owner of his couch that he had to move along, that he couldn’t stay there anymore, that there was need to have three “full rent paying tenants”, and that this was impossible so long as he was staying on the couch. The landlord communicated all this through a text. She gave him until Friday to pack his duffle bag and disappear.

environmental justice

2010-04-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

Most of us can readily identify some of the reasons why people in our community end up living in poverty: low academic achievement, catastrophic illness, substance abuse, lack of employment, poor life choices, immigration status, mental or physical disabilities … the list could go on and on. However, the interesting point to recognize about this particular catalog is that each item is an example of individual characteristics.

What can be more challenging to see are the structural elements that underlie poverty, the elements that are beyond the pale of the individual. For example, lack of access to quality education, shortage of employment opportunities, absence of an adequate safety net, racism. These issues all contribute to poverty, but they are elements of the society in which we live and as such transcend any particular individual.

To illustrate the difference between these two categories, let us examine the issue of employment. If someone is having a difficult time getting work, we might, if we are looking at the situation from an individualistic perspective, proscribe a vocational-training program. But if there are not enough jobs for all those who want them, then at best the person who gets the training merely takes a job from someone else. Until the structural problem of unemployment is dealt with, vocational training is more or less a shell game ... or a game of musical chairs.

This last metaphor—that of musical chairs—is particularly apt with regard to employment because it highlights the fact that the system is designed in such a way as to guarantee losers. There simply aren't (and never will be under the current system) enough jobs for everyone. It is one thing to lose at a game of musical chairs, but losing in the job market can lead to stress, depression, lack of basic needs, and ultimately, destitution.

With this distinction in mind, one of poverty’s structural realities, a reality that is easy to overlook (even though it is literally in plain sight) has to do with the physical environment of the poor. It goes without saying that all communities have both assets and deficits. For example: spread throughout a community you might find both spacious parks and toxic storage facilities. Now, most people would consider a toxic storage facility a deficit, but it might be argued that while this is true, we need it, nevertheless (toxic substances must be stored somewhere). The question we then must ask is, Where shall such a facility be located? And with this question we find ourselves in the domain of environmental justice.

Environmental justice can be defined as the equitable distribution of assets and deficits throughout a community. To see how this plays out (or rather, its opposite: environmental injustice), one could do little better than to take a drive through the neighborhood in which Sacred Heart is located, and then do the same through the adjacent neighborhood of Willow Glen. Features that would be apparent in Sacred Heart’s neighborhood are:

· High concentration of liquor stores (and the accompanying crime and violence this breeds)

· Lack of fresh produce and nutritious food (leading to poor health, including obesity and diabetes)

· Abundance of cheap motels (attracting prostitution and the parolees who are sent there on being released from prison)

· Broken storm drains (which leads to standing water, breeding mosquitoes and the diseases they bring, such as West Nile virus)

· Dearth of parks (limiting the opportunities for children to play and get exercise safely)

· Mixed industrial and residential zoning (and accompanying contaminated soil and water)

· One-way expressways (restricting pedestrians’ ability to move about their own neighborhood while allowing other San Jose residents speedy thoroughfares to and from the freeway)

As we contemplate these environmental features, the question we pose is this: Why is deficit upon deficit crammed into one neighborhood, while more prosperous neighborhoods abound primarily in assets? While working to address the challenges facing our neighbors in need, we continue to analyze the whole problem, for to ignore entire segments of our neighbors’ plight would result in inadequate solutions.

my fellow americans

2010-03-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last year, in this our Valley of Heart's Delight, a total of 90 million meals were provided to those neighbors of ours who were struggling to feed themselves. 90 million meals. Can you imagine? This is truly a remarkable feat … but not because of how much food was made available.

In order to have fed all those in need—the children and adults, the seniors, the disabled, those working two and three jobs without a living wage—238 million meals were required. 90 million were provided. The additional food that was needed, food that was stored in warehouses and piled high on the shelves of grocery stores but not made available to the hungry, is enough to feed the full population of Sunnyvale for an entire year.

We have long thought of America as the most bounteous of nations … [t]hat hunger and malnutrition should persist in a land such as ours is embarrassing and intolerable. More is at stake here than the health and well being of [millions of] American children…. Something like the very honor of American democracy is involved.

(President Richard Nixon, May 6, 1969)

I am not in the habit of invoking President Nixon for moral authority, but there it is. And I find it extremely discomfiting to be put into ethical defensiveness by his words … yet I can’t dispute them.

So where did the 90 million meals that our community provided come from?

· 41% came from food stamps

· 21% came from soup kitchens and pantries

· 19% came from school nutrition programs

· 15% came from Women, Infants, and Children (WIC)

· 4% came from other sources

Over the course of 2009, an average of 2500 Californians lost their jobs each day. At Sacred Heart we have gone from serving 15,000 people per month to 26,000. The needs are crushing, and there is no way we could continue to provide for these burgeoning numbers without the support of our community. But the needs have outstripped what our traditional sources of support are able to provide.

Our pantry program is now relying on the temporary influx of federal stimulus resources to augment our established food sources. Nearly 10,000 of those we now serve each month are receiving food provided specifically from the federal stimulus program. However, this source of supplemental nutrition is scheduled to end abruptly on September 30th of this year. The hunger of those who are coming to us with nowhere else to turn knows no such abrupt cessation.

Ultimately, we must recognize that neither we, nor all the non-profit feeding programs in the valley combined, can come close to ending hunger in our community. Food stamps, school meals, and WIC all play critical roles in providing nourishment to some of the most vulnerable members of our society. If we can agree with President Nixon that the hunger of our children, the elderly, the disabled—of anyone—is intolerable, then we need to strengthen the entire safety net, not merely one strand.

denial

2010-03-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

It was Monday morning, and the open can of Campbell’s in her left hand read Creamy Potato and Garlic in lighthearted lettering. With her free hand, scraped and scabbed as it was, Sheila used a toothpick in lieu of a utensil. By the dozens people passed her by, entering and exiting Sacred Heart, hungry and hopeful for something—anything—to help them survive another day. Eating the cold chowder, thick as a shake, Sheila mumbled unintelligibly between each oily bite.

When I approached her that morning, Sheila had eaten about a third of her chowder, and now it was becoming difficult for her to reach the remaining contents with her paltry piece of wood. She pressed her knuckles against the rim of the can, holding the thing at an angle while trying to skewer the congealed lumps of starch. She seemed determined to use the bit of timber as a spoon or ladle, and it was painful to watch her frustration mount with every failed attempt. The roosters kept behind the house that adjoins our parking lot were crowing emphatically—it was unnerving.

Sheila’s face was furrowed with the telltale trenching of one who has been on the streets for far longer than the stint of a temporary setback. Her hair was a tangled nest, her skin dry and brittle. She spoke in rapid bursts of anguished nonsense while her eyes rattled around in their sockets looking everywhere but at the person she might be addressing.

“Can you call fluoride?” she said quickly, suddenly somehow lunging her arm and leg at me without warning. I had no idea what she meant.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, squinting at her mouth to assist in my comprehension.

“Can you call for a ride?”

“Oh,” I said. “You need a ride?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she retorted, without a hint of eye contact or exasperation.

“OK. Got it. Sure.”

I took out my cell phone, and Sheila removed her foot from her shoe. Peeling away her stocking, she showed me a foot that was desperately malformed. The toes were shriveled and fused, and the foot itself bent sharply at a right angle. It looked partially crushed. I shuddered and nodded at it.

“See,” she said softly, speaking it seemed both to me and to herself. “This is what they did to me.”

I called the number she recited and spoke briefly with someone by the name of Abraham (although I have reason to believe that this was not his real name). The conversation went absolutely nowhere. I explained that I didn't know Sheila, and although Abraham gave no indication that it was peculiar for me to be placing the call, the exchange ended unresolved with Sheila picking up her pile of odds and ends and traipsing across our lot and up the street.

As she disappeared from view, the rooster crowed again.

a room of his own

2010-02-19T00:31:00.001-08:00

Helping Kyle move from his more-or-less agreeable cottage to a downtown residential motel was a morning cheerlessly spent. The move itself was simple—all Kyle’s belongings fit easily into the back of a minivan. It was the circumstances under which he was forced from his home that were so dispiriting.

Carrying the first of only three loads from the curb to his second-storey unit, I did my best to hide my disappointment upon entering his new place. Kyle explained that he had been there for four days, a fact I confirmed based on the number of Slurpee cups on the windowsill. The walls were pitted, punched, and marred by the hideous streaks of what appeared to be some sort of sauce or oil. The bed—a drooping, uninspired mattress cowering close to the fudge-colored shag—was squeezed into the room, leaving only a narrow catwalk around the perimeter. And even this walkway was clogged with boxes of laundry, books, dingy couch cushions, and the inner-workings of a couple walkie-talkies. Sinking onto his mattress, Kyle sat and stared.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly. “I work hard, and things keep getting worse.” Then in a burst of emotion he shouted through grit teeth, “I can’t keep doing this!”

This large complex of ramshackle rooms, referred to quaintly in painted letters above the main entrance as an Inn, features a community kitchen and a would-be progressive co-ed latrine. Walking into the latter after unloading my first armful of items, I was confronted without ceremony by an uneven bank of lackluster urinals. Beyond these was an array of creaking stalls, and set up opposite them, a row of yellowed washbasins. I tried to imagine calling this home.

Then I saw the pair of shower booths at the far end of the room. As I approached them (out of morbid curiosity, to be sure), I discovered that between them was posted a patronizing restroom code of conduct on copy paper warped by moisture. Hung with opaque vinyl curtains, the narrow showers were dank and dim and featured grout freckled by black mold. This is where Kyle will step every time he wants to clean himself.

I arrived back in his unit with my second armful of inside-out clothing and HAMM radio magazines. “I’m sorry,” he began. He looked at me with his small, close-set eyes: “You know I don’t want to ask you for anything,” and again he paused; “but I’m out of food.”

Kyle has a learning disability. He has extremely low-functioning fine motor skills that make it difficult for him to button his shirt and tie his shoes. And he began his first bout of homelessness at age 12 when he fled an abusive foster home.

In sixth grade, after being hit over the head with a bottle by the woman who was responsible for caring for him, Kyle sought refuge beneath a freeway onramp. For a while this is where he slept, and when hunger would get the best of him he would scurry back and forth across the freeway to scavenge food from behind a Safeway.

Eventually a concerned woman who saw Kyle running across the onramp picked him up and took him to Child Protective Services. For the next six years he was shuttled between various group homes, until at age 18 he was once again relegated to the streets.

Now Kyle works as a security guard. His willingness to patrol deserted buildings and quiet complexes at odd hours has kept him employed through the recession despite his lack of a high school diploma or any otherwise saleable skill. His shift has lately been from 8:00P.M. till 4:00A.M., and at 25 years old, his work schedule, his natural difficulty with socializing, and his seclusion in an inhospitable living situation render him effectively isolated from the rest of the community. It is a lonely existence, and it was taking its toll on him.

Upon hauling up the final item—a disassembled futon—we took stock of the dismal accommodations. A man with a long beard poked his head into the room without a word and in an instant was gone just as mysteriously as he had appeared. Kyle then explained to me how it had come to this.

A month ago, Kyle’s former landlord had threatened to raise his rent from $700 to $1000 per month. When Kyle protested, the landlord offered him the opportunity to render the additional $300 in labor. Kyle, not knowing his rights, agreed. He did yard work, minor repairs on the landlord’s household electronics, and even ran his errands. But the relationship soon became so abusive that Kyle could no longer take it … and so out he went. But the move was costly for him. It was only the 10^th of the month, and Kyle had already paid the entirety of that month’s rent. It took his entire paycheck to secure the residential motel, and at his wages, it will take a long time to recover from paying rent twice within ten days.

“If you can just help me with some food, I promise I will pay you back.” His mouth hung slack after he had finished speaking, his eyes red from having had only four hours of sleep between getting off work and his move. I guess I hesitated in my response, for he quickly followed with, “I won’t ever ask you for anything again. I can help you with whatever you need help with. I can volunteer at Sacred Heart. I promise.” And I felt sick.

the value of our possessions

2010-01-24T19:06:00.000-08:00

Into the used bookstore Sadie carried a meaty stack of texts, of which the goodly bookkeeper kept seven. This was propitious, she told me, “For it is from Adam’s seventh rib that God made Eve.” I wasn’t sure if she was joking, and I wasn’t sure if this information was relevant. Regardless, she pocketed the happy little sum of $8.75 and set her heart toward what next she would do. “Let’s head downtown,” she suggested.

Some time ago I was startled to learn that Jesus encouraged his listeners to sell their possessions and give to those in need. He famously invited a rich young man to “Sell your possessions and give to the poor…. Then come, follow me” (Matthew 19:21). But more surprisingly, and perhaps willfully forgotten by us moderns, he asked the same of his followers, who were, well, already following him (Luke 12:33).

However, in a consumer culture, one that elevates acquisition to a moral imperative (our economy, our jobs, our very lives depend, we are told, on perpetual spending), the message to sell your possessions and give to the poor is seldom heard, and when it is, it seems laughable, destructive, or applicable to somebody else. But what if we’ve got it wrong? What if shopping is not the summum bonum? What if this radical, personal divestiture carries with it something wonderful that we have missed entirely?

The experience of the early church offers up a commentary on the possibilities created by this seemingly imprudent behavior: “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had…. From time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need” (Acts 4:32; 34-35). And what was the result of this dispossession? “There were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4:33).

I admit it: I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want the poor to be lifted from their destitution, and I want to enjoy the good life brought to me by my iPhone, my Doc Martens, my Cuisinart, and yes, my modest personal library. It pains me when I hear the chorus of impoverished voices telling me that they are poor because I am rich. Can’t we all just live a life of affluence? Why would anyone ask me to do without—to give up what belongs to me?

With $8.75 burning a hole in her handbag (and let’s be honest, a good bit more than $8.75 was in her handbag), Sadie considered how she would take the next step. She had decided that in order to follow Christ’s precept, swift, reckless distribution trumped thoughtful, strategic giving, for in her self-awareness she knew the latter carried with it the risk of inaction.

I followed Sadie downtown (incidentally, this all happened just yesterday). It was dark and rainy, but still it was Saturday night so people thronged the streets. We walked past restaurants and clubs filled with friends, families, and couples enjoying time with one another, and the juxtaposition between them and the people we approached was halting.

Through the mist that ascended from the waterlogged concrete, we watched as a man slowly, laboriously pushed a train of shopping carts piled high with all his worldly possessions. The man, similar to his carts, was wrapped in torn white sheets of plastic. He wore a hard hat.

A block later we came upon an elderly woman who smiled at us from an unlit doorway where she stood trying to get out of the rain. Her wire cart was stuffed mostly with crumpled newspaper, as were her coat pockets. When she opened her mouth, webs stretched between her lips and her hair fell like ashen straw over her shoulders.

