Learning to be again

Moving out of the shelter for the first time in three months was a bit of a daunting proposition. In a way, it was something like being released from prison: I had re-learn how to socialize with people who weren’t homeless. Despite not wanting to acclimate to the homeless life, I’d realized early on that there were a series of unspoken rules that I’d have to learn if I expected to make it out the other side unscathed. And now, preparing to move out, I knew I’d have to unlearn all the things the shelter had taught me.

Among other things, I’d have to learn how to tell stories again. I’ve always considered myself to be part of the grand Southern tradition of story-telling, and it hamstrung me a little to tell stories to my new work friends. I still hadn’t “come out” (as homeless) to most of them, so any funny story I told had to be censored to prevent revealing too much. Additionally, any question about my residential circumstances was met with creative truthiness.

Coworker:  So how many roommates do you have?

Me: Oh, there’s a bunch of us (technically true).

I got my first lesson in re-socializing the night of a coworker’s 21st birthday. Ally was a gentle, sensitive spirit, with frequently-changing hair color and an infectious laugh. Despite being a bit flighty, she was one of my favorite work buddies, and I was looking forward to having the chance to celebrate her birthday with her. This was a month after I’d moved out of the shelter, and I’d settled into something of a routine in regards to work/home. But socializing was still new to me.  Going out was something I was still apprehensive about doing again. I trusted myself with the alcohol and late hours, but I’d become accustomed to being alone, and was worried I’d forgotten how to interact with others.

The night of Ally’s birthday we met up at Upper Level, a bar-slash-arcade popular with the hipster set. I wasn’t exactly a hipster, but video games and beer seemed like a great way to spend an evening, and Upper Level had already become one of my favorite places to hang out. For an hour we played video games, and her boyfriend and I took turns buying the birthday girl shots. As the laughs and fun progressed, I could feel my anxiety dissipating. It wasn’t until we went outside to smoke that things took a turn. We were outside having a grand time when a homeless guy wandered past. As he passed our group, he and I made eye contact and we recognized each other. Our acquaintanceship had been cordial enough, so I spoke to him. As he passed closer, he extended his hand in a fist bump, a common greeting in the shelter. Seeing us interact, the group waited until he’d passed, then the jokes began to fly.

“He really likes you, Trey. I wonder if he’s saving room for you in his cardboard box behind the Quickee Mart…”

“Nah, he was only flirting with Trey because Trey’s the only other Black guy on the sidewalk. More likely to get money from him than us…”

“Aww yeah. Homeless romance. The good news is you don’t have to worry about him blowing up your phone because he doesn’t have one. The bad news is if you invite him over, he’ll never want to leave…”

Finally Ally asked me how I knew him. Between the alcohol, and my burning anger, the truth came tumbling out.

“When I lived at the homeless shelter, he was always nice to me.” Instantly the group got quiet. A couple of them seemed to be waiting for a punchline, but when I took a drag on my cigarette and remained silent, they realized their mistake. Someone murmured, “Sorry dude. Didn’t know.” But no one had the courage to really speak up. I can’t say I’d have done any differently were I in their shoes.

Needless to say, that rather killed the mood of the group. One by one, they drifted off until it was just Ally and me. We leaned against the building across the street from the underground club we’d stumbled out of. The night air felt cool on my forehead as we smoked cigarettes and tried to avoid talking about the obvious topic of both our thoughts. Finally she turned to me and spoke, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I didn’t want anyone to think of me as ‘The Homeless Guy.’”

“You know I wouldn’t have thought of you that way…” she replied.

“I know, but it was still hard to admit that I’d let my life get that far out of control.”

It was the first time I’d admitted to anyone (including myself) that was the truth behind my reticence to share my ordeal. As my life had spiraled further and further out of control, it became increasingly harder for me to reach out to anyone. Finally, I felt so alone that it seemed pointless to even try connecting with others.

