Topic: Homelessness
A Look Inside
There was a rather interesting discussion I participated in recently on what causes a person to end up homeless. I'd like to share a little (true) story with you.
*****
Their eyes were always the same--part fear, part self-righteousness. Which one caused them to veer widely around him as he walked is undeterminable-- it really didn't matter. He passed them-- screaming curses at some unseen enemy of long ago and their eyes took in the wild-looking hair, uncut and uncombed, flying in every direction as he shook his head violently in anger at the unheard words that danced underneath. Their upturned noses wrinkled with the ripe stench of his unwashed body. Carefully avoiding his eyes, not daring to risk him turning his rage upon them, they glanced disapprovingly at his clothes--stiff with weeks of grime from who-knew-where. It really didn't matter--not to them. Too quick for anyone to stop him, a tiny, dark-haired figure stepped quickly in front of the stranger. Tiny hands on hips, he looked up at the man in front of him and said with the most forceful voice he could muster, "You shouldn't say those bad words!!" Time seemed to stop. The man and child stood looking at each other silently--then, with one motion, smiles spread across both faces. Taking the child's hand, the mother led the boy away. The man continued on his path, for the moment his rage silenced. Looking back over his tiny shoulder, the child asked, "Mommy, did you see his pretty, brown eyes?"
*****
This is a true story. The man I wrote this about had a name, Robert. He had a birthday--March 9--he had a mother, a father and three sisters. His eyes were brown, his hair brown with hints of gray. The corners of his eyes crinkled with laugh lines, lines that belied his situation. It was warm the day he was born. How do I know this? I talked with Robert.
Robert had schizophrenia. He wandered the streets, fighting and arguing with the voices that raged inside him, but not always. There were days when the demons left him in peace. Those days he would sit and talk--and sometimes smile.
He didn't have a home, not when I knew him. He never begged, I don't think I ever saw him ask anyone for change or even a cigarette. I never smelled booze on him--he didn't "hang out" with anyone. Robert very seldom slept at the homeless shelter. He knew space was limited and didn't want to take a cot someone else could use. Robert was a compassionate man.
One night, exactly a week after his 47th birthday, Robert showed up at the local shelter. The regulars knew something was up. He took a shower and accepted a clean set of clothing--unusual for him. He then sat on the edge of a cot, where he left this world.
Three days later, Robert's body finally left the morgue, claimed by a local nun. Nobody claimed to know him--yet a sister lived not three blocks from the shelter. Two other lived in the same state. Roberts parents were both gone.
*****
So many see the homeless as drunks and drug addicts, beggars who are too lazy to work. What people don't understand is that many more are like Robert, intelligent and kind-hearted people. These are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. They have families, most of them--families that for one reason or another have turned their backs.
The next time you see a homeless person. Stop and talk--you may understand that this person could be your best friend, your brother or sister. This person could be your child--this person was somebody's child. Someone, somewhere once loved this person.
Robert had a name--and beautiful brown eyes.
*****
Their eyes were always the same--part fear, part self-righteousness. Which one caused them to veer widely around him as he walked is undeterminable-- it really didn't matter. He passed them-- screaming curses at some unseen enemy of long ago and their eyes took in the wild-looking hair, uncut and uncombed, flying in every direction as he shook his head violently in anger at the unheard words that danced underneath. Their upturned noses wrinkled with the ripe stench of his unwashed body. Carefully avoiding his eyes, not daring to risk him turning his rage upon them, they glanced disapprovingly at his clothes--stiff with weeks of grime from who-knew-where. It really didn't matter--not to them. Too quick for anyone to stop him, a tiny, dark-haired figure stepped quickly in front of the stranger. Tiny hands on hips, he looked up at the man in front of him and said with the most forceful voice he could muster, "You shouldn't say those bad words!!" Time seemed to stop. The man and child stood looking at each other silently--then, with one motion, smiles spread across both faces. Taking the child's hand, the mother led the boy away. The man continued on his path, for the moment his rage silenced. Looking back over his tiny shoulder, the child asked, "Mommy, did you see his pretty, brown eyes?"
*****
This is a true story. The man I wrote this about had a name, Robert. He had a birthday--March 9--he had a mother, a father and three sisters. His eyes were brown, his hair brown with hints of gray. The corners of his eyes crinkled with laugh lines, lines that belied his situation. It was warm the day he was born. How do I know this? I talked with Robert.
Robert had schizophrenia. He wandered the streets, fighting and arguing with the voices that raged inside him, but not always. There were days when the demons left him in peace. Those days he would sit and talk--and sometimes smile.
He didn't have a home, not when I knew him. He never begged, I don't think I ever saw him ask anyone for change or even a cigarette. I never smelled booze on him--he didn't "hang out" with anyone. Robert very seldom slept at the homeless shelter. He knew space was limited and didn't want to take a cot someone else could use. Robert was a compassionate man.
One night, exactly a week after his 47th birthday, Robert showed up at the local shelter. The regulars knew something was up. He took a shower and accepted a clean set of clothing--unusual for him. He then sat on the edge of a cot, where he left this world.
Three days later, Robert's body finally left the morgue, claimed by a local nun. Nobody claimed to know him--yet a sister lived not three blocks from the shelter. Two other lived in the same state. Roberts parents were both gone.
*****
So many see the homeless as drunks and drug addicts, beggars who are too lazy to work. What people don't understand is that many more are like Robert, intelligent and kind-hearted people. These are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. They have families, most of them--families that for one reason or another have turned their backs.
The next time you see a homeless person. Stop and talk--you may understand that this person could be your best friend, your brother or sister. This person could be your child--this person was somebody's child. Someone, somewhere once loved this person.
Robert had a name--and beautiful brown eyes.
Posted by wings4help
at 4:56 PM EST
Updated: Wednesday, 17 January 2007 5:09 PM EST