The third obviously homeless individual we approached was a garrulous 64 year-old (the first two homeless people declined the money, a fact that should be a challenge to us all). I introduced myself, along with Sadie, and he replied, “W.D.’s the name. Like WD-40.” He was wiry, energetic, and unbelievably cheerful. Sadie dropped the cash into W.D.’s empty Big Gulp cup without much ceremony, and he thanked her sincerely. We talked with him about his situation for a moment, and then we bid him good night.

Walking away from W.D., Sadie reflected: “The fact that I no longer have the Twilight series at my finger tips, or books on the French Revolution and string theory, is surprisingly …” and here she paused, either to search for the right word or for dramatic effect: “unproblematic.” I didn’t argue with her. “But W.D. will get a couple meals out of it, and I made a friend. And if I see him again, I’ll stop and chat with him.” And who knows what might happen as a result of that relationship.

One obviously needn’t be Christian to attempt such a counter-cultural act of generosity—no more than a person need be Hindu to practice Gandhian non-violence. With this in mind, I invite readers to give this little act of compassion a try … and then share your experience by posting a comment. What did you sell? Was that process a challenge? To whom did you give? What did you feel when you gave? I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps we can encourage one another in taking one step closer toward a community united to ensure that every child and adult is free from poverty.

new year's resignation

2010-01-14T21:25:00.000-08:00

With a blue moon hanging pregnant in the sky, New Year's Eve brought with it an extraordinary sense of promise and expectation. But when the hour of midnight arrived, we got a law regulating tanning salons, a new selection of canned soup, and a particularly savage assault on an elderly homeless man.

I have been working with Spider for about nine months, and every effort to help him to a dignified, humane living situation seems to fall stillborn at our feet (see blog posts dated 5/26, 7/25, 8/31, & 9/26). An ever-expanding circle of social workers, physicians, non-profit organizations, federal employees, and private citizens of conscience have struggled to assist Spider in escaping what he refers to as "My Nightmare"; but the result is always the same.

On January 2nd, my wife and I found Spider after several days of searching. He had moved without warning from the location where he had been holed up for the past half year, and after scouring the streets and sidewalks where he customarily wheels himself in his dilapidated chair, we finally tracked him down beneath an overpass just outside the downtown core.

"What are you doing over here, Spider?" we asked. It was late at night and he was crumpled on the concrete with one of his badly soiled diapers just inches from his face. "We were worried about you." In truth there had been a flurry of email by concerned friends who had noticed that Spider was not in his usual haunt.

"It's too dangerous over there," Spider began, recognizing our voices. "It's not safe. I was mugged."

Mugged. I seldom consider that someone would be mugged in San Jose. But then he related the incident that had occurred on New Year's Eve over possession of his cigarettes.

"He started hitting me on the back of my head," and then Spider paused as the pain welled up in his throat. "He was beating me with a can of beer, and he wouldn't stop."

Although Spider's skin is badly wrinkled and his voice is coarse, he never seemed so much like a child. "He kept beating me, but I couldn't do anything ... because of my legs." He motioned to his shrunken bones, and tears dropped from his dirty cheeks. The assailant then took what he was after amidst the fire works, honking horns, and happy couples streaming from the clubs and out into the freezing street to celebrate the New Year.

What continues to astonish me is that in the 21st century, in the Valley of Earthly Delights, it should prove impossible to provide the most basic human needs for a single, disabled, elderly man. While resources have been mobilized on his behalf, they have proved impotent in the face of a society that acquiesces to the occasional sacrifice of the weak.

Spider drinks incessantly, smokes, jokes, makes friends easily, complains ad nauseam, has a terrible time trying to use a toilet, takes pride in his Native American heritage, makes idle threats, is stubborn, lonely, and nearly blind, loves sports, and most nights cries himself to sleep. He receives a paltry disability check each month, but the money he receives is not enough to pay for even low-income housing. What's more, he is simply incapable of caring for himself; even if there were a place he could afford, he would require 24-hour care.

A few days after I had spoken with Spider regarding the assault, I found him back in front of the abandoned downtown office. I was dismayed to see him back so soon after his attack. "What's going on, Spider?" I wondered what could have happened that would have out-weighed the vulnerability to assault that he obviously risked in this spot.

He looked at me, anger in his eyes, and spoke quietly: "I was sitting in my wheelchair underneath the freeway, listening to my ball game, and a couple of kids came along and started harassing me." He then turned his face to the ground, his voice barely above a whisper. "One of them grabbed the back of my chair so I couldn't move, while the other one stood in front of me ... and pissed all on me."

it's christmas

2009-12-28T13:03:00.000-08:00

Perched on some crumbling front yard retaining wall, his body shook and shuddered like a bedeviled puppet. His arms hung slack, his head stared vacantly, and from his open mouth came stuttering moans that turned my stomach.

It was Christmas morning, and I had run out to grab a paper. Everyone else in the house was still asleep, gifts gleaming beneath the tree, and I wanted to be certain I was back before they woke.

After briefly looking over the paper at the 7-11, it occurred to me that the world was much the same as it had been the day before, so I left empty-handed. That’s when I saw Joshua sitting across the otherwise deserted street. It was 36 degrees, and even at that distance I could see that beneath his jacket he was bare-chested. His breath formed a halo around his anguished face as he grunted and exerted himself in his convulsions.

Walking briskly across the road I pulled my coat tight and watched for him to notice me. But even as I drew quite close, his gaze continued fixed in front of him while the rest of his body undulated with a mind of its own. He sat in the shadow of a pleasant looking home and was enclosed in a field of urban filth: a dented can of bean dip, a broken light bulb, a walker hung with damp clothes, some dried up lasagna, a crumpled surgical mask, and numerous wrappers, each bearing the rotten marks of their former contents.

I sat down next to him, and the odor was overpowering. “Good morning,” I said cautiously. He gave no response, ankles rolling about as he pushed out muted gutturals. I continued. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m fine,” he said, suddenly ceasing his gyrations but keeping his face forward. There was ice in patches around his feet, but his voice was clear and lucid.

“Do you know what day it is?” I braced myself for his reply. I couldn't decide what would be more tragic, his knowing or his not knowing that it was Christmas Day.

“Wednesday, I think.”

It was Friday. I would have to ask again. “Do you know what is special about today?” I noticed a half-eaten, unwrapped sandwich leaking from his pocket. There was some sort of crust on his face and neck. The street was so quiet.

I stared at the side of his face. Here was a breathing, stinking piece of human waste amidst the garbage of a convenient store, a fast food restaurant, a gas station, a supermarket—and the society that spawned them.

The Jesuit theologian Ellacuria, martyred in El Salvador during their civil war, employed a pregnant metaphor in thinking about the poor who persist in the midst of a prosperous society: coproanalysis, the study of one’s excrement to diagnose disease.

Admittedly, although the analogy is indelicate, it is telling. The suggestion that the poor, the destitute, the needy are the societal equivalent of excrement offends our sensibilities, but that is generally the extent of the offense. We might believe in the equality of all people, but we allow thousands of our neighbors to subsist on garbage; we might believe in inalienable human rights, yet we allow thousands of our neighbors to wallow in their own filth, sleeping in soiled clothing on sidewalks or in the mud beneath an overpass; we might believe that all humankind is endowed with inherent worth and dignity, yet we allow thousands of our neighbors to languish with untreated medical conditions.

Those whom I encounter on our streets, while possessed of many wonderful qualities, are also sick, lonely, frightened, hopeless, weary, cold, hungry, betrayed, abandoned, dejected, afflicted, and in some cases longing for death. The question that coproanalysis poses is this: what is this disease, this plague that infects us? What malady would produce such symptoms in our resource-rich society? What disorder would lead us to go about our daily lives while such suffering continues all around us?

The truth is that these children and adults are treated just as unclean, just as untouchable, and just as unholy as human feces. While we might do our best to place the blame for their conditions on their own shoulders, pointing to their inherent qualities, character flaws, personal proclivities, poor judgment, the result is all the same. And maybe it’s true. Perhaps human waste is just what they are, and we are otherwise relatively healthy.

I waited for Joshua’s answer. It was freezing, and I was close enough to see the goose bumps on his chest. I thought about my wife and children, warm beneath their covers. They would soon be waking.

For the first time since I had seen him he turned and faced me. His eyes were bright and alert. He smiled and answered, “It’s Christmas.”

emptiness

2009-12-21T19:17:00.000-08:00

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and there was only an hour left before we would close our doors until the following Monday. Crowds still pressed through the halls, tracking in leaves and cold blasts of the November wind, but the place felt warmed by the smiles on people's faces. Our phones had been ringing feverishly all week with families desperate for assistance, but by this time the calls had begun to quiet.

As we served this final press of families, staff were already talking about their holiday plans, buttoning their coats, and wishing their colleagues best wishes for the long weekend. And that’s when Jasmine rang.

“Do you have any food left?” Those were the first words that came through the receiver. Her voice was breathless.

After being assured that we did in fact still have food boxes available, she asked how late we would be serving. “I’m not really sure how this works.” She’d never sought this sort of assistance before, and she was uncomfortable with the thought of accepting the gift of food.

“We only have about one hour left,” our staff informed her. The other end of the line went silent. “Can you make it here by then?”

“I’m …” she started, but then paused. “We’ll try,” she finally replied.

She never made it. But a half hour after we had served our last meal and closed our doors, the phone rang again. Most of our staff had tidied up their areas and had gone to be with their families. We answered the phone, and it was Jasmine. She explained her situation and pleaded with us to make an exception by delivering the food box to her. After listening to her present conditions, one of our staff members volunteered to make the delivery.

It turned out that Jasmine and her two-year old daughter were now homeless. They had come up with enough money to stay in a Motel 6 for the night, and that is where we met them on the evening before Thanksgiving. At that time all across the country there were warm and wonderful homecomings: students returning to their parents after their first semester away at college; grandparents flying across country to spend the holidays with their grandchildren; friends reuniting after years apart. But for Jasmine and her daughter, things were happening in reverse. Their lives were fracturing.

When we brought the food box into Jasmine’s room, she thanked us with what seemed an outpouring of all the grief she had been carrying for her family. In the cold, sterile, artificial furnishings of the motel room, everything she had ever associated with Thanksgiving seemed a mockery--something for somebody else. Yet even in such circumstances, in the midst of so much despair, she was overwhelmed with gratitude at our offering. And as she shared her appreciation for the food we had brought, her daughter’s eyes remained fixed and inexpressive. I think I would prefer to have seen her daughter express anything at all, rather than such emptiness. At two years old, emptiness.

After a few minutes of thanks and reassurance, we felt compelled to ask the disturbing question regarding how she planned to prepare the food. She held her daughter close, adjusted her little knit cap, and—as if apologizing—pointed out that the motel lobby had a microwave.

sacred & profane

2009-12-11T00:58:00.000-08:00

I am ambivalent with regard to the notion of fate. That said, I believe that Wednesday morning, when the temperature had again dropped below freezing, our encounter was as predestined as the fall of any sparrow.

Just before sunrise, well wrapped in layers against the coming of the cold, I opened my front door and with a deep breath stepped outside. My eyes immediately began to water in the bitter air. Parked cars, rooftops, lawns—even dead leaves—were white with frost. My tears flowed slowly.

I had hoped I wouldn’t see it, but I never really doubted. I didn’t know who it would be, only that I dreaded the encounter. It was so cold. I even took a different way to work this particular morning, trying to avoid the meeting. But my altered path led me inextricably to what was determined to happen, regardless.

Before having passed beyond the shadow of my apartment building, there it was. Like a sacred object—ancient, wise, terrible—he sat immovable amid the scutter and scurry of morning traffic. Untouched by the world around him, he instead drew the world to himself.

Poised on the bus stop bench, a child’s pink blanket draped over his head and concealing his body, he filled me with foreboding. A jacket stiff with snow lay at his side, along with the other articles that might have kept him warm: pants, gloves, sweaters, shoes, a sleeping bag—all bristling like cacti with spines of white frost. The clothing formed an unbroken trail into the gutter. A brittle shell of ice encased his swollen feet, his socks stuck and stinging on his useless toes like the carapace of a mottled crab.

I stood for a moment, unsure of what was supposed to happen next. It seemed he had found me. How many times had this encounter taken place throughout the course of the world?

I moved very close.

“Hello?” I whispered.

He slowly drew back the blanket, eyes rolling in his head, and as he did, the sweet aroma of vegetable matter filled the space around us. And with the lowering of the blanket I could see that besides his sweatshirt, he was wearing only a pair of ratted underwear. His thighs were blotchy, and all his skin seemed tea-stained and scaly. It was 31 degrees, and he was perfectly still. I wondered if he was dying.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes, cloudy and congealed, wandered past me as mucus bubbled from his nostrils in a way I had only before observed in infants. His mildewed beard of brown and gray was chunked with globs of glistening ice, and coiled across his baldhead was a deep, undulating scar. Something had long ago reached in and touched his brain.

For a moment more I stood in awe of what was before me. I felt small, my words like throwing apples at a god.

the only gift he had

2009-11-24T22:12:00.000-08:00

Shoddy tattoos are scrawled over his arms, across his chest, and up onto his neck. The ones that aren’t profane are pornographic, and combined with his shaved head and swagger, it's easy to believe that at 24 years old, Brett has spent more time in prison than he did in high school.

Yet three days ago, Brett—a former gang member—came to my door late at night with the question he had been struggling to ask me for weeks. His over-sized jersey made him somehow look child-like as he stood in the yellow light of our porch lamp, awkwardly steeling his courage with half-hearted small talk. He couldn’t look me in the eye when he finally got around to asking, and when he spoke, he stumbled over his words: “Are you proud of me?”

Brett spent his entire youth in group homes. Dirty carpets, dead-bolted bedroom doors, and communal kitchens were what the world held out for his adolescence, and once he turned 18, he found himself homeless, sleeping in cars, in shelters, and on bus stop benches. Brett has never had a family.

And this time of year is difficult for Brett. It was one year ago that he succumbed to the loneliness and isolation he felt without the support of any meaningful human relationships. He swallowed 28 capsules of prescription medication on the day before Thanksgiving and awoke after two days, a breathing tube scorching his airway and IV's piercing his appendages; his arms were restrained.

Having spent the recent summer months without work, Brett’s diligent search for employment finally bore fruit, and he was able to begin a new job a couple weeks ago. As he awaits his first paycheck, he has received the financial assistance to stay in a motel, but the motel is no substitute for the stability of his own place. And it is lonely. And it is Thanksgiving.

After assuring Brett that indeed I was proud of him, he asked the next question on his list, this time looking directly into my eyes: “Can I spend Thanksgiving with you and your family?”

The question caught me completely off-guard and sent my mind swimming in all directions. What could I say?

And then, before I could say anything but after my obvious hesitation, he offered the only gift he had to give: “I could bring the turkey I get from Sacred Heart, that way you don’t have to buy one.”

just waiting

2009-11-14T22:08:00.000-08:00

It was getting late, and darkness had brought with it a crisp November chill. A handful of Sacred Heart staff was still at work, busy with the final preparations for the following morning’s holiday registration. We knew the morning sun would reveal vast numbers of children and adults lined up around the block in the hopes of signing up for our holiday services, so everything needed to be in place the night before.