My friendship with Ally meant the world to me. She was just the kind of gentle spirit I needed in my life. She was so young that she was experiencing for the first time things that I was learning to do again: manage time, balancing work and social life, etc. In a way, it was like we were learning how to “adult” together.

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.

"My pride fell with my fortunes" - Shakespeare

One day at work I was talking to a coworker when he mentioned having seen me walking with two friends downtown. I didn't have a car, and I lived and worked downtown, so seeing me walking downtown wasn't all that extraordinary. But when he mentioned we were walking past Oak City Outreach, I understood what he meant and got a little nervous. The day before, Kindred and I had run into Calm Down Phil, and together  we'd walked to OCO to see about getting some free toiletries and snacks. Apparently we were deep in conversation and I didn't see my coworker when we passed him.

Being spotted like that made me nervous because I was trying to keep my residential status as low key as possible. While there's no particular shame in being "residentially challenged," there's no pride in it either. I've noticed that people tend to identify new members of a social group by the most easily identifiable trait. It was bad enough that half my friends knew me as "the gay one," I didn't want to be known among my new work friends as "the gay homeless one." I don't think I'd have been able to bear it.

Throughout my journeys in homelessness, I struggled mightily with my pride. When a photographer from the local paper appeared at the shelter to take pictures of the volunteers serving the homeless, I kept my head so low that I nearly got gravy on my nose. I once declined to join Kindred in line at the soup kitchen because my best friend was in town for the weekend, and I knew she was staying at a hotel a few blocks away. The thought of her driving past and seeing me in line robbed me of my appetite and produced a fit of anxiety that sent me scurrying back to the shelter for a lunch of peanut butter crackers and soda from the vending machine.

Deep down, I knew I'd have to set aside my pride in order to ask for the help I needed. Metaphors about squeaky wheels being greased reminded me that if I didn't share my misery with those closest to me, I'd be doomed to spend the rest of my life mired in it. But I just couldn't bear to admit to the people I loved how much of a trainwreck my life had become.

Kindred Spirit

One of the first real friends I made in the shelter was Kindred. I spotted him sitting across the cafeteria from me one afternoon and I noticed that we seemed to be staring at each other. Later I found out that we both thought the other looked familiar but neither of us could figure out where we’d met. On my part, I always thought it was because he looked like a funny character from a popular sitcom, but he hated the resemblance so I tried not to bring it up too often.

He was ten years younger than me, with an old soul and cynicism that made him seem closer to my age. We were both Black, but with his pecan brown skin and soft curly hair, he had a look that suggested a diverse ancestry. In fact, his hair was the first thing I noticed about him—I was insanely jealous of his hair. It was afro length, and bunched in loose twists. I just knew that if I tried the same look I’d resemble a frayed, dirty cotton swab, but he pulled it off with style.

Normally a guy like Kindred (good-looking, smart, sarcastic as hell) would have been my “type” but a couple of things prevented that. For one thing he was straight. While he was comfortable with having gay friends, he was totally into women and made no bones about it. Also, I wasn’t trying to be part of a homeless shelter romance. I’m not sure what that would have looked like, but I wasn’t trying to go down that road. I’ve seen people (of all different orientations) engage in amour sans-abri (“homeless love”), but I wanted to fix my own life before affixing it to anyone else’s.  

We would hang out whenever we had free time, working on our respective writing projects. Jointly we came up with ideas for a graphic novel about a moon man and a perpetually stoned koala bear. In a way, the insane adventures of Milton The Moon Man and Kairo the Koala kept us sane. We’d share inside jokes about others in the shelter, exchanging knowing looks every time Calm Down Phil would bounce into the room. I think we both thought of ourselves as different from everyone else. Not necessarily better (at least not most of the time) just apart. We both readily admitted that we weren’t “about that life.” Kindred was one of the few people I could see myself socializing with once we’d left the shelter. In a lot of ways, he was my lifeline; he was my connection to the creative side of myself that I’d been afraid was dying in the shelter environment.