The Disconnect: An inquiry into the crisis known as homeless

by Lazarus23

“Volusia teens accused of killing homeless man for fun. No previous violent arrests for accused killer of homeless man. Boy, 10, found guilty of beating homeless man. Homeless woman drowns in retention pond. The Hollywood hospital that drew U.S. attention for dumping a homeless man on a rundown street while he wore a soiled hospital gown with a colostomy bag still attached says it will change its ways. Activist arrested while feeding homeless people in Orlando.” This was a chronic constant in the local news during my three years in northern Florida. It serves as a reminder that we become desensitized to everything that’s televised. I wanted to be relevant. I wanted to make social change. If only…if only.

I was reared to be a child prodigy at the North Carolina School of the Arts in the field of contemporary dance. After which, I enjoyed a fruitful, albeit short, professional career in New York and Western Europe. I received my B.A. in Psychology with a 4.0 in my major. During that time, I conducted research on substance abuse and creative personalities. I, also, did my Master’s coursework in Exercise Physiology and received a 4.0, as well. I am the son of an influential medical examiner and former cancer researcher. I have been published and produced on stage and on page. I am also now homeless.

I arrived in Portland, Maine, on a blustery day in late April. I was taking a leap of faith, prompted by my sponsor from a 12 step program, of which I had been active in for about a year. I had been in Florida for three years upon the completion of my graduate coursework, whereas I had relinquished a place in the Peace Corps and a PhD program to come home. However, the job and housing market had left me bruised and embattled with a very bad taste in my mouth. The exodus to Maine was a welcome relief. I was simply in search of employment that made me enjoy getting out of bed in the morning and an affordable roof over my head.

With approximately six hundred dollars in my pocket, I touched down at the jetport. I was eager to pound the pavement and was attired in my best Gucci boots to be bedecked for the occasion, a point that would soon appear moot. My sponsor picked me up, and we retreated to Dogfish café’ for some sweet potato fries and chicken quesadillas. She ordered a Guinness. It was high noon. This was the first time I had ever seen her with a drink in her hand. I excused myself for a cigarette outside, which the back-bay wind helped me nervously smoke. I had a funny feeling running neck to navel. Welcome to Maine.

The two days that ensued were rigorous and unrelenting. When all was said and done, approximately 14 rentals had been called or visited. They all were occupied, dilapidated, or unlivable. I than began visiting the local hotels in search of weekly rentals. I could not stay with my sponsor, for she had two other women in the household. The situation was looking dire. I’ve always known about the path to hell being paved with good intentions. Good. Better. Best. Busted. I paid for one week at the Econolodge at the Maine Mall feeling part looker, part hooker.

I had enjoyed ten of the past eleven months sober. By day four in Maine and the situation at hand, my constitution began to show wear. It was a Saturday. I was cold. I was alone. The Color Purple was on the telly. I had quit taking my Bipolar and Blood Pressure medications. It was a recipe for relapse. I drank box wine and ate finger food from the Hannaford for the next five days. I had secured a job at a major art gallery. However, art consulting was somehow secondary to looking cute and cooing. My long eyelashes just weren’t reeling in big paydays. I reached for my wallet. 120 dollars left. I tip-toed out of the frying pan and shimmied in the fryer. My situation was beyond bleak.

I attempted to get my ex-boyfriend to send me a ticket home to WV, my alma mater. He promised me he did. I paid one last night in another hotel in an attempt to drink my relapse sober. I headed for the bus depot with three dollars in my pocket the next afternoon. There wasn’t a ticket waiting. I heard the voice of someone’s grandmother whisper in my ear, “revenge can be so sweet.” Luckily, the woman at the ticket counter was from my 12 step program. She told me to keep praying, keep coming back. She gave me a phone card, paid for my cab, and sent me to Oxford Street shelter. I had never been homeless before in my life. The games had just begun, and I was unsure I wanted to play. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

We live in an individualistic society. This is part and parcel of our culture. Collective life and social responsibility are secondary to manifest destiny and rugged self-determinism. America appears to only come together with a united front in the event of a natural disaster or national catastrophe. Otherwise, we generally can’t be bothered. If we look at 9/11 or the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, we can see this paradigm come into play. The nation came together in mind, body, and spirit following these events through rallies, fundraisers, PSAs, and the like. However, slowly but surely, we “disconnected” and returned to our MyPod lifestyles. We plug in to tune out. It is like the Venn diagrams from high school Geometry with us vs. them. Anything not US are somehow deemed secondary, if not irrelevant. This is exactly what has happened to the homeless population in this country, marginalized and tossed like litter on the side of the street. Beauty by mistake. Left behind.