As we moved back and forth, setting up chairs for our disabled customers and posting signs directing volunteers to the back of the building, we noticed an old man who had quietly pulled a wire cart up to our front door. From his cart he drew a chair, and there appeared to settle in to what would be a long, cold night. After the shortest deliberation, we decided it would be unconscionable to allow this man—who we later learned was 70 years old—to remain outdoors all night. Opening our front door we approached him and asked what we could do for him.

“I’m just waiting for the registration to begin,” he told us. It was 7:00pm, and we had advertised that registration would begin at 9:00am the next day. “But it’s not for me. It’s for my daughters. They take care of me.” The old man went on to say that his daughters, who were both getting off work at midnight, would be there to relieve him by 1:00am.

We explained that it wasn’t necessary for him to remain outside all night, that there would be enough slots available if he came back in the morning. At this he rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “No, I’d better stay. I don’t want to risk it.”

Again we pleaded with him, this time taking down his daughters’ names and guaranteeing that they would be registered. “You don’t understand,” he insisted. “There will be no Thanksgiving meal for us, no presents for my grandchildren if I leave.” Still we tried to persuade him, and still he stood firm.

After twenty minutes of our insistence, the old man finally folded up his chair and lifted it into his cart. “If it’s OK," he asked politely, "I’m going to wait until you leave ... and then come back.” And without waiting for a response, he pulled his cart into the darkness.

give hope

2009-11-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

When I arrived at Sacred Heart last Saturday, crowds of people were gathered around our front door, the lines stretching out to the sidewalk, around the corner, and then around the block. Hundreds of children and adults wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags had camped out on the sidewalk in order to register for our holiday program. It was still only 5:00A.M., and we weren’t scheduled to begin registration for another four hours.

The sidewalk was impassible. I had a lot to do to prepare for the 250 volunteers who would begin arriving at 6:00A.M., but instead I found myself outside, moving slowly among the people, weaving in and out of the street, searching each face in the darkness for one young woman in particular.

Back in October, on another early Saturday morning, I was about to meet her for the first time.

The morning fog had not yet dissipated, and the girl I passed on the stairwell was inhaling a cigarette for breakfast, her makeup evidently making the best of its second consecutive day. I had been reduced to retracing my steps as I tried to find unit 205 of the beleaguered 4^th Street apartment complex, the numbering system of which had utterly confounded me.

When I finally found the door, its screen utterly demolished, I hesitated. What would I say? Everything was so quiet. Then I knocked.

A minute passed, and I knocked again. Another minute passed. I looked back to the sleepy smoker on the stairwell for guidance, but she seemed indifferent to my predicament. A part of me was relieved at the lack of response, but then suddenly the door opened.

The young man who answered did so with his back to me, and on pulling open the door, simply disappeared into the bathroom without ever making eye contact. Having left the door open, I poked my head into the darkened room.

The walls were bare, and there was no furniture, no dishes or utensils, no light fixtures, and in fact, there wasn’t even any evidence of electricity. Among the empty bags of chips, shredded cardboard, a stick, a sock, lint, dirt, and innumerable strands of hair, I counted four, then five bodies strewn across the discolored carpet, each covered by a thin sheet or blanket. Most of them looked like teenagers, their exhausted faces pressed into the coarse, unwashed shag, asleep with their shoes on.

After a moment one of the piles of flesh and bone rose and readied herself by rubbing her face with her hands. This is how I first met Regina.

Regina is twenty years old, the mother of a four-year old daughter, and homeless. Her father, also homeless, is a customer of ours at Sacred Heart, and after being released from a long prison sentence is now trying to put his life back together. Having lost his relationship with his daughter, he still worries about her, and after finding out where she had been staying, asked if I would try to help her. I spoke with her on the phone, and she agreed to meet.

After our first meeting that October morning, I neither saw nor heard from her again for several weeks. She was a pleasant young woman who hoped to get an education, remarking that she wanted to be a counselor, “So I could help people who are living on the street.” But she had dropped out of high school, had no income, and no real system of support.

Then a few days ago she called me. It was quite late, and she needed a ride. She had been forced out of the apartment where I had first met her, and she and her daughter were now staying somewhere on The Alameda.

When I picked up Regina and her daughter on Monterey Highway, it was cold and dark. She gave me a convoluted account of the events that had recently transpired, and not really knowing what to say or how to help, I brought up Thanksgiving, for it was evident that there wasn’t going to be a family meal for her to partake in.

“Are you interested in a Thanksgiving meal for you and your daughter? We are getting ready for our holiday program at Sacred Heart, and if you register you can also get new toys for …” and I gestured silently at the four-year old, who looked intently at my pointing finger from the backseat. Regina said she was interested.

But when we got to our destination, it was a motel.

I helped her in with her duffle bags—all her worldly possessions. “Regina, will you be able to prepare a Thanksgiving meal?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Then showing me the little refrigerator with a plug-in hot plate on top of it, she told me that some of the rooms have kitchenettes.

As I prepared to leave, I asked her how long she was planning to stay at the motel.

“Well, I get $65 a night from my social worker for two weeks—because I was in a bad situation.” I tried not to imagine what sort of situation would trigger this response from her social worker.

“How long have you been staying here?” I asked.

“About eight days.”

“Then you only have six days left—is that right? What will you do?”

“Well, I found out that this motel gives me a weekly rate.” This added four more days to her stay. “But in a week, I get $150 more.” Another two days.

I was making the calculations in my head as she enumerated the winding down of her resources. Just as one source would run out, a little more would emerge, but always less then the amount before. Until finally, there was nothing.

“That would mean that your last night will be,” I re-calculated. “November 25^th. You’ll have to leave the motel by 11:00 A.M. … on Thanksgiving Day.”

She sat on the bed, her daughter asleep on her lap, and all she said was, “Oh.”

I still have no idea if Regina made it in to register for our services last Saturday. It was a busy day, and some 1500 families came through our doors. But there are still some spaces open. I hope she makes it.

night

2009-11-08T17:24:00.000-08:00

After passing through an eerie series of security stations and electronically locked hallways, I emerged in a blue-lit chamber half-filled with heavily medicated men and women. More disturbing than their disheveled appearance or the vacant looks on their faces was noticing that the patients were all shuffling about in socks, slippers, or slip-ons. For their own safety—to protect them from self-destruction—shoelaces are not permitted.

Finding the Sacred Heart customer I had come to visit, we sat down facing one another. The chairs we sat on were heavy—far too heavy for a person to lift. He slurred something, then his eyes fixed on my shoulder, and he was immobilized—except for his palsied hands. A bead of drool slowly crept from his lip. I wondered, How had it come to this?

As a young high school English teacher, I had to learn the hard way that 15 year-olds aren’t generally manic for the likes of Chaucer, Milton, or Keats. But Andy, a particularly gifted junior, was an exception. He devoured Dostoyevsky between classes and counted Kafka a like-minded confidante. He wrote both poetry and prose for pleasure and enjoyed wrestling with the classical philosophers as much as analyzing independent cinema. Andy was a popular student, a starter on the varsity football squad, played electric guitar, and appeared to have an auspicious future before him.

Upon graduation, Andy went off to university. The next time I saw him shook me profoundly.

The athletic intellect I had known as a high school student was now heavier by 80 pounds and had trouble finishing a thought. Instead of living in a well-appointed home, he wandered the streets at night. Instead of working on a graduate degree, he spent his days pulling recyclables from city garbage cans. He delivered interminable rants on esoteric topics, punctuated by pure fantasies of dealings with politicos, publicists, and the occasional movie star. His world was now consumed by an inner violence, sometimes directed toward others, sometimes toward himself.

Andy had experienced a psychic break at about the age of twenty. Without warning, this bright, personable student was plunged into the darkness of schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder. His behavior quickly became erratic, and after assaulting both his mother and father was relegated to the streets.

Now, at thirty years old, it seems that things are deteriorating further. He is currently locked in a psychiatric hospital—his fourth visit in two months. He has been caught in a cycle that reveals a massive breech in our social safety net.

Unwilling or unable to maintain a disciplined regimen of medication while trying to survive the vicissitudes of homelessness, Andy’s episodes are becoming more frequent and more volatile. But the system’s answer is woefully inadequate: usually it is a 72-hour hold, followed by a cab ride to a downtown street corner. In the more egregious cases, he will get up to two weeks in a hospital, capped off by a bed at a homeless shelter.

Nine days ago Andy called me at home. He was terrified and begged to see me. Aware of his recent degeneration, I agreed to come see him. It was the middle of the night and he was at St. James Park in the heart of downtown. When I found him, he began to weep, perhaps as much in relief as in agony. He complained of a wizard who was putting thoughts into his head, a wizard who appeared to him in the form of a black squirrel. He agreed that it was best to call the police and have him taken to the hospital, and after I got off the phone, he brightened up a little.

We sat on the park’s swing set while we waited for the police to arrive, and as we swayed back and forth, he suddenly took off his shoe, telling me he wanted to show me something. He lifted up his shoeless foot and began to peel off his sock. I looked intently, having learned to expect the unexpected in circumstances like these. As the sock came off, I stared at his bare foot, trying to make out what I was seeing. It was a shoelace wrapped neatly around his arch.

In a voice suddenly sane, Andy said matter-of-factly, “When they admit you, they take away your belt and your shoelaces, they check your hair and your pockets, they remove your shoes … but they don’t take off your socks.”

He unraveled the shoelace and handed it to me.

Andy will be released from his present stay within the next couple days—I don’t know how much longer he will last.

a cruel frugality

2009-10-24T23:45:00.000-07:00

As the lunch rush cavorted from course to course, a wiry busboy made his way to the back and clunked another tray of sullied dishes onto the rinse rack. Henry, the dishwasher, pulled his hand like a fish from the sink and plucked a solitary meatball from a plate smeared with bleu cheese and tepid marinara … and popped it into his mouth.

Henry, along with his colleagues the busboys and food prep crew, cannot afford even his most elementary necessities. At 48 he earns $9 per hour and is scheduled to work no more than 27.5 hours per week. Not only does this arrangement preclude him from receiving employee benefits, but after rent and utilities, he has little money left for food.

In order to survive, Henry and his colleagues buy only enough food for one meal daily. They typically skip breakfast entirely, and for lunch depend on the scraps from the dishes of the restaurant’s patrons, which of course, is strictly prohibited by restaurant policy.

“Enrique!” It was the manager who like an angry dog had followed the busboy into the back of the restaurant. Enrique snapped to attention next to the tray of dishes he had just set down at the washing station. “Where is that meatball?” The blood vessels began to bulge from the manager’s neck and forehead as he ransacked the piles of dirty dishes in search of the meatball that Henry, with his back to the drama, tried quickly to grind down to swallowing size.

The busboy pleaded his innocence in broken English, but the manager wanted proof. “Get in there,” he growled, laboring for breath and pointing to the 30 gallon garbage can filled with two hour’s worth of waste, “Get in there and find it!” At that point Henry gulped, turned, and confessed his crime.

In retrospect, Henry won the confrontation due to the element of surprise. The manager glared at Henry, then noisily tromped away amidst the fog of his false accusation. Henry kept his job, but feels that he long ago lost his dignity.

I spoke with Henry earlier this week. It was 9:00PM, and because it was his day off, he had not eaten. “I’m just trying to be frugal,” he said. "But I don't know if I'm going to make it."

the nature of change

2009-10-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday morning, with the first of the brisk fall weather having just arrived, I was walking through downtown on my way to Sacred Heart. Summer was over, and with the onset of gray skies I couldn’t help but reflect on the changes we had seen over the previous year.

Twelve months ago we were worried because unemployment in Santa Clara County had climbed beyond 6%; we have now passed 12%. Last fall we agonized over the fact that while 7000 people are homeless each night, the largest homeless shelter in the county had only 250 beds; starting this month, this same shelter will only provide 125 beds; since last spring the number of people coming to us for emergency food, clothing, and housing assistance has risen by nearly 50%.

Making my way down First Street, I passed beneath the 280 overpass, numbers and grim statistics swirling in my head, and as I did, I ran into Ian, someone I hadn’t seen in years.

I had worked as Ian’s case manager back when he was in his teens and struggling to survive homelessness. He was a bright and resilient adolescent, and I had watched him succeed in establishing a fruitful—if not tenuous—life beyond the street, getting a full-time job and his own apartment. The last time I saw him he was continuing in this trajectory, registering for classes at San Jose City College. But this past Wednesday, amidst the din of the morning traffic, I learned that everything had changed.

After our initial pleasantries, Ian’s voice altered, and he lowered his head. He had always been fairly reserved, even serious. He began abruptly: “I had to leave my apartment about a year ago when my hours got cut.” He spoke hesitantly at first, but soon the words came tumbling out. He talked about his relationship with his mother, how she was struggling, and how he worried about his younger sister who was faring poorly in school. He was anxious about his girlfriend, who shared his fate, and every attempt to improve their conditions seemed doomed from the start.

We spoke for about twenty minutes, dead leaves scratching the cement between us as he caught up to his present circumstances: “I’ve been renting this tiny room for $200 a month, but I haven’t worked since June. Tomorrow (October 1^st) I have to move out, and I have no place to go.” And then something happened. Sitting on his bike in the middle of the sidewalk, this intelligent, hard-working young man melted into a torrent of tears.

The pain and brokenness that we see each day in our community shows no sign of abating. Although there are indications that the economy may be heading toward recovery, the splintered lives it has left in its wake will struggle for some time to regain their sense of fullness. In response to this stark reality, Sacred Heart has taken a leadership role in, among other areas, the stewardship of Federal Stimulus dollars.

The mandated focus of these funds is on emergency support for those hit hardest by the recession and on creating and sustaining employment opportunities. I want to share with you some of the changes we have been able to make with these additional resources.

In terms of emergency support, we have been able to fortify our grocery portions, buying and distributing additional staples such as eggs and tortillas. We have also begun providing our customers with “stimulus boxes”, large, supplemental portions of our traditional fare, including more fresh produce, frozen chicken, and milk.

In addition to addressing the added nutritional needs of the community, we have strengthened our housing assistance. In the past we have been able to help people facing eviction by paying up to $800 to their landlord on a one-time-only basis. Now, in certain cases, we are able to help individuals and families maintain their housing over a longer period. What’s more, we are able to help people qualify for this help who would have previously been ineligible because they did not meet a minimum income level.

But beyond this critical emergency service, we are also creating and supporting employment. We have bought work shirts, pants, boots and other employment necessities for those who have obtained jobs but lack the resources necessary to equip themselves for their first few weeks on the job.

We have implemented an expungement program for individuals who have misdemeanors on their records, but have already paid their debt to society and are working toward productive citizenship. Through this program, those who qualify can get a clean start and have a far better chance of positively reintegrating into the community.

