Inching my way out of the shelter

Meeting Mr. Brooks was the turning point on my journey out of homelessness. Shortly after being assigned a case manager with Volunteers of America, I was moved from the dorm I’d been staying in. I’d been in B dorm most of the time in the shelter, but after a brief meeting with my Veterans’ Group leader, John, I was moved to E dorm. E dorm was the homeless shelter equivalent of the “good neighborhood.” Whereas B dorm was a large bay-style dorm with no real privacy, E dorm’s major selling point was the modicum of privacy provided by the high cement partitions separating the bunks into pairs. In addition to the privacy, E dorm boasted outlets between each pair of bunks, meaning I only had to share the outlet next to my bed with one other man. Each pair of bunks was further separated by a pair of wooden dressers. With one dresser facing each bed, there was the pretense of having one’s own “room.” It wasn’t much, but after having spent two months sharing space with a few dozen other men, it felt like fucking Shangri-La.

I’d settled into a routine, living in the shelter and working at News of the World Café.  I’d become accustomed to living within the restrictions and requirements of residence in the South Wilmington Street Shelter. I planned my evenings so that I was back at the shelter in time to get in before curfew. As I started my approach to the shelter, I’d start rearranging my belongings, making sure to clear my pockets of change and loose debris that would slow down the inspection of my bag and person when I reentered. Moving into E dorm changed a lot more than I might have expected. The first thing I discovered was that they turned out the lights in E dorm. In the other dorms, there was always a light going. There was a light close to the entrance, and the lights in the bathroom were always burning brightly. A lot of guys had to cover their eyes with tee shirts or other homemade sleep masks. That wasn’t an issue in E dorm. Every night promptly at 9, they turned out the lights. All of the lights. On more than a few occasions, I wasn’t ready for lights-out and literally couldn’t see my surroundings well enough to get undressed for bed. One of my first E dorm purchases was a clip on light designed to be attached to the bill of a baseball cap.

The second thing I noticed was the increased freedom the residents of E dorm enjoyed. Since the dorm was reserved for those closest to moving out of the shelter, the staff gave them wide latitude. I’m sure it was because they figured anyone with their stuff together enough to live in E dorm probably wasn’t going to be too much of a problem. And for the most part, they were right.

The new sense of freedom motivated me even more. Being in the “good” part of the shelter was a tantalizing sample of what real life would be like once I’d moved out. At times, I would even forget that the shelter was what I was referring to when I’d slip and say something about “going home” after work. I never wanted to think of the shelter as home, and made it a point to avoid referring to it as such. I didn’t want to become one of the men for whom that was enough. I never wanted to look at it as my home because I never intended to spend that much time there. The steady paycheck from News of the World Café, as well as the help from VoA  assured me that I truly wouldn’t be spending a lot of time there.

After being approved for assistance by my VoA case manager, I started looking for a place to stay. Before even becoming homeless, I’d been considering finding a rooming house. I liked the idea of renting, and I wanted to live in a house with other people without necessarily having to be best friends with them. I can be a loner at times, and I know that I function best when I have the ability to withdraw and be alone for a while when needed. Also, rental prices in the downtown area when I wanted to live were astronomical, and a rooming house would be the only way I’d ever be able to afford to live as close to downtown as I wanted.

For a week, I looked at room after room in rental property after rental property. I was starting to feel like Goldilocks: this one was too big, that one too small; this one too expensive, that one too far from work. I was starting to fear that I’d never find anything that worked when I ran across an ad on an online classifieds page. They were asking for $375 a month for what was (very accurately) described as a small room in a subdivided house managed by a real estate agency. When I showed up to take a look at it, there was another prospective resident there to see a vacant room.