Americans love labels. On their ass. On their vehicles. On their homes. And, yes, on their people. In recent months, we have seen a bitter outpouring of America’s love of labels in the media. Kramer and his N bomb. Mel Gibson and his J bombs. Ann Coulter and Isaiah Washington and their F bombs. However, we rarely hear of H bombs. H=homeless. That is because many consider those persons outside of the parameters of their understanding or concern. Just like litter. Most don’t give a hoot. Most pollute. The homeless are just a byproduct. Cans unworthy of being collected.

The soccer moms and bleeding heart democrats are doing their part to reduce their carbon footprint and ameliorate their social conscience. They recycle. They only take the SUV out on weekends. They buy from Whole Foods organic. They give their 15% offertory on Sunday. Is this enough or is this just convenient? Passing on Lower Exchange recently, I overheard a store owner say she left bags of cans out for the “little homeless people.” May I serve as a reminder that enough is never enough, for your friends, your artists, your veterans, your uninsured, your local farmers, your homeless are dying.

Sometimes I imagine myself as a pre-conceived soul. I go before God with four wishes of characteristics that will define my person. “Are you there, God? It is me, Troy. I will be gay. Sounds good. Don’t mind the bigotry. I will be alcoholic. Don’t mind the debilitation. I will be bi-polar. Don’t mind the social stigma. And I will be homeless. Don’t mind if I do…”

Homelessness, by and large and contrary to popular belief, is not a choice. It is a multi-faceted population, as any, with persons from all walks of life. Some are career alcoholics and/or addicts. Some are mentally ill. Some have grown accustomed to the way of life and lack the skills, directives, and confidence to transition to independent living. Some are refugees from other states and countries. Some are merely caught in the cross-hairs of a situation gone amok. The only population that appears to choose homelessness as a lifestyle is a cross-section of youth and the occasional drug dealer using a shelter to mask an operation. This, too, may not be entirely of choice since they are living in a post-9/11 world with no healthcare. They fail to see the future, for it is much easier to drink two bottles of Nyquil with an Oxycontin to boot. It may not be my world, but I empathize with their nihilism.

While it would be easy to run a journal of my experience of being homeless, I somehow think it would belie the truth. The one thing that stands out as constant is the quality of interactions, the depth of the bonds, the paramount importance of communication, and the relationships that are forged with something akin to love. I felt like a king on a level playing field with wayward men in my own private Sparta.

1. I spend my days with Al. He is a Bobby Deniro type biker from Georgia. We take our coffee in Monument Square. I'm introduced to people as his son. We speak of what it means to be hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. I ensure he eats because of his diabetes and slow my pace because of the stints in his heart. He waits religiously for me in a chosen spot for our luncheons at Saint Vincent de Paul. He won’t eat until I arrive. He speaks at length of his S.S.I. check and how he wants to buy a car and go home. He tells me where he wants to be buried. These are secrets that only I know. He knows I won't tell. He rolls me cigarettes with precision and watches my back for predators and birds of prey. He tells me my grandfather was a great man and a boy will always make amends with his best friend, his mother. What is this? This is...love.

2. I spend my evenings with Arturo. He is a Mexican that immigrated to Phoenix, AZ as a child with his family in search of a better life. He became stranded in the north because his colleague stole all of his money and left him riddled, tied-tongue, twisted, and broke. He has Latino pride, but he is afraid. I try to assuage this with laughter as he invites me to a cherry cola. We take our coffees in side cafes. He becomes unnerved because of his humble clothing. I make him stand tall as we sit in the window. This is his table. This is his town. This is his country. This is my friend. We take long promenades running the length of this city, laughing as we trip over cobble and flag stones. We slow out pace as we approach the port. He fears he will never get to his mother country of Spain. He fears his teeth aren't sharp enough. He fears forty five is more than just a number. He tells me of his vast admiration of my fights against social injustice, my talents, and my integrity. "Imagine how the world could be if there were more people like you, Troy?" He tells me he will never forget me. What is this? This is...love.