We have also built a remarkable new program that actually creates employment: Teamworks. This is a residential cleaning co-op that not only provides sustainable work, but also completely alters the nature of the traditional corporate power dynamic. In the co-op, the workers are also the managers and owners of the enterprise. At present there are two residential cleaning teams, and we are now looking into building a landscaping team. Through this program we are incubating the individual enterprises while at the same time encouraging entrepreneurship and the empowerment of traditionally disempowered people groups, such as women and minority groups.

Looking back over the events of the past year—the economic implosion, the response by Sacred Heart, the pain of individuals like Ian—it has clearly been a season of change, both within our community and across the nation. Forces of both fragmentation and unity have been at work, altering the fabric of our shared existence. Our collective action, now and over the coming months, will determine whether the greater part of this change will have been for the common good. History will be the judge.

spider (update from 5/28, 7/25, & 8/31)

2009-09-26T21:29:00.000-07:00

"Don't smoke in the room, and do not--under any circumstances--urinate on the carpet." I asserted this in the most earnest, authoritative voice I could muster. And with that I shut the door behind me.

It had taken two-and-a-half hours for Alicia and I to convince Spider to stay indoors last Tuesday night. We, along with several others, had worked hard over the previous month to reinstate his disability payments, and now the money was available for his use. But as deplorable as Spider's life on the sidewalk was, the trauma of moving from the known degradation of the street to something so radically different and unknown cannot be underestimated. Even a move so clearly advantageous involves loss.

After hours spent cajoling him from his alcove and into the vehicle, we had to drive around downtown San Jose looking for a place for him to stay. We were spurned by a couple motels until eventually landing a room at the relatively swank Ramada. However, part of our deal was, if he agreed to sleep in a motel for the evening, we would get him whatever he wanted for dinner. Plus, his jeans and shirt were covered in feces; if he were going to sleep in a bed, he would need new clothing and adult diapers.

After getting him situated in the room, I told him I'd be back in an hour, and then left to drop off Alicia and fulfill my promises, not really sure what I'd return to.

An hour later I arrived back at the Ramada; I held my breath and put my hand on the door handle.

Pushing open the door, there was a frantic energy in the room ... but in that first instant everything looked normal. Then I noticed that Spider had the telephone receiver to his ear and was blindly punching the key pad. He hadn't yet realized I was back. That was the first peculiar thing I beheld. "Spider, I'm here."

Startled, he cocked his head and slammed down the handset. "What took you so long!" The anger in his voice was tempered only by a barely audible note of fear.

"I'm sorry, Spider," I said, "but I'm here now, and I've got Kentucky Fried Chicken, new clothes, pull-ons, and Brut, by Faberge."

His tone shifted completely: "Oh?" And with that a smile emerged from his stormy looks. "That will be sufficient," he said, expressing his fondness for this particular men's fragrance.

"Okay, first of all, let's get you set up for dinner." I set his drumsticks and mashed potatoes with gravy on the desk, arranging the packets of salt next to his plastic-wrapped spork.

"I want a cigarette!" he suddenly demanded, wheeling himself like an assault vehicle through a chair and waste paper basket on his way to the desk. A bit alarmed by his his sudden ill-humor, I looked to the desk, and that's when I saw it: a glass half-full (I'm an optimist) of urine. And floating there in what could have been ginger ale, were two cigarette butts. I glanced instinctively at the sign posted by the door, reading, "This is a non-smoking room. $100 fine for smoking."

Pushing through me, he began feeling impatiently across the desk for his smokes, and I quickly snatched the mashed potatoes and gravy from his hands' destructive path, only to watch--as in slow motion--his arms and elbows thrash inexorably toward the glass of golden sunshine.

"Spider, no!" I yelled in vain, just as his left forearm tipped the tepid liquor from its chalice and across the polished desk, over the once-sanitary spork, onto the binder titled, What to Do When You're in San Jose, and down into the luxurious emerald shag.

The stink of urine-soaked ashes wafted quickly through the room's fusty air, and in the midst of the pandemonium, Spider turned toward me sharply and growled, "Where are my cigarettes!"

This was all I could take. Turning from him quickly, I grasped my hair in both fists and went through the motion of pulling it out. I paced rapidly back and forth, ignoring Spider's dictatorial demands, and was for a moment given over to despair. "This is never, never, never, never going to work," I kept repeating to myself. A tiny piece of soiled toilet tissue lay timid and forlorn on the rug next to the bed, and ashes were scattered all over the bathroom tile. "What have I done? I knew this wouldn't work."

After a moment I snapped out of it. I collected myself, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and began mopping up the sooty vinegar. Spider had by this time finally laid hands on his dampened tobacco and was making his way out the door. He situated himself just outside the room and began puffing away while I cleaned the desk. It had occurred to me earlier to bring some latex gloves, so donning those I worked boldly. I wiped, rubbed, patted-dry, then tossed out the sopping visitor's binder; I sponge-mopped the lamp; and last of all I blotted the water-logged carpet. The entire room then received a baptism in Brut. I surveyed the place, and well-pleased I felt a renewed hope for Spider's success.

Dumping all the fouled evidence into a garbage bag I had thought it prudent to bring, I headed to the door to make peace with my nemesis. Stepping onto the threshold I arrived just in time to see another pint of acrid water running from Spider's lap, over the gleaming metal complex of his chair, and onto the walkway. I looked to my left, where two doors down the hotel manager sat behind a wall of glass with only the distraction of a phone call keeping him from glancing our way. (For an instant I allowed myself to take moral refuge in the fact that there was, truth be told, no sign prohibiting this practice, no fine attached to the behavior.)

I made haste with Spider's nasty glass to the restroom, filled it with water and returned to splash it beneath the wheelchair. I did this three times, and pleaded with Spider to empty his bladder into his goblet and then pour it into the toilet.

But in response to my aggravated pleading I received a pair of the saddest, most defeated eyes I have ever known. "You don't know what I've been through," Spider rebuffed me mournfully. And it's true: I didn't.

I put my hand on his shoulder and took a deep breath. "It's going to be okay, Spider," I said, as he again urinated at my feet. "It's okay, Buddy. It's okay,"

I slept fitfully that night, knowing that Spider was doomed not only to urinate, but also to smoke in bed. I wrestled all night with what I had done, examining and re-examining my own motives. What if he dies tonight? That was all I could think of. A horrible death, burning in the bed I had convinced him to sleep in. This had been a terribly conceived mistake.

I woke early the next morning and headed to the Ramada before work. I hurried to the door, fumbled with the key, and on opening the door, stood looking at Spider, blissfully sleeping in the king-sized bed, his radio on the pillow next to his head.

please help me

2009-09-19T22:58:00.000-07:00

He was in hysterics. Part of his lip was pink and dewy, as though a segment had been carefully sliced by a scalpel. "Why are they doing this to me!" He was shrieking. "What do they want from me!" He was kicking up dirt and smacking his hands against his head and my heart was pounding and I was at an utter loss. There were cracked and blistered abrasions on one of his arms, and as he labored for breath, tears muddied his jaw. Looking wildly and directly into my eyes, he pleaded, "Make them stop!"

The whole ordeal started earlier this evening when I stopped at a light getting off the freeway. It was about 5:00PM and a man stood downcast on the side of the off-ramp with a black backpack at his feet and a cardboard sign in hand reading, Please help me.

I rolled down my window and spoke with him for a moment, and as the light turned green, I shook his hand and learned that his name is Joshua. But after pulling away from him, I decided to turn around and go back. I circled and found my way into a parking lot, then got out of the car and joined him on the side of the road.

He seemed glad for the company and the conversation, and as we talked, he related an incoherent story, making it that much more heart-breaking. He was in his late twenties, polite, soft-spoken, homeless, hungry, and in all likelihood, schizophrenic.

As near as I can tell, Joshua has been sleeping beneath an overpass for the past six months. He gets his food from the occasional soup kitchen, from Sacred Heart, and from the few dollars he can scrape up in alms.

But not long into our time together, Joshua's dialogue turned to relating how, standing right where he was, he had recently been struck by a car. I tried to figure out when, but he never could get around to telling me--my guess is that it had to be within the last couple days. He lifted his shirt at one point and showed me the bruises. I asked him if the driver had stopped, and he said he didn't know--he was thrown from his feet with the wind knocked out of him, and that's all he could say. He described how when he landed, the pain welled-up into his chest (and here he made a grand gesture to emphasize the gathering of the pain), and how at the time he could neither scream nor breathe. His face was knotted in anguish as he described the incident, and he seemed to be struggling to relate the magnitude of his pain. I asked him if he had gone to the hospital, and at that question he just shattered.

"I know they're listening!" he yelled, his arms beginning to tremble while his face stretched toward mine.

"Who?" I asked, taking a step back.

"They're testing me, to see if I'm faking!" He flung his sign and began to pace. "I-can't-take-this!" he screamed, the blood vessels bulging in his neck and face. "Get me out of here!" he called to someone unseen.

"Joshua, I'm right here," I said, failing to soothe.

He picked up his hat and began to yell into it: "You can kill me! You can kill me!"

This tortured display went on for a few minutes, until finally his volume dropped. "I'm so scared," he said, having spent his energy. "A car drove by after I was hit and said, 'Did you like that, Joshua? We're watching you!'" And at this he seized my hands: "Why would he say that?"

I couldn't see any use trying to reason with him. I simply asked, "Joshua, could I come visit you a bit later? I'd like to see where you're staying, and maybe we can talk some more."

He wiped his eyes and nodded. He pointed to the overpass, described where he slept, and explained how to find his spot.

At about 7:00PM I went back to find him.

I walked along the side of the road, against traffic, and eventually, as the road rose, I stepped off the asphalt and into the wilds that grew up along this particular stretch.

As the area beneath the overpass grew close, so did the deplorable signs of inhumane habitation. Strewn across the dirt and dried grass were at first two water-logged books and a spoon, then a pile of ruined pants, shirts, and socks, a broken box spring, and a torn suitcase, a tire, and finally a pitiful pair of underwear, tissue-thin, spread out delicately across some thistles.

I paused at the steps hewn in the rocky earth that led down and under the road. Balancing just out of view, I noticed a tent about a hundred feet away, but just then my footing gave way and I barely caught myself before sliding with the loose dirt and gravel toward the bottom of the severe incline.

Steadying myself, I called out, "Joshua?" No answer. "Joshua?" Nothing.

I bent down to see into the cramped quarters beneath the bridge. There didn't appear to be anyone there ... but there were a number of darkened niches that I couldn't make out, so I announced myself again. I stood still for about a minute, straining to detect any movement. Then, compulsively looking back over my shoulder, I stepped down and underneath the massive structure of steel and cement.

And there I was, standing before Joshua's home: a concrete platform where the under-side of the overpass met the side of the ravine, laid-over with a mildewed futon and a couple of sleeping bags. Cars and trucks rumbled only five or six feet above my head as I looked around, wide-eyed, taking in the squalor. There were ghostly images in soot that covered segments of the walls and ceiling, and filth was everywhere. I imagined the terrors Joshua must face down there, having to make it through each night all alone with no one to comfort him, no one to tell him that everything would be alright.

On the mattress was a small pillow, covered in dirt and ringed with water stains. Joshua.

september 11th

2009-09-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

On the morning of September 11th, 2001, I was commuting on light rail from my home in Mountain View to my job in Campbell. It was about 6:00AM when I boarded the train--still gray outside and fairly chilly--and there were two men huddled next to each other listening intently to the single earpiece of a 30 year-old transistor radio. In the entire year prior, I don't recall a stranger ever once offering me a piece of news, but on that morning one of the men looked up at me and said grimly, "a plane crashed into one of the twin towers." At that moment I recalled reading of a military plane having crashed into the Empire State building some decades earlier, and although it was certainly terrible, I thought nothing more of it.

But as I progressed toward my destination, an air of pain and panic began to grow thick amidst the gathering commuters. Whispered comments and gasps ran throughout the train as riders came and went; soon there were tears, and not long after, genuine terror as people gasped, covered their mouths, and frantically tried to call loved ones.

We all recall our personal whereabouts that morning eight years ago, and we are all still caught up in its devastating effects. But this year we as a people united decided to steal back the legacy of that fateful day. Instead of allowing it to persist as something ugly, destructive, and poisonous, we joined with others all across the country in recognizing the first annual National Day of Service and Remembrance.

On September 11th, 2009, we at Sacred Heart launched a new strategy in our efforts to realize our vision, an approach that takes our work directly into the neighborhoods and homes most affected by poverty and involves bringing the general public together to work side-by-side with our low-income neighbors in building a stronger, more just community.

Specifically, we brought together some 150 students, politicians, seniors, business professionals, members of faith communities, and people living in poverty, and spread out into low-income neighborhoods to install raised-bed gardens. Working shoulder-to-shoulder in small groups, these disparate members of our society joined one another to do something beautiful, something compassionate, something full of hope and purpose.

Now, as you might imagine, bringing off something like this is quite a logistical feat. Trying to organizing all of the volunteers, the materials, the tools, the transportation to 18 different sites was not easy. And there were some challenges.

Shortly after sending the volunteers out at about 9:00AM, my cell phone began to ring. "Um, Todd?"

"Yeah?"

"Were we supposed to have shovels?"

And then things got a little out of hand. My phone wouldn't stop ringing. "We don't have enough screws." "Can you bring us a drill?" "I thought we were going to have wood--how are we supposed to build the wooden planter?" "There's no one home." The calls came tumbling in, one after the next like row upon row of a malevolent marching band.

But in the midst of this onslaught, the teams really pulled together. We sent out drivers to borrow tools from groups that had already finished using them and to transport them to the teams without. Others rushed to hardware stores to buy more supplies. When I arrived at a site that was without a functioning wheelbarrow to move the huge pile of soil from the front yard to the back (their wheelbarrow's tire was completely flat), I found the family matriarch on her knees scooping dirt with her bare hands into an old paint can, and from there into a garbage can perched atop a skateboard that acted as a make-shift wheelbarrow: not only an amazing act of ingenuity, but one full of the sort of determination that we see every day in the faces of those we serve, the determination to keep struggling because giving up carries with it too high a price. And after all of this back-breaking work, this mother of two hurried herself into her kitchen to make the entire team enchiladas.

I learned a lot that day: first, that I'm more of a big-picture guy--not so strong when it comes to details; second, that something remarkable happens when those on both sides of the economic divide come together to work toward a common vision; and third, that the low-income community is not simply a repository of deficits--that there is much in the way of assets within those weighed-down by poverty, and in many cases it is just giving people the chance to exercise those assets that will help them rise to a place of dignity and self-determination.

These gardens, only the first in what will be 100 planted by the end of the year through our La Mesa Verde program, will not only provide a supplement for families struggling to meet their nutritional needs in regions of the city conspicuously devoid of fresh produce, but also provide the impetus to community. There is something special about gardens in the way they can draw people together; we saw this already as neighbor helped neighbor in the construction of these planters, and we will rejoice when the harvest comes and the produce is shared, the yield being more than most families will be able to consume themselves.

