Homelessness in America

I remember Grandma and Grandpa talking about tent cities during the Great Depression. Some cities and towns allowed people to live in tents or makeshift shelters in specified areas outside the city limits and some didn't. Some people who still had jobs and homes sympathized with the unfortunate souls who didn't. Others viewed tent cities and the people living in them as eyesores and nuisances. Grandpa often said, "Until you reach that awful place in life, you can't understand their situation." Decades after the Depression had ended, my grandparents remembered with sorrow and compassion the people cast adrift with nowhere to go because of lost jobs and homes.

Tent cities are once again springing up across America. Some cities make Social Service employees available to the residents of tent cities in hopes of finding job placements or providing basic needs like food and clothing. Some cities provide porta potties for tent city residents. Others cross their fingers and hope the mess goes away.

The visions of these tent cities frighten me, as it did my grandparents seven decades ago. They were always one step away from homelessness. Grandpa held onto his low income jobs and some sort of rent house by the skin of his teeth in a time when almost everyone was poor. He and Grandma both knew that illness or injury and lost wages would throw their family into the streets. He empathized. My husband and I are retirees living on a fixed income. We still have a house payment. The price of everything we buy is sky high. I often joke that if something happens and we can't pay our bills, we'll be living in a tent down by the river.

Today, that's only half a joke. There, to a tent city, except for the grace of God, we go.

1979, the height of my glory days. I had a well-paying nursing management position. The meeting in Kansas City, Missouri had been helpful and informative, the hob knobbing with other professionals interesting and fun. I had a new hairdo, new clothes, new shoes, and plenty of moola in my purse -- the very picture of the YUPPIE professional I had groomed myself to be.

I piloted my new car across the bridge between Missouri and Kansas at Kansas City. Harsh winds blew sleet across the roadway that bitterly cold November night. I concentrated on the road, concerned about black ice, and watched the traffic zooming on either side of me. Fires flickering on both sides of the river distracted me. What could they be? In my ignorance and bliss, I decided they were watch fires, beacons for boats and barges on the river, bank markers.

I arrived safely at my aunt's house in KCK to spend the weekend visiting with family. When I mentioned the fires along the river, she shook her head. "NO, Those weren't beacons, they were homeless fires. The homeless people use them to keep warm and sometimes cook a warm meal."

People? Camped along the river? In a sleet storm? Living along the river in this kind of weather? That thought sickened me to the point I could hardly eat the supper my aunt had fixed. My cousin was a social worker and divinity student. Her experiences with the KC homeless population were heart breaking. She gave me a chilling crash course on homelessness in the greater KC area, and in America.

That cold night changed my heart forever. 27 years have passed and the memory of those fires along the river still breaks my heart.

photo courtesy of fotosearch.com

After returning home from Kansas City, the thought of homeless people haunted me. What little I knew about homelessness in America was fueled by ignorance, myth and supposition. I supposed most homeless people were mentally ill, alcoholics, drug addicts, broken veterans of war, and dropouts from society. My husband and I decided to visit the homeless shelter nearest our home in northern Kansas, just to see the situation first hand.

We'd seen the ads on TV about People's City Mission in Lincoln NE. We knew the mission needed warm winter clothing, donations to the Mission Christmas store, and food donations for Christmas dinner at the Mission. The Mission proper was clean and attractive, built by the people of Lincoln to serve the growing homeless population. We visited the Christmas gift store, where homeless people could choose gifts to give their family or friends. My macho husband cried right along with me as we looked at the empty tables.

A couple in their mid-30s fingered a few sheets and pillow cases. The man looked grim and patted his wife's back as she cried. She said, "We can't give the kids white sheets and pillow cases for Christmas." We struck up a conversation with the couple and discovered the man had lost his mid-income job. He immediately found two part time, minimum wage jobs, but neither provided enough income to replace what he had been earning. Over several months, they lost everything. Both now worked part time jobs but couldn't earn enough to pay a rental deposit, plus they were still paying off debts from their life before becoming homeless.The Mission staff was working with them to find rental placement. Meanwhile, it was Christmas, and shopping for presents was a luxury they couldn't hack.

Our trip home was silent as we thought about that couple and their children. My husband said one thing as we drove home, "Did you see the look in that man's eyes? I can't live with myself if we don't do at least SOME little thing to help these people." I called the Mission when we got home and asked how many of their residents were children and families. Their answer: roughly a third were children and 50% to 60% were families.

That day, a still-formless plan sparked in my mind. I told my husband, "OK, we'll start with today and see what we can do."

We saw a news story about a church preparing shoeboxes for homeless people in another country and thought that was a manageable project for us. We borrowed that idea.

We emptied every shoebox in our closet and begged friends for their shoeboxes.
Hubby wrapped the shoeboxes with gift wrap and whenever our finances allowed, we bought items to fill the boxes: warm gloves, stocking hats, socks, toothbrushes, tooth paste, soap, and mini bottles of shampoo were staples in each box; disposible razors and after shave for men; lotion, cologne, hair spray for women: (most of the women worked at least one part time job and wanted their hair to look nice) small toys, books, pencils, crayons, notebooks for children.

When we'd filled the shoeboxes, we delivered them to the mission. At Christmas we made sure the homeless gift store had shoeboxes wrapped in seasonal paper.

This was a small gesture that made us both feel better when nights were cold and we knew for every person safe in the shelter there were many more hunkered down outside somewhere.

I saw him every day, riding his bicycle around the little town where we once lived. Some days he had his dog perched on a carrier behind him, and other days he was alone. In winter he was warmly bundled up with heavy coat, stocking hat and gloves. In summer he wore shorts and a tee shirt.

Information about him was scant, but I finally learned this much info:
he was a veteran who migrated to a small town to avoid the sort of violence homeless people often face on the streets;
he did not drink alcohol or do drugs;
he would do odd jobs, mostly hard labor work, to earn a few bucks but would NOT take handouts;
he was allowed to live in a somewhat rundown city-owned property in exchange for labor;
those who had contact with him thought he might have post traumatic stress syndrome because he was withdrawn, quiet, and rarely spoke.

He'd evidently found a way to be semi-self-sufficient in an overwhelming world by relocating to a tiny rural community. He functioned well there. For all I know he still lives there. We moved so I lost track of him.

We can't give big, but we give.

So many, many families are one or two paychecks away from losing everything and being homeless in America. Most suffer their fears silently and struggle through as best they can.

Locally, a couple worthy projects are favorites of mine. They may not directly benefit the homeless, but do help people fighting to avoid life on the streets.

1. School supplies, socks, shoes, and gloves are purchased and donated to the local schools for students who need them. The teachers oversee this stash of extra supplies and hand them out as needed, without identifying the recipients to others. I'm pleased to be a part of that project in honor of my mother. She struggled and pinched pennies to buy school supplies for her four children on tiny wages. The economy always hits hardest the working poor among us.

2. One day a week, a local church serves "Dinner for a Dime." Granted, most of the people living in this rural area would rather starve than admit to anyone that they can't afford to eat. But they go, they get a nourishing hot meal, and most give more than a dime for their supper.