3. William Wayne is a homeless man from Baltimore. He spoke of an interesting anecdote. A clergyman once told him he had a deeper understanding of the homeless since he had spent an afternoon with them. William Wayne said "Bullshit- if you want to understand the homeless, I know what you should do. The next time you get a week’s vacation for work, pack up your family, and move into the shelter. You have to leave your credit cards, cash, checkbook, and all belongings behind. You will check into the shelter as scheduled. You will check out as scheduled. You will take all of your meals in the soup kitchen. You will have no contact with friends and family. Then, perhaps, you may have some insight into the life of a homeless person." Years later William Wayne saw him, and the man had actually done just so. The most disheartening aspect to the man was that he was actually shunned by friends, family, and others in the community. William Wayne says "if all is as it was in the scriptures, there would be no such thing as homeless." This is…love.

I have been homeless for almost a month now. I have gone through the appropriate channels to return to the world I left or have I? I left Portland, ME, because I realized it was too soon in my sobriety to attempt major life changes such as locale. I was also becoming deeply obsessed and immersed in homeless culture. I suppose in some sick way it was easier for me to be actually homeless with an embedded journalist mentality. I returned to my 12 step program, as did my sponsor. I sought the appropriate medical help for counseling and to ensure my medication was regulated. I returned to the city of my alma mater, for those streets are familiar beneath my feet. I find solace in books and quills at the university campus. I am near my family and should be back to my own apartment by August. However, there is some strange part of me that is wistful and almost melancholy, for this chapter of my life is coming to a close. I haven’t felt so alive, essential, and riveted in over ten years. I found when I was homeless, I was actually home more. Being homeless somehow gave me roots as I grew down. Being homeless somehow gave me a foundation as I grew up.

I am fortunate. I am educated. I understand the process of tapping into resources, pushing paperwork, and following up with phone calls. Many of the homeless do not. It is not a lack of volition on their part to transition back to independent living. Some are gripped by fear and lack of confidence. Some are simply exhausted, broken down, and have resided themselves to the lifestyle. Some have immense pride and do not want anyone to know they can’t read and/or write. Two paychecks are all it takes. When you’ve been a saint, there is nowhere to go but down.

One thing I learned from the homeless persons I have met is gratitude. I have dined with doctors, lawyers, politicians, and celebrities at various times in my life. Often times, they have the manners and poise of swine. Have you seen the little Piggies rolling in the dirt? Many homeless have such dignity. They hold their cutlery with precision and grace. They are quick with a thank you and are mindful of every service bestowed upon them. They hold doors, and they smile more than most. There is much grace in all that they do. Many carry themselves with a rogue-ish rhythm that rivals the best actors of screen and stage. Breaking bread with them has truly given my heart wings. I don’t think I will ever attend another V.I.P. cocktail party again. The fiction of it all is just harder to swallow than truth.

I began my interest in the homeless population while staying with my family in Saint Augustine, FL. I befriended numerous homeless persons and was always amazed how many of them were refugees that simply ended up stuck through no fault of their own. I came to know that there were 991 homeless persons in Saint John’s County at last census. 88% were unsheltered. 46% were H.I.V. positive. There is one shelter in the county which accommodates only 24 persons. I was at a loss for words. I still am. The county keeps creating ordinances to limit the actions and locales of the homeless. This is only exacerbating the problem. The city keeps saying they are advocates for the homeless and are in process of coming up with a solution. “A 51-year-old homeless woman died Thursday afternoon while swimming in a large retention pond behind Cobblestone on State Road 312” St. Johns County Sheriff's Office reports said. It is in everyone’s backyard. Literally. Last week, I was hit in the back of the head from behind with an ice missile from a moving vehicle. Not only am I homeless, I am now a blood sport. It could be you. It could be me. America is becoming more flagrant and less discreet with its heart of darkness.

I, for one, am tired of protected liberalism and well-meaning people with words. Action in this country is becoming more and more archaic, as we “disconnect” and go wireless in our own designs. Our world. Close at hand. Moving further and further away from simple truths. Hello. Hello. Hello. America? Your homeless are dying. Where are you now? Where are you now? Hello. Hello. Hello. YOUR CALL HAS BEEN DROPPED. UNAVAILABLE. ROAM.

DISCONNECT.