What's more, the first harvest will coincide with Thanksgiving and Christmas, and many of the new owners of these gardens have expressed an interest in sharing their yield with Sacred Heart as we distribute holiday food boxes to the greater community.

To all those who joined in this good work--and to all those who will do so in the future--Thank you.

the law of unintended consequences

2009-09-06T19:29:00.000-07:00

With a face like rawhide, his silver whiskers looked like cactus spines spread out across his jaw. That, plus his cowboy boots and hat would have led me to take him for a Wyoming law man--except for his crocheted fingerless gloves and girlish dance moves.

I first saw him on the corner of a busy San Jose intersection, across from a Shell station, a Target, a Chili's, and a nail salon. The sixty-four year-old suburban wrangler pranced and frolicked to the pulsating beats being piped from his duct-taped Walkman. And in his hands was a huge green arrow-shaped sign announcing the availability of detached, two-bedroom homes. For all he was worth he swung that sign, spinning it, tossing it, and twirling it above and behind his head for every motorist to see. His feet stomped and slid as his hips swiveled and twisted to the inaudible rhythm of music and capitalism.

Earlier this evening as I approached him, he had just given himself a ten-minute break. I watched as he rolled his own cigarette and took a long swallow of pink vitamin water. He eyed me wearily from behind dark sun glasses, and when I introduced myself, he remained silent. I made an offhand compliment regarding his knit glove, which he had removed to work his tobacco, and I could tell I was losing him. He shifted his weight and began to turn away so I followed quickly with, "This seems like a pretty creative way to make money;" and to my great pleasure, he engaged me.

"If you want creative, you should go to Burning Man."

Okay, I thought. It's a start.

We ended up talking for about twenty minutes. He told me he worked five, five-hour shifts a week, being paid $10 per hour. I asked him how, at his age, he had so much energy, and he pointed to a plastic bag he had strung up in a nearby tree. It was filled with empty vitamin water bottles and an enchilada tin.

"How many of those do you usually drink per shift," I asked.

"Six," he replied gravely.

"Six!" I couldn't help exclaiming.

"The way I see it, I'm getting paid to work out," he said, taking a deep drag off his filterless cigarette. "You see here," he said, pointing to the labels: "Energy and focus. This is the perfect combination to help the music flow through me and keep me groovin' (I saw CD's by Pink Floyd and Celine Dion in his bag--not artists to which I would typically think of grooving). And it's perfectly legal." There's my law man, I thought.

"So this is your secret?" I said with admiration, eying the empties.

"Yeah. It has guarana."

"Guarana? What's that?"

"It gives you energy. It's all over the internet," he informed me.

"Where do you use the internet?" I asked.

"At the downtown library."

"I see," I replied, holding my breath for my next question: "And where are you staying right now?"

"I'd rather not say," he said cautiously. As a matter of record, the companies that provide these dancing sign-wavers their employment frequently recruit at homeless shelters. It's part-time, no-benefit work.

"Ok," I said, regretting my next question before I asked it: "Would you mind if I took your photo?"

His leather face sank in a taut frown and he exhaled in disappointment. "I'd really rather not," he began. "It may seem a simple thing--taking a man's picture--but I'm not looking for publicity (this from a man who for a living dances on a bustling intersection waving a huge sign). It's the law of unintended consequences, you see?"

And I pondered those words as he picked up the enormous sign and precariously mounted his ten-speed to go return the gaudy advertisement. Here was a sixty-four year-old man making a spectacle of himself in all sorts of weather, homeless, without health insurance, alone, spending 20% of his pittance on the energy it takes him just to get through his shift: are these the consequences we intended when constructing our society?

Spider (update from 5/28 & 7/25)

2009-08-31T23:40:00.000-07:00

There is no getting used to the shock, the sickening mass that rises in one's throat when confronted with this 61 year-old man lying naked on the side of the city street, covered in flies and fungus. Yet there he lies each night.

Wads of soiled tissue debase his surroundings, and his wheelchair, with its one flat tire, simply adds insult to injury. At his side is the waxy cup from 7-11, the one in which he relieves himself, and next to it is a paper plate with some white rice and what looks like beef.

Spider's head rests heavily on the pavement, a stinking heap of tangled hair, dirt, and blood. Just a few inches away is a small gap in the pair of double doors to the vacant building whose doorway he calls home--and through that gap we have seen wiry, brown-haired rats pass, carrying who-knows-what manner of fleas, parasites, and disease. But there he lies each night.

Perhaps we can get used to it.

Or so I would have thought. But for more than a month now, a group of friends and colleagues has been rallying around Spider. Not content that he should be left to molder in the middle of the sidewalk, these otherwise-ordinary individuals have organized themselves to ensure that every evening a couple people pay him a visit, bringing him food, companionship, and hope. They bring bowls of soup, burritos, beans and rice, chicken--anything soft that he can manage without the use of teeth. They bring him adult diapers, batteries for his radio, new blankets, rolls of toilet paper, and whatever else he can make use of. But still, it is not enough. And they know it.

More remarkably, this group has committed to loving Spider as they love themselves. They are in the process of reminding us all just how revolutionary this now hackneyed moral precept truly is. They are working hard to secure humane housing for Spider, something befitting his human dignity. They want to make sure his medical conditions are treated. And they want to make sure he is part of a community that cares for him.

About a week ago--inspired by the devotion of this group--I thought I'd pay him a visit, myself. I approached Spider as he reclined just a few feet from the heavy traffic of a Friday night in downtown San Jose.

After some opening pleasantries, I got down to business: "How does a cheeseburger sound, Spider?"

He looked up, vaguely in my direction, and came out with this: "It sounds about half as good as two cheeseburgers."

"What?"

"My stomach is up against by backbone," he replied, and through the humor I was reminded of his very real suffering. I asked him if McDonald's would suit him, to which he responded, "That would be sufficient," using one of his most oft spoken--if not peculiar--expressions.

I made my way over to the downtown McDonald's, ordered the fare, and handed over the $2.16. And as I did, I looked at just how meagre that amount of money really was. Is that all it takes?

When I returned, I found that Spider had dozed off. I set the bag by his head, but I was worried that the rats would get it if he left it for too long. "Hey, Spider," I said softly, but he jerked awake with such violence that I leapt back. I felt horrible for waking him, but after a moment I was able to re-orient him. "I brought the cheeseburgers. They're right by your head."

A few days earlier, knowing that he was totally blind in his right eye and nearly so in his left, I had asked how he recognized me whenever I approached. "By your voice," he answered. I had hoped that he would tell me that he could still make out faces if they were up close, or that he could tell by the way I carried myself--but his vision is gone.

By now it was after 10:00PM, and I was looking to return home. I began bidding my farewell, when Spider asked if I had picked up any salt. The question caught me off guard, and I really couldn't imagine why he would want it. "Do you want to put salt on your cheeseburgers, Spider?" I asked with both amusement and disbelief.

"Um, yes," he snapped back in a tone of near perfect condescension. I looked up to the night sky, black and starless above the city's lights, and then back at Spider. "You can get it across the street at the Taqueria," he advised me in a little-boy's voice, as if my pause were simply an indication that I couldn't figure out where to get the desired substance. He followed with, "Would you mind getting me three packets?"

Three? How weird is that? That he determined it would be one-and-a-half packets per burger struck me as exceedingly curious, even for someone as curious as Spider.

I don't even think I had it in me to muster a sigh in the face of this crazy, pitiful, gentle, human being, this brother who had confided to me that he cried himself to sleep every night. So off I went, dutifully returning with the three packets.

This all took place about one week ago. Since then, two of the more courageous members of the group dedicated to looking after Spider gave him a hair cut and trimmed his beard. Another has been working feverishly on he trail of his missing money. And last week he was able to get it reinstated. The disability checks are now scheduled to start up within about one week of this posting. And with that funding comes the possibility of shelter. He is literally that close--after 28 years of almost continuous homelessness.

However, the transition from the street to stable housing is almost impossibly difficult--more strenuous on the individual than most of us could even begin to imagine. Please continue to keep Spider in your prayers. It will be not much short of a miracle to get him into humane quarters. But we are so close.

let's call it war

2009-08-16T22:31:00.000-07:00

It was dusk, a time of transition throughout the unseen haunts of the homeless. At this hour there is much maneuvering as anxiety begins to rise in anticipation of the approaching darkness. At dusk there is the sense that one's options are diminishing, that events are already in motion that will determine the course of the dreaded night. And yesterday, this is precisely the time at which I met Sam.

Sam was starting to shift on the bus stop bench even before I first spoke with him, but what caught my attention initially were his bulging eyes. A quick google search will point out over 140 diseases that present themselves with this symptom, from iodine deficiency to hyperthyroidism, from goiter to malignant hypertension. But as we began to chat, I realized that Sam was not the least bit interested in this sort of diagnosis; he had far more pressing concerns than the slow, inevitable march of a degenerative disease.

"I can't take it out here," he said plaintively. "I'm a prisoner. I can't escape ... this." At 65 he was ready for it to all be over. His pants were a series of stains, what mostly looked like gravy, and his feet were shod in well-worn slippers. Beside him was the tell-tale grocery cart draped with garbage bags containing the bottles and cans he managed to pull from the city refuse.

As he began to narrate his recent events, I looked down to his left hand resting just inches from my shoulder. His gnarled fingers stretched their thinning skin and curved into thick, yellowed talons--and across his knuckles were the harrowing streaks of blood.

"I just needed a break," he continued, and before long he had described how, in order to escape the violence of his circumstances, deprived as he was of any semblance of human dignity, he had taken matters into his own hands. "I found a busted bottle lying in the gutter, and took it, and went to work on my arm here." And with that he made a vague sawing motion, bubbles of mucus blowing from a single nostril.

On that night, he had sliced and peeled his forearm to a mass of oozing lacerations.

He wanted to die, but this act of self-mutilation was a feigned suicide, for he proceeded to tell me how he sought out a sherif's deputy, this being the middle of the night, and presented himself with ravaged arm in full-view. "The sherif, he called an ambulance, and they took me to the EPS [Emergency Psychiatric Services] down there at Valley Med."

"What happened to you at EPS?" I inquired, not disguising my horror. I watched as his fingers repeatedly straightened, then curled back around his arm, more like tentacles than extensions of a human hand.

"Oh, well, they gave me some medicines, you know. But I got to sleep in a bed that night," he said with a grin that revealed some missing teeth and clearly infected gums.

"How long did they keep you there?"

"Oh," and then he thought for a moment. I was wondering if it was several weeks, or perhaps some number of months. "They let me go after 'bout 18 or 19 hours." He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of prescription medication. It was then that I noticed the orange hospital bracelet still encircling his rawboned wrist.

"What do you mean they 'let you go?' Where did they take you?"

"Nowhere." He said matter-of-factly. "They just pointed me to the door, and out I went. They gave me these pills here, but I ain't taken 'em." He rattled them in their amber plastic, then returned them to their place.

It is difficult to talk to people in Sam's circumstances and not be mindful of the persistent state of war that rages throughout so many of our neighbors' lives, a war with effects just as ruinous as any employing bullets and artillery. Families are being forced from their homes, adults are wandering from state to state in search of work, the elderly are languishing in out-of-the-way places, and children are being denied the opportunity of a decent education. The mental and emotional violence they suffer is real.

When we contemplate armed conflict, we cling to the hope that most nations--certainly our own--will adhere to the humanitarian guidelines laid out in the Geneva Conventions. However, there are no such conventions for our own citizens during an ostensible state of peace. Thousands of our neighbors must even now sift through garbage for their food, spend freezing nights without adequate shelter or covering, allow medical conditions to fester, watch their hygiene needs founder without the means to clean themselves, and endure the indignities that await those whose destitution is put on display for every passer-by to see and scorn.

Here are just a few excerpts from the Geneva Conventions:

Art. 26: The basic daily food rations shall be sufficient in quantity, quality, and variety to keep prisoners of war in good health and to prevent loss of weight or the development of nutritional deficiencies.

Art. 27: Clothing, underwear, and footwear shall be supplied to prisoners of war in sufficient quantities by the Detaining Power, which shall make allowance for the climate where the prisoners are detained.

Art. 29: The Detaining Power shall take all sanitary measures necessary to ensure the [prisoners'] cleanliness and healthfulness. Prisoners of war shall have for their use, day and night, conveniences that conform to the rules of hygiene and are maintained in a constant state of cleanliness.

Art. 14: Prisoners of war are entitled in all circumstances to respect for their persons and their honor.

Given the fact that so many thousands of our local residents are denied these rights each day, perhaps the sensible thing to do is formally recognize that a state of hostilities exists within our society and invoke the Geneva Conventions on behalf of our community's most beleaguered members.

Let it not be said that open war is safer for our own families and individuals than is our so-called peace.

a tolerable violence

2009-08-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

I hesitate to write this blog entry. The violence that exploded in slow motion before my eyes just a few hours ago can be written about and interpreted in any number of ways, but in the end it is a violence that is wholly unremarkable.

Earlier this evening I was in line at a downtown soup kitchen (not Sacred Heart). I was talking with the elderly man in front of me who was sitting with his tired back against the wall. His beard was long and his shoes were mismatched, but the most distinguishing thing about him was his black bicycle helmet that he kept strapped on tight.

We had just begun our conversation when an argument broke out about 15 feet in front of us. It gradually became more heated, and more and more people began shouting at the two antagonists.

I stood up from my conversation and could see the two men that the others were trying to separate. But one man seemed inconsolable. What they were disputing was not at all obvious, but my guess was a disagreement about position in line. Then through all the posturing, the jumping around, and the screaming woman with long, tangled, blonde hair, one man through a fist at his foe, connecting to the top of the other's head.

But just as soon as the one punched, he retreated, and at that point I honestly believe it was still possible to avoid what eventually happened.

The person in charge of the feed line had a moment earlier taken out his cell phone. He did it in plain view, presumably to act as a deterrent of the violence that had yet to boil over. Now that a blow had been struck, it seemed that the one who had thrown it began to realize the consequences of police involvement.

The man who had landed the jab was disabled--one of his legs was twisted in an awkward arc. He then took a swing at the person in charge--a pastor--who was still on his cell phone with emergency dispatch, and that's when the whole group began to move toward him in unison; at first slowly, but then they descended on him like the rush of a breaking wave.

The man stumbled as he backed out into the street, cars swerving to avoid him. One man hit him hard in the ear, and another punched him in the back as he lost his balance. In an instant, it seemed that the whole line was upon him. And at the same time, those who had gathered across the street ran to join in the beating. By now the man with the twisted leg had fallen into the gutter while the mob unleashed their unrestrained fury. They kicked him, they tore at his clothing, they punched and slapped and clawed at him until eventually his limbs stopped flailing, and he seemed to rest peacefully, resigned beneath the torrent of blows.