She was interested in one of the larger (read, “more expensive”) units, but we all toured the entire house together. The room I was interested in was so small that the three of us, the real estate agent, the other prospect, and I—couldn’t all fit into the room at the same time. There was a twin mattress on the floor and a three-legged chair propped precariously against the wall. The other prospect and I took turns looking around the dismal room with the dim lighting and poorly painted walls. I looked down at the stained and filthy orange carpeting, and I knew. This was going to be my home.

Angels On My Side

Knowing that I had people on my side played a big role in my ability to maintain any semblance of sanity. But because I didn’t feel comfortable “coming out” as homeless to a lot of people, the few that I shared my truth with became very important to me.

The first person from work that I told was my immediate manager, Sam. The café also did catering, so oftentimes I’d find myself working late at private events. The first New Years Eve Ball that I worked for them, I was scheduled until 4am. Thinking one hour would be enough wiggle room, I requested a late curfew at the shelter, telling them I’d be back by 5am. As the night wore on, it became obvious that there was no way we’d be getting out by our scheduled time. I panicked because had I missed curfew, there was the very real chance that I’d be kicked out of The Program and wouldn’t have a guaranteed place to sleep. As 4am approached, I went to Sam to tell him my problem. I tried to be offhand about it, not wanting to dwell on the subject of my own homelessness. He was shocked, but characteristically supportive. He couldn’t promise me that I’d be out in time to make curfew, but he assured me that if I couldn’t get into the shelter, I could come stay with him and his wife. I was touched that he would make that kind of offer, but I was still determined to make it back to the shelter in time. Fortunately I did, but the biggest thing that came out of that revelation was the feeling that someone knew what I was going through. I’d been worried that word would quickly spread and people would treat me differently, but Sam never broke my confidence. After that, it became easier to tell people from work about my circumstances. I wasn’t as afraid anymore of their judgment. I began to realize that, even though my homelessness was a result of my own poor decisions, it wasn’t the mark of shame I’d been fearing. The coworkers that I told, rather than viewing it as a sign of my own weakness, saw it as something difficult that I’d overcome, and they seemed to think more highly of me than ever.

“Coming out” to my work friends made it easier to reach out for help from other people. One such person turned out to be already connected to me. At the shelter, there are different groups for different types of homeless men. I was in the Veterans’ Group, which emphasized programs and benefits available to those who have served our country. During the weekly job-search meeting (it didn’t matter that I already had a job, I still had to comply with the requirements of The Program, and attending job meetings is one of them), John passed around a printed email listing jobs available to veterans. In the address line, I spotted a name that looked really familiar immediately. “Jason Wayne Brooks” had been cc’d on the email, and something about his name struck a chord with me. It took some thinking, but I finally remembered where I’d seen the name before: one of my best friends from high school, a girl named Marella, was married to a guy by the same name. Turns out it was the same Jason Wayne Brooks, and he indeed worked for a non-profit organization dedicated to helping vets who were either homeless or in danger of becoming homeless. They offered many different services, from job placement to work clothes. That last part particularly interested me, as I was due to start my new job at The News of the World Cafe, and didn’t have clothes that complied with their uniform requirements. Knowing I was scheduled to work my first day the following morning, Jason squeezed in an appointment with me where he presented me with the clothes I’d need to start working. I’d emailed him my size and the kind of clothes I’d need, and he’d gone out early that morning and gotten me what I needed. Looking at the Wal-Mart bag on the floor beside his desk, I almost teared up thinking of how blessed I was to know someone in the right place at the right time.

I wound up working with his organization, Volunteers of America, more extensively as I prepared to move out of the shelter. After qualifying for their rental assistance programs they helped pay my rent every month for the first five months I lived on my own. The amount they contributed changed each month, with them paying less each month, and me paying more. It was designed to give vets an opportunity to save money, while still having a roof over their head. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to properly express how grateful I am to Jason and the staff at VoA. Their advocacy on my behalf not only afforded me dignity and opportunity, but it gave me the strength to persevere when things got difficult. Because of my association with them, I had the confidence that my time in the shelter would be ending sooner rather than later.