Those few of us who weren't directly beating the fallen man were circulating through the press of assailants shouting in their ears that the police were there (they weren't) and to stop the assault (they didn't). Running from man to man, I could see the rage in their eyes. Their teeth flashed, they grunted, they frothed and cursed from distorted mouths. Each one seemed to focus his entire being on crushing the pile of bones rolling around on the street within this sack of flesh.

I don't think any of these people had ever before seen the man they sought to destroy. But for that brief moment, they vied with one other to rain down the most violence on this fallen stranger. Having had my camera out to take a photo of the old man waiting in line, I at this point clicked off a single shot from within the fray.

And in an instant, it was over. The throng evaporated and the bleeding victim lay motionless with his head against the curb. I knelt down beside him, and could hear him moaning gently. Then he reached up and grasped my hand. "Please, don't leave me" he begged.

I looked around, wary of a second attack. The street, the whole evening suddenly seemed so quiet, so still. The mass of tormentors had melted back into the park across the way, into the soup kitchen, which had just opened its doors, or had simply walked around the corner and away from the scene all together.

The man gripped me tightly, and trying to rise to his feet, found he was unable. "Please, don't go," he repeated over and over, his eyes rolling about in his head as blood flowed from his temple and from both rows of teeth. I held him and told him to rest, that he was safe, and that an ambulance was on its way. I looked him over and surveyed the damage: his shirt and pants were torn, his flanks were scraped and scuffed, dirt and debris were ground into his hair, the contents of his pockets were strewn about the vicinity, the area around his left eye had begun to swell and darken. He lifted his head, and I put my foot beneath it as a pillow.

Within several minutes, the police did arrive in force. The man I held clung to me with both hands until the police at last took him from me.

It is difficult to reflect on what I've just witnessed--just participated in. So many thoughts now fill my head: Could I have done more to prevent the escalation of violence? There were small steps, each of which edged closer to the eruption of savagery, but none of which were inexorable. Could I have done more to protect the fallen man? I am hardly an intimidating physical presence, but at some level courage and moral presence can command a situation. Why are we as a community content to put thousands into the situation of having to fight for their survival from day to day?

But by far my most disturbing thought is that violence, so long as it remains within the lower economic classes, is fairly tolerable. Most of the violence I have witnessed between the homeless and indigent goes unprosecuted. This goes for rape and sex-slavery as well as street fights. It is primarily when the violence breaks upwards into the middle class that society becomes alarmed and punishes the assailant with full vigor. As long as law-enforcement can keep a lid on things, can keep the violence restricted to the poor, we are pretty well satisfied.

After even the least bit of reflection it seems foolish that anyone would put himself in harm's way for someone mired in poverty and more than likely accustomed to violence.

The question I now ask myself is, Would I have done more to protect someone who looked more like me?

ann's story

2009-08-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

At 22, Ann was struggling. Working nights at the Jollibee was an anemic, minimum wage affair, and when business was brisk she would stay late to finish out the closing procedures: bleaching towels, filling condiment bins, stuffing napkin dispensers—critical jobs one and all.

But for Ann, staying late meant missing the evening’s final bus home. “What was I supposed to do?” she asked me. “I needed the extra money.” (The extra hour netted her about $4.90.)

“The problem was that I had to ask one of my co-workers for a ride home. I felt so ashamed.”

“What?”

As it turned out, when Ann and her fellow employee would get close to her place, she would initiate an elaborate ruse. “Okay, here we are,” she would say, having her colleague drop her off around the block from where she actually slept. Having him pull over in front of an apartment complex she had never, in fact, visited, Ann would exit the vehicle with a chipper, “See you tomorrow!”

“Do you want me to wait until you get in?” the driver would inevitably ask, to which Ann would reply, “Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you—good night."

She would then walk up the path to the complex, and as soon as her friend would drive off, she would retrace her steps and walk back around the block to where she actually spent her nights: the homeless shelter.

“I hated being homeless.”

That was seven years ago, and a lot has changed for Ann since then. She has two beautiful children, her own car, and lives with her children’s father in her own place just around the corner from Sacred Heart.

But she is still struggling.

Ann now works three jobs, and even these aren’t enough to provide for her young family’s basic needs. The four of them are squeezed into a one-room apartment; her boyfriend is unemployed; they have no health insurance; and she relies on CalWORKS for her childcare.

She has come to Sacred Heart for help with obtaining employment, for her Thanksgiving turkey, for her infant’s diapers, and not long ago she received an eviction notice that she was only able to fend off through the help of Sacred Heart’s Emergency Rental Assistance program.

Recently, when her car broke down, she took it to a mechanic. Unable to pay for the repairs, the car is still being held at the shop until the entire bill can be paid. And as of today she has been unable to pay this month's rent.

We have asked Ann to help those of us who have never experienced the frustrations, the desperation, or the hopelessness of poverty. Within the next day or two, Ann will begin using our Facebook page to give regular updates on her day-to-day activities. We invite you to comment on her posts, ask questions, or otherwise share your reactions (although we can't guarantee that she will respond).

This is an experimental program, and we are grateful for Ann’s vulnerability and willingness to take this on in service to the broader community. Our hope is that this conversation will begin to build the foundations of solidarity between the poor and the prosperous, and that on this foundation we might create a culture in which poverty is no longer acceptable.

a dog noticed none of it

2009-08-02T23:56:00.000-07:00

There was something terrible in the cold, polished chrome of the walker. Glinting yellow in the streetlight, it looked new and flimsy and cheaply made, but worst of all it seemed cruel as it rested idle on the sidewalk. Laid out on the bus stop bench next to the apparatus was its presumptive owner, like so much afterbirth spilled onto the side of the road.

Tonight I had simply wanted to take a stroll. When the night air is cool and my kids are tucked safely into bed, I enjoy a turn beneath the stars. But it is difficult to go far in the heart of Silicon Valley without being confronted by the destitution that haunts so many of our neighbors.

On seeing this gleaming appliance and its benched wreckage, I changed my course without thinking, crossing the darkened street to do I know not what. (I feel, in the face of such outrage to human dignity, the overwhelming urge to draw near. Seldom am I conscious of any intention beyond this visceral pull.) As I reached the sodium-lighted bank of newspaper racks, I walked to where the man's head was resting. His face was covered, just as it someday would be within the morgue, and the only visible part of him at this end was some wiry hair, thinning and gray. At the other end were his feet, still within their shoes, peeking chilled and child-like from beneath the covers.

I took out my phone, but who could I call at this hour? Who would have him? Where was the warm, safe haven for him to take refuge? I certainly couldn't call 911, for this was hardly an emergency. No, this is normal in our community.

The man on the bench had tucked his knees up toward his chest to make himself fit, drab and shabby in contrast to the clean lines of the medical device. He had shrouded himself beneath a black sleeping bag while behind him the smug and smiling Foster's Freeze mascot stood beaming in its neon emptiness. Across the street, though it was nearing midnight, the two teens working within the gaudy red and yellow A-frame of Der Wienerschnitzel continued to do a brisk business in milk shakes and chili cheese dogs. The customers came and went. A patrol officer rolled by. A couple walked past, arm-in-arm. A dog trotted along the sidewalk without noticing any of it.

And I turned around and went home.

spider (update from post on 5/28/09)

2009-07-25T12:26:00.000-07:00

It had been dark for a few hours by the time we located him, and the temperature had dropped some thirty degrees since midday. In the heart of San Jose we found him, his aging bones curved into a frail mound at the foot of his wheel chair, surrounded by filth.

The last time I had seen Spider was seven weeks ago. At about that time he had moved abruptly from his spot of dirt underneath the freeway, and I had lost contact with him. Then by chance I spotted him a few days ago on the sidewalk across from the gilded California Theatre. He was slumped in his wheel chair, a snail crawling across his shoulder. After talking for a few minutes he gave me a vague description of where he was now spending his nights. I told him I would come find him soon.

Six days later, on the appointed evening, a small group of friends and colleagues of mine sought him out, bringing with us several bags of essentials. After saying our hellos, we held out a sleeping bag, a jacket, a pair of pants, announcing each as we presented it.

Looking up toward us, his eyes clouded by cataracts, he said meekly, "Well, I can't really wear pants."

And it was true. Beneath his ratted blanket Spider had on nothing below the waist; only a grocery bag whose handles he had slipped his legs through to serve as a diaper. Purple sores were visible on his discolored calves and ankles.

"But I could use some batteries for my radio. And some food." His tiny radio was his almost exclusive source of company, for although he was heaped in a pile at a busy downtown intersection, he was very much alone, more of a plague for the public to avoid than a person to take note of. Hearing this desire, Nathan, a friend and partner who was meeting Spider for the first time, hopped up and quickly went to find some batteries. Meanwhile, my coworkers Kenneth and Rebecca began removing ready-to-eat food from a bag we had brought from Sacred Heart: lunch meat, a loaf of soft bread, a box of orange juice, some fruit cocktail in a pop-top can.

There were five of us there with him last Tuesday night. Several of us had the night before made a promise to each other that we would not rest until we saw Spider in the dignified, humane living conditions that even our pets are guaranteed.

But this would not be easy.

After a good thirty minutes of conversation, Spider gave a cursory warning, and without rising from his knees began urinating into a tattered 7-11 coffee cup. We had hardly enough time to look away, and upon his completion, he summarily splashed his water against the mildewed wall of his concrete hovel.

When we turned back around, he waved us close, his hand damp and the wall dripping with foul moisture. We stepped toward him, crouched in the rivulets, and continued our chat. After some jokes and tomfoolery, he mentioned to us that his disability payments, which had been curtailed some months go, had now ceased all together. It was at this point, as I leaned in to hear him better, that I noticed what appeared to be clotted blood in his beard.

"How are you surviving?" we asked.

"I panhandle for spare change," he replied. Just then somebody shouted as he drove by a a car alarm sounded up the street. Beneath Spider's recurrent wit, the sadness in his voice was still audible. "But I don't get very much because I smell."

(For those of you who read this, please keep Spider in your prayers. We have begun coordinating with a number of different agencies, but he seems to slip through the cracks of our community's meagre safety net. If you feel moved to get involved, comment here or email me at toddm@sacredheartcs.org. Thank you.)

impossible faith

2009-07-20T00:16:00.000-07:00

"C'mon, Julian! Hurry it up!" Spittle formed on the manager's lip as his red face exerted itself in shouting. "What am I paying you for!"

At 48 years old, Julian was washing the dishes as fast as he could. His hands were pruned from hours of soaking, his clothes were wet down to his socks, and his back ached from being bent in one spot for hours. But his boss at the restaurant is a hard man. "Let's go! Let's go!" he carried on. "Vamanos!" Julian's hands moved as quickly as they could, his eyes focussed on the task before him.

After bellowing out the orders to move faster, the manager turned to leave the prep. room where Julian sweats for his $8.75 per hour. As soon as the supervisor disappeared around the corner, Julian removed a fork and soiled napkin from a customer's dish that was waiting to be rinsed, and with his wet hand scooped up a palm-full of cold spaghetti, swallowing it whole.

"I don't like to do it," he confessed to me last night, "but it's hard to buy enough food."

"Don't they let you eat something from the kitchen during your break?" I asked.

"Well, they do give us a discount, but it's an expensive restaurant, and I can't afford the food, even with the discount."

"That's rough." I didn't know what to say.

After a moment of silence between us, Julian blurted out, "But my Lord is so good to me!" I was moved by the fact that he spoke with such familiarity, that he spoke of "my Lord."

Julian has a long struggle ahead of him, but last night was a night for thanksgiving: after eight months of homelessness, he has at long last moved into his own apartment.

After serving seven years in prison, Julian was released and told that he had exactly 30 days to find work. He was given a motel room for the month, but this was toward the end of October of last year, the same time that the economy was imploding every morning on the front pages of the newspaper. When his 30 days had come and gone without producing employment, his parole officer spread out a map before him and pointed to a creek.

"If you go here, you'll find some guys camped out under this bridge." Julian stared at the map, and then up at the parole officer. What was he saying? "I would recommend taking your stuff and heading to this area here," the parole officer continued, running his index finger over a squiggled blue line on the city map. Julian waited for the punch line, but it never came. He was simply shown the door.

Leaving the parole office, Julian felt an overwhelming chill settle into his bones. With great difficulty he piled all his possessions onto his bicycle, and frustrated, alone, and slipping beneath an onslaught of despair, he began to pedal toward he knew not what.

As he rode slowly toward the creek, Julian heard a voice, an insistent, nagging, demanding voice telling him to swerve into traffic. Just a subtle shift of his weight on the handlebars would give him rest and would put an end to the daily struggle to survive.

But Julian resisted the voice that day, and instead of heading to the creek, he settled for a patch of sidewalk. And for the next eight months, he slept on the street, along railroad tracks, in shelters, in a van, and now, after what at times seemed to be an utterly hopeless situation, he was sleeping in his own apartment, on his own bed.

But in spite of what might have been a time of jubilation, there was something weighing on Julian's soul. "What's the matter?" I asked.

Julian looked into my eyes. "What I'm afraid of is that if I continue to receive such blessings as these, I might turn my back on God--I might think I don't need Him anymore."

And right then he buried his face in his hands and prayed that he would remain faithful.

my dinner with andre

2009-07-12T22:21:00.000-07:00

Waving the sizzling knife in short, crazy arcs before my face, Andre exclaimed, “I know more than 300 ways to prepare beans!” Then, in a prophetic pitch, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he shouted, “but this recipe, this one is from God!” He broke out into a howl, his open mouth revealing a vast emptiness where his bottom incisors should have been (which ironically made him appear more dangerous).

Sitting in his tiny studio apartment the other night, the unfamiliar odors swirling between us served as ambiguous warnings that I cheerfully ignored. After all, a year ago Andre was still sleeping in Sacred Heart’s parking lot, anti-social and resigned to his place as human rubbish. For years he was without friend or family, his world a sinister place perceived through the distorting prism of schizophrenia. The only way the social safety net seemed to know how to deal with him was to lock him up periodically, then release him back to street, cold, hungry, and all alone.

But on this particular evening those desolate nights seemed far away--as if they had belonged to someone else. Andre was giddy and goofy and grinning with buoyant abandon. We were celebrating; neither of us knew what, but we were most assuredly celebrating.

Standing over the stove, Andre polished off a peach and dropped the pit into a pot that I later discovered was brewing our tea. He then took the towel from his shoulder, wiped the perspiration from his balding head, and dried the bowl from which I was about to eat. I was having the time of my life.

After several minutes more of fiddling with the pots and pans and plates and platters laid out before him, the moment came when he vigorously rubbed his hands together, clapped, and snapped his fingers--this seemed a good omen. He brought over to the table some olives, our tea, then after pouring the soup, he surprised me with a daring presentation of cubed potatoes and strips of merry “meat-fingers”, as he would refer to them in conversation.

“The meat,” and as he spoke, he used a gruff voice and made gorilla arms, “it was about to go bad,” (at which point I wondered how you could ever really be certain that something that was about to go bad, was not in fact, bad already). “It was about to go bad, so I boiled it.” When he said it, he said it with such conviction, puffing out his cheeks and thrusting the saucy knife at my chest, that boiling it seemed perfectly appropriate. I mean, what do I know? “You see,” he said sharply, as if having just proven his point, “I might be insane, but I’m not stupid!”

He turned back to his caldron, but suddenly, Andre shot his head up and froze. I watched him, wondering what would come next. My mouth hung open, waiting.

He slowly turned toward me and broke out in a knowing, almost wise chuckle. “Ah, ha, you see! I know they’re not really there!”

“Are you hearing voices?” I asked, sensing that in some strange way we had company.

“Yes, but I know they aren’t there. It’s a test,” and as he spoke he pointed frantically to about fifty different spots on his head in rapid succession, blinking wildly.

“What do the voices say, Andre?” I had never before asked him so direct a question about his symptoms.

His response was a masterly piece of misdirection. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to do anything.”

Now typically, in the business world for example, a pronouncement like "I'm not going to do anything," would be a sign of insolence or the sort of slothfulness that could get you sacked. But when Andre said it, I found myself feeling mostly relieved.

As we ate and talked and laughed, I kept before me the image of this man when he was living in our parking lot. How could it have been that for years he had languished in such degradation? He had regularly succumbed to eating from garbage dumpsters, sharing his food with the rats and stray dogs that occasionally accompanied him. Back then it had seemed impossible that he could have ever made it off the street. He was mentally ill, he was hardened, he was angry, he had given up ... and I had given up. Yet, against all conventional wisdom, here he was, living a humane, dignified, even happy existence. It had taken a great deal of work on the part of many people, but here he was.

I will never give up on another human being.

happy interdependence day

2009-07-04T12:50:00.000-07:00

The phone call came, as this sort of call usually does, late at night. “Um, Todd?”

“Yes?” I asked. “Noe?”

“Yeah. You’re still up?” These calls also tend to begin with an awkward series of questions-by-inflection.

“Well, I … my refrigerator only has condiments in it—like ketchup and butter.” His voice was subdued and uncertain. I could hear the struggle in his voice, the struggle between pride and shame and the recognition that he could not make it in this world alone.

In fact, the last time Noe had eaten was over 24 hours earlier. He continued, “I don’t know what to do. I’m really hungry.”

Noe is 24 years old and had been unemployed for the past few months. During the course of this challenging time, he has relied on the generosity of others to maintain his housing and nourishment. In return, he has offered his time to Sacred Heart through volunteering to help us run our Poverty Simulation program.

But last week, Noe went back to work.

Through the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (ARRA)—the Stimulus Bill—approximately 1000 low-income Santa Clara County youth between the ages of 15 and 24 received the opportunity for paid internships at government and non-profit agencies, schools, and colleges.

When I went to visit Noe this past week at work2future, his internship site, he was beaming. He showed me his desk, his employee badge, and the email he was busy typing. He had never dressed up for work before, and on his first day he needed help tying his tie, which he carefully removes each night after work without untying--except, he informs me, on casual Friday, when he gets to leave the tie at home.

Growing up in the foster care system and spending a majority of his life in group homes, at age 18 he became homeless. He has no known family, and he has never, in all his life, heard the words, “I’m proud of you.”

Now, through this summer internship program, Noe is proud of himself. He works 36 hours per week and receives an additional four hours of job-readiness training—and all of it is paid at $13 per hour. But more than just providing Noe the resources he so desperately needs today, this program is building his job skills, teaching him appropriate habits for the workplace, helping him to identify and overcome barriers to employment, and preparing him with the experience critical to a permanent role in the marketplace.

But it is important to point out that it is not just Noe and the other low-income youth who receive the benefits of this program.

Here at Sacred Heart we have eleven ARRA interns working in our essential services programs, filling a significant gap in volunteer support for the summer months. With the massive increase in the number of people we serve each day, it would be extremely difficult without their help for us to continue providing emergency food, clothing, hygiene items, and items for infants such as diapers and formula.

However, although Noe started his internship last week, he is still awaiting his first paycheck. During this difficult time—while he is working but has no money, no food, no way to pay rent or utilities—we will continue to support him, just as he and the rest of the interns are supporting their internship sites and the communities we serve.

human dignity

2009-06-27T20:11:00.000-07:00

"Would it be possible, after you have closed up, for me to get into the brown boxes, there?" The finger he used to point was trembling.

I turned around and looked at where the old man was pointing. "You want some boxes?" There were stacks of empty banana boxes at the edge of the parking lot behind our pantry.

"Those boxes are locked," he continued. I turned back toward him and could see that his shoes were splattered with dried mud and his sleeves were soiled and frayed. "Can I please come back tonight?" He reached out for my hand. "Would you leave them unlocked?" He spoke politely--respectfully--but it seemed as though he were censoring himself. Behind his courtesy I got the sense that he was pleading with me, that he was begging.

Next to the stacks of cardboard boxes were two squat, wooden containers, the pair of which looked like a rusted washer and dryer with padlocks dangling from their doors. Only gradually did I begin to realize what he was asking.

A few times each week trucks pull up to these wooden containers. We unlock them and the contents are removed and taken to farms--where it is fed to pigs: wilted cabbage, bread black with fungus, potatoes half devoured by swarming insects, apple pulp, carrots covered with white fibers, onions soft and shriveled. The smell is sweet and awful and with the onset of the summer heat, it can be nauseating.

"Please."

I looked into the eyes of the man before me. He was doing his best to maintain some level of dignity. Having someone considerably my senior beg me for something was itself discomfiting, but when the object for which he is begging is so pitiful ... I felt ashamed.

I did my best to offer alternatives. It was evening and we had already closed up for services. Eventually I told him to wait at the gate for a moment. I walked over to our pantry refrigerator and was thankful to have found a few of our brown bag lunches that had not been distributed. Each had a sandwich, orange, and brownie. I gave the man a couple of the brown bags, for which he thanked me (this is simply what any of us at Sacred Heart do in such circumstances). And then he departed.

I had always wondered why we kept the slop boxes locked. Now I wondered how this elderly man knew about their contents.

what he could afford to give

2009-06-22T00:26:00.000-07:00

With his duct-taped crutch pads looking as if they had been gnawed by rodents, George explained as best he could why he sleeps on a mound of leafy soil behind an apartment complex.

"There's something wrong with my disability p-payments. They aren't giving me the right amount of dollars, so I can't pay for my rent. The lawyers s-said it would be better if I stay homeless. It would be better for my cases. Then I'll be able to move into my own h-house. But I'll still need someone to take care of me."

Developmentally disabled, George struggles with his words. They seem to slip heavily from his tongue before being fully formed. Until six months ago he had stayed in a group home with 24-hour supervision, unable as he is of taking care of himself. But after a fall down some stairs this past January he awoke in a hospital, and for some reason, from the hospital he ended up on the street. Try as I did, I never understood how he ended up homeless. All I know is that he is getting old.

It was Sunday, and we were at church. George had at some point earlier in the year come up with the idea of taking shoelaces and knotting them to his backpack, and from there wrapping them around his crutches to ensure that the latter wouldn't disappear in the dead of night. "I need them to help me walk" he explained. He also told me that he has a blanket that he wraps around his legs to stay warm.

"Sometimes they t-tell me that I have to get out of there. By the fence. I don't bother anybody."

"Who tells you, George?"

"I think it's the guards. So sometimes I go and stay under the bridge, under the freeway, but it's dangerous. You c-could get hurt under there. Yeah, you could get hurt."

George had the week before given his reduced disability payment to God. He had placed the check he received--still made out to him--in the church mailbox. The church secretary had returned the check to George, but he then took it to a bank and returned with a money order and dropped it in the offering basket.

"George, how do you get your food?" I asked, seeing that he had given everything he had to live on.

"I go t-to the dollar store."

"To get food?" The dollar store had never occurred to me as a place to buy groceries. "What kind of food can you get at the dollar store?"

"I get camp food."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Like Deviled Ham and chips," he said.

For a moment I could only stand there and look at him: powdered sugar covered the greasy stains on his jacket while his face glistened in perspiration. I pleaded with him to consider moving in doors, but he trustingly maintained that the successful resolution of his law suit depended on his destitution.

"Next week I'm going to give $40.60 to the church for the priest's retirement. I like him. He's a good man. That's how much I get on my next check, $40.60. I want him to be taken c-care of when he's old."

like a dog

2009-06-20T00:08:00.000-07:00

How has it come to this?

How is it that tonight James has been abandoned on the rank walkway of an otherwise-compassionate community?

For him to lay his face down on the sidewalk, to feel his cheek, his mouth against the coarse slab of crawling infection, to lay his face in the worst we can do to one another; how is it that again

James would press his flesh against the pavement for a pillow?

Here is what we do know: James was once a child. He played. He laughed. He dreamed. He more than likely made a wish on his fifth birthday before he blew out the candles on his cake. His mother had hopes for her son, hopes that she treasured within her heart. Perhaps she even prayed for him.

Now the sum of his aspirations is stuffed into a Taco Bell bag, and his bed is every night without a blanket.

How many years does it take to whittle away your soul? How long must you despair before the most reasonable place for you to lay your head is on the stains of the city sidewalk? How do you come to feel so loathsome?

I cannot imagine.

Some might be tempted to compare James to a dog. And why shouldn't we be so honest? But if you walk just a few blocks from where James is laid out tonight, you might hesitate at the comparison. A short stroll up the street is where you will, in fact, find a dog: at the "doggie daycare, spa, and resort". In feather beds and heated rooms, the dogs here are fed nutritious meals and given all the love you would expect for your own children. They are bathed, groomed, exercised, pampered, and played with. O, happy dog.

But this dog's life does not come cheap. The cost of boarding one precious pup is what it would take to provide housing for four people at the apartment complex less than a mile down the road.

I can't imagine the uninterrupted series of nights that James must endure. When I try, I can enter into a few days of the experience, and from there a few weeks. But a year? A decade? I can't do it. My empathy breaks down. Are the nights spent in an all-consuming anger? Are they spent in mourning? Or do they simply fade from consciousness?

James, I'm sorry.

a part together

2009-06-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

As I prepared to leave my apartment the other day, I noticed an old man across the street. In tattered black I could have taken him for a monk, and upon reaching the curb he lowered himself to his knees. This prayerful attitude was odd and inspiring, but before my admiration had a chance to take root he had dropped himself into the gutter, beard and belly down in the dusty trough.

As I watched, grabbing my backpack and patting my pockets, I realized that the man outside my window was acting with mysterious purpose; looking closer I discovered in his hands a crooked stick, and with it he was reaching through the opening of a storm drain. But I was in a bit of a hurry, so I bent down and tied my shoes.

After several more minutes had passed, I turned off the lights and stopped a final time at the window. What is he looking for? What of value could he find while lying in the gutter, thrashing about at the bottom of a storm drain? I stood transfixed as the drama unfolded before me.

Soon it became apparent: after several minutes had elapsed, he carefully brought up from the pipes and waterways a single aluminum can. Is that it? I thought. All that for a single can?

I was a bit put off. Surely there are better ways to earn one’s sustenance, which is what I assumed was the point. At the very least he could get food—and many other services—from us at Sacred Heart. This stick business seemed at best a poorly-thought-out strategy.

Only later that evening did it occur to me that maybe sustenance was not the point of his exercise. What if it were not simply the attempt to fish a couple pennies worth of scrap from a hole in the street? What if there were something more, something that involved me, the observer? What if--and this is what made me shudder--I were not merely an observer, but a participant in the event? And if I were not a spectator beyond the bounds of the scene, What role did I play within it?

More importantly, Had I played it well?

fear and clothing at the swish and swirl

2009-06-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

Stack upon stack of washers and dryers sat harboring who knows what within, whirling the filth away to someplace else under cover of sanitized lighting. The sun had set, and Sherri moved like a ghost through the lonely motions of folding her clothes. One black t-shirt followed the one before, then another, followed by another. As I watched her repeat the movements with her arms, the pile of tees grew from four, to seven, to twelve ... but each shirt she folded was exactly the same.

There in the laundromat, amidst the stainless steel and sloshy scent of Tide's jasmine rain, we talked about how the recession had wrapped its long fingers around her.

Sherri's husband was a cabinet maker. As last year's housing market began to disintegrate, dragging with it the trades, the outfit for which her husband worked was hit hard. Sinking fast, his employer began ejecting assets, and soon Sherri's husband found himself the jetsam of an economic collapse he had no part in creating; and just like that, with the approach of Christmas, he was without work.

Without warning, Sherri's part time job in a downtown cafe--supplemented by her husband's modest unemployment check--became the foundation of their self-sufficiency. They moved into a two-room boarding motel where they pay $380 a week. As Sherri's husband struggled to find work, any work, Sherri kept at her $10 an hour, 25-hours-per-week position. "They are good to me there," she commented. "After the food has sat for three days, they have to throw it out. Now they give it to me."

"What sort of food do you you get?" I inquired.

"Oh, you know, bread, rolls, soup ..." she thought a moment: "muffins." That's when I realized why all the shirts she was folding were the same: they were all from the cafe.

She paused before continuing. "Last month my husband's unemployment insurance ran out." Sherri had for several minutes been folding, unfolding, then folding again the same shirt. I had just asked if I could take her photo, when she suddenly gave up on the shirt she had been compulsively folding and blurted out, "My check isn't even $200 a week ... how am I going to pay $380 for our room?" She took off her glasses for the shot, wiped her eyes, and tried to smile. But she wouldn't look at me. "I'm 50 years old, and the way things are going, there isn't going to be any social security when I'm too old to work."

She went on to mention that they had medical bills in collections, that their belongings in storage were set to go to auction in a couple weeks because their payment was two months past due, and that their car now sits idle for want of gas. Then finally she looked at me: "I'm scared."

tin man

2009-06-03T00:46:00.000-07:00

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. I looked again at the ludicrous red lettering slathered across the sideboards. Waves of heat rose from the tar beneath my feet, dust blowing through the razor wire; I moved toward the warning sign, beguiled.

Trucks and wagons limped and lurched around me as I ventured from the sidewalk and entered the scrap yard situated a quarter mile from Sacred Heart. Conveyances held together by rope and wire, these clown cars came bearing their cargo from throughout the city. I stepped cautiously over dirt and gravel and broken asphalt until I came to what had summoned me, seeing the child-script clearly for the first time. In sloppy red: If it’s made of metal we pick-up free.

Lifting a broken computer monitor from his truck to the cart and wincing from atop his soiled t-shirt, Ed looked up at me. And for the next 15 minutes I was schooled in the vagaries of the tin trade. “A minute ago, scrap—like water heaters an’ such—were $250 a ton.” I glanced down at the dolly he had finished loading. “Now it’s at ought $50.”

“What about the copper there?” I asked, seeing a bent pipe, twisted and gleaming in the beaming of the sun.

“That there is at a dollar …” he rubbed a tooth as he thought, “a dollar thirty per pound. That’s down from $3.60.” He had about two pounds of copper pipe on his pile.

“Is this what you do for a living?” I assumed it was, but the calculations I was running in my head belied the term, living.

“Yup.” And as he said this, a woman appeared from behind his contraption—I know not whether from the bed or cab—“We been doing this for about six years now. Since I was 40.”

Ed proceeded to tell me that he and Michelle, his wife of 20 years, made enough to cover their rent. “If you don’t mind me asking, How much do you make in a month?”

After explaining that the amount fluctuates with the whims of the market, he came out with “$2000 or $1500 a month. Sometimes less. It’s enough to pay our rent and get our food and gas.”

On the pile of detritus that earned him his living there were three computer monitors. These took up 75% of the scrap on his dolly, so I asked how much he collected for them. “Five cents a piece.” Five cents a piece. I am reasonably certain that he cannot even replenish the calories required to load and unload these things for what he earns by recycling them.

Ed and Michelle eventually shared with me that they currently rented a room in someone else’s home, that their teenager was expecting a child any day now, and that they were hoping to move in with her and her husband.

When I told them about the services offered by Sacred Heart, they told me that we did good work for the poor, but that they were fine.

the spider living beneath the freeway

2009-05-28T00:17:00.000-07:00

It was perhaps a month ago that I first saw him. His wheelchair sat rancid and idle while he struggled atop a piece of cardboard next to a garbage dumpster. He was naked from the waist down, and his legs, lean and crooked, were streaked with excrement. I have never seen someone so utterly debased, so helpless.

Since that first encounter, I have not been able to get him out of my mind. I have gone back to where he spends his nights a number of times since then, sometimes to see him folded sleepily in a twisted heap beneath a filthy blanket, but most of the time to find him absent from the pile of refuse and swarms of fat, black flies.

But tonight I worked later than usual, and on my way home I found him there in the dirt. He was resting, but I felt compelled to talk with him.

As I introduced myself he waved his hand awkwardly in my direction. The first thing I learned about him was that he is almost totally blind--cataracts. Once he found my hand we shook, and he told me his name was Spider.

After mentioning that he was 60 years old, I asked him how long he had been roughing it. He mumbled his reply, something that sounded like "eight years". When I repeated it, he corrected me by telling me it had been twenty eight years. His nails had curved into talons, his hair had begun to dreadlock, and I kept thinking of the greasy mire on the hand with which I had grasped his.

Within the folds of his blanket was a radio, and as we chatted he went on to tell me that he regularly listened to a program about starving children overseas, and how terrible it all is, that you could see their tiny rib cages, that life is a four-letter word, that they were dying, that he prayed for those little ones, that he was grateful for every day, that he had no one to care for him, that Jesus saves.

What is perhaps most devastating about all of this is that Spider apparently receives disability payments--about $950 per month. That is only about $100 short of qualifying for the subsidized apartments a mere mile up the street from the squalor where he now rests his worn-out body; the price of my morning latte was all that stood between his worse-than-bestial existence and humane food, clothing, shelter, care, dignity, humanity.

What's more, there is someone else who is managing his money for him. When I learned this I tried not to become angry. When I asked him if he would like his own apartment, he simply replied, "Yeah, that would be nice." I then asked whether anyone had ever offered to help him get into proper shelter: "No."

He has no papers, no ID, no proof of income; he kept telling me, "I can't read." I will post again after I take him to the institution that is in charge of his finances.

the price of a good night's sleep

2009-05-23T00:18:00.000-07:00

Each night in our community, hundreds of young people find themselves abandoned to the streets. In most cases these youth lack any semblance of family, having come from the foster care system, dysfunctional families, or parents that are themselves homeless; they have been cut off from supportive institutions, such as schools and faith communities; and add to this the fact that a majority are struggling with mental illness or emotional trauma from abuse.

These teens find themselves stripped of even the most basic of human needs, scavenging for food, going without medical care, and sleeping on the streets. But this last circumstance glosses over the reality a bit; simply stating that a teenager is homeless doesn't really get to the lived experience. What exactly, then, do we mean when we say that they must sleep on the streets? Where in fact, do they lay their heads?

There are, of course, the homeless shelters.

The largest of these is located close to Sacred Heart and can sleep up to 250 people. However, on any given night in our community there are more than 7000 men, women, and children without humane housing. This means that every night there are people turned away from shelters. What's more, because shelters can sometimes be rough places, many individuals with no place else to turn still find a bed at a shelter too great a risk.

So where do these most vulnerable youth go to rest?

For some, the answer is abandoned houses. For others, it is sleeping on the roof of the San Jose State Event Center, in the stairwells of public parking structures, along the Guadalupe River, in back yards, along railroad tracks, or beneath freeway on-ramps. For others, it is a night spent on the bus or in a car. But in all these places there is danger: there are others who would come to rob or harass, security guards and police to disturb, ticket, or arrest, and the hostility of the elements.

For all these reasons--in an effort to find some few hours of safety and security--others find a choice more extreme.

Some of our community's daughters--starting in their early teens--find themselves so afraid, so desperate for a safe place to close their eyes and sleep at night, that they take to prostitution. This is nothing like the picture that the media would give us, or Hollywood, or even some scholars.

For these girls it is an ugly, shameful, desperate, and violent path, but it is one that is taken each night in an effort to raise the $65 it costs for a motel room.

-Todd Madigan

a solution to his transportation problem

2009-05-19T23:40:00.000-07:00

One week ago, Ruben was eager to take whatever work he could get. At 23 years old he was facing eviction, hunger, and despair, and like many others who had come through the foster care system, he had no family to rely on if things became especially perilous.

Having endured a number of interviews, submitted scores of resumes, and made nearly one hundred inquiries, last week Ruben finally received his first job offer: a position as a stockroom clerk. He would work two four-and-a-half hour shifts per week at a pay rate of $8 per hour—he would gross $72 per week

The retailer where Ruben was hired is located five miles from his apartment and requires two busses to get there when using public transportation (Ruben owns no car). But when Ruben received his first week's schedule, he learned that he would be starting at 4:00AM—a start time well before the busses begin running. At this point, what recourse did he have? Being so new to the employer, the last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize his position by complaining or trying to get his shift time changed. He would simply have to do whatever it would take.

On Friday, I let Ruben know that we could probably come up with a bike for him, but he was surprisingly hesitant to accept it. He said he’d get back to me.

Then on Sunday, he called me, telling me that he had come up with a solution to his transportation problem: he would get ready for work the evening before his shift, take the night’s last pair of connecting busses to the mall, then sleep next to the building of his employer until shortly before the start of his shift.

And yesterday, that is exactly what he did.

trying not to eat

2009-05-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

When he awoke this past Friday morning, Luis was at long last beginning to feel optimistic: after ten weeks of unemployment, he now had less than 24 hours before the start of his new job. Happily (if not drowsily), Luis shuffled to his refrigerator for a bowl of cereal. But on opening the refrigerator he noticed that the light failed to illuminate. He stuck his arm in past the milk and felt that although it was cool, it was certainly not as cold as it ought to have been. Turning to his clock, he had the sickening realization that the power was out. Rushing out into the hallway of the apartment complex—in the hope that there was an actual power outage—he quickly saw that all the lights were on in the hall and that there was a notice taped to his door: “Your gas and/or electric service has been disconnected.”

On the day before, Luis had gone shopping for food. Having had no income for the past ten weeks, he was struggling to furnish his most basic needs. He had received the charitable gift of a $200 gift card to a local grocery store and had spent the whole thing, frugally buying in bulk enough food to last him several weeks, packing his freezer until he began drawing a paycheck.

But now, in the midst of a heat wave with temperatures hovering around 100 degrees, not only has Luis lost his air conditioning, but his very sustenance is in jeopardy. In an effort to save his food, Luis—becoming increasingly distressed—borrowed a 10’ extension cord to plug his refrigerator into the hallway of the complex, which required him to push the refrigerator right up against his door in order to reach; but he was told that this was not permitted, that he could face eviction for using the outlet in the hall; he relented.

As of tonight, he sits and waits, trying not to eat so that he doesn’t have to open the refrigerator or freezer doors, desperate to retain whatever cool air might be left.

he was hungry

2009-05-14T07:17:00.001-07:00

His right pant leg was ripped up to the thigh, and the first thing I noticed as I approached him was his bleeding leg. It was 6:24 this morning, and he was hungry.

For several minutes this man--more bones than flesh and blood--stood with his arm in the city garbage can, feeling his way around for something to eat. Within 200 feet there were restaurants, coffee shops, cafes, and convenience stores, all of which were open and providing food and breakfast to the customers who came and went. They, too, were hungry.

As I continued on my walk to work, a young man looked up at the dawn sky, inhaled deeply, and with a broad smile said, "It's a beautiful day!"

-Todd Madigan

there's no one left

2009-05-12T23:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, late on my way to another meeting, I moved hurriedly down the halls of Sacred Heart checking voicemail with one ear and trying to think with the other. I had just received the latest numbers: during March of last year, we had served food to 13,336 individuals through our pantry program. Last month it was 19,103.

Rounding the corner to our Welcome Center I was stopped short by the crush of people pressing into the building. For a moment I stood and surveyed the jostling expanse: there were young and old, round and slender, black, white, and brown; there was a young man with an oxygen tank, a spidery boy with a bar of soap, a woman in a suit, a girl holding a baby, and all were waiting with impossible patience for the food they would eventually receive.

As I squeezed past this one and that, worrying that my polite pardon me’s were sounding less and less sincere with each repetition, I eventually made it to the half-way point across the room. There at the Welcome Center desk, with the phone on her shoulder and finishing a conversation with the customer standing before her, was my colleague, Eva.

Seizing the moment before she returned to the person on hold, I asked Eva, “What is the most notable thing you’ve seen over the past week? Something that surprised you out here.”

She thought about it, but for only an instant: “There are more men coming in.”

“What do you mean? Just more men in general?”

“No, I mean with their families. Entire families are now coming in, including the husbands and fathers. It used to be either single men or women with their children. Now it’s everyone lining up together. There’s no one left—no one is immune.”

survival strategy

2009-05-10T01:05:00.001-07:00

After two months of unemployment, an eviction notice, and the loss of 15 pounds from want of food, Juan (one of our JobLink customers) landed an interview with a retailer at Valley Fair mall.

At 22 years old, Jaun had already lived a difficult and desperate existence. He had been in and out of eight foster homes and group facilities, had been incarcerated for a year, had been homeless for about the same length of time, and had become entangled in a life of gang activity. He had slept on busses, in bus stops, on rooftops, and had even paid people $20 per week to sleep in their parked cars at night. At 22, he knew of no relatives, biological or otherwise. He had no memories of brothers or sisters, father or mother.

But only some of his life's madness was now behind him. He had been in his own apartment fora mere 18 months when he lost his first real job; he had worked caring for the elderly in their own homes--bathing them, brushing their hair, listening to their stories--until there just weren't enough clients to keep him employed. Now he held onto his place by borrowing money from anyone and everyone, including strangers on the street. He needed a job and worked hard to make an interview happen--he honed his resume, completed on-line applications, got the proper documents in order, and persisted in following up on every lead. But an hour before his interview--the first interview in two months of trying--he had the sudden realization that his exposed tattoos would be a liability.

Making this judgement, Juan began asking for money in the mall--panhandling. He stood by the food court and asked each passerby for a dollar. After having raised $8, the security guards arrived and told him to stop. With the $8 in his pocket he searched for, found, and bought a long sleeve shirt off the sale rack--and made it on time to the interview.

With his tattoos covered, he went through with a very successful meeting, duly impressing the store manager: he begins work on May 16th.

Alone.

-Todd Madigan

A Ray of Hope

2009-05-08T09:22:00.000-07:00

Like everyone else, Ray leaves the shelter at 5:30 each morning; but unlike many of the other residents, at that hour he has some place he needs to be.

Ray—although not a young man—rides his bike for 45 minutes to get to work, arriving nearly an hour before the start of his shift, “just to make sure I’m never late.” Once inside, he scours the restrooms, cleans the floors, and after the doors open, spends the rest of the morning washing dishes. Beaming, he tells me, “I do a good job, and the owner likes me.”

I have watched Ray struggle over the past ten months. I saw him panhandle enough money to buy a used bike so he could get around. I saw him come to Sacred Heart for clothing in order to look presentable, at first having used a bungee cord for a belt. I followed his small, hard-won successes as he obtained his birth certificate from the County Office of Records, then his California ID, then his social security card. He then created a resume, got his driver’s license, and after a string of rejections, finally gained part-time employment.

His discipline and determination had paid off.

But his job at the restaurant is minimum wage, and after six months he hasn’t found so much as a room for rent that he can afford.

After all of his efforts at carving out some sort of humane existence, he came to me the other day and told me, “Todd, I think it’s better that I take my savings and buy a car to sleep in.”

Now I watched his hope for a normal life slipping away.

I wanted to tell him all the reasons why this was a terrible idea, why it would make it harder to maintain his employment, why it was a waste of his resources, why it was a move away from stability, why he just needed to keep at it … but I wasn’t the one living in the shelter. So I said nothing.

“I’m getting old,” he said.

eating garbage

2009-05-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

It is difficult for me, living in downtown San Jose as I do, to go for more than a day or two without seeing a neighbor rummaging through garbage in his search for food. It seems so clearly unacceptable that our community should permit the sort of poverty that would lead to this desperation, yet there it is, out in the open. The very act should be a rebuke, but a rebuke to whom?

For most of us, on the occasion we witness this loathsome act, there is an accompanying pang of something--maybe sympathy, maybe guilt, maybe disgust--but then it is gone. What we almost never do is hear the voice of the person who is doing the scavenging. Here is a fragment of that voice, the voice of Lars Eighner from his 1993 book "Travels with Lizbeth":

"At first the new scavenger is filled with disgust and self-loathing. He is ashamed of being seen and may lurk around, trying to duck behind things, or he may try to dive at night.... Every grain of rice seems to be a maggot. Everything seems to stink. He can wipe the egg yolk of the found can, but he cannot erase from his mind the stigma of eating garbage. That stage passes with experience."

It is difficult to decide which is the more disturbing portion of this excerpt--the repellent description and indignity of dumpster-diving, or the desensitization to it that eventually comes.

when I pass this

2009-05-04T10:47:00.001-07:00

This is what I pass on my way to work each morning. A walk with leaves and branches and sometimes warm, dark air, and this is what I pass each day. How am I supposed to feel about this? How am I supposed to feel when I pass this?

A woman with food on her face--a refugee from Russia, I think--made a foolish little book in which she wrote, "Perhaps my tears make the desert bloom, although I don't perceive it."

Yes, I am willing to consider that perhaps they do. Perhaps her tears really do make the desert bloom. But what, then, blooms when this weeps?

-Todd Madigan

2009-02-11T23:03:00.000-08:00

Love the poor that through them you may find mercy.

- St. Isaac of Nineveh c.700A.D.