0 Comments

Email to a friend

Printer-friendly

Add to myNUVO

Digg this

News
Challenge to YMCA, mayor
by Florence Roisman
Jul 24, 2002

News
Blueprint to end homelessness
by Summer Wood
Jun 18, 2003

News
Honored for their perseverance
by Ali Gray
Jun 9, 2004

News
Counting the homeless
by Nicholas Jaqua
Feb 16, 2005

Book Reviews
Struggle, survival, success
by Rita Kohn
Sep 6, 2006

Homeless at Christmas
by Joe Farah Jan 15, 2003

Exploring the homeless subculture in downtown Indy

Christmas in America holds deep symbolic meaning. For most Americans, it is steeped in nostalgia and myth, a time of reflection, generosity and meaningful family and social relationships. But for the poor and homeless, Christmas has always been a time of hardship, deprivation and acute awareness about not being able to participate in the national mythology that defines mainstream American life. The poor and the homeless exist in a subculture that most mainstream Americans never encounter. We are crude observers of this subculture, mainly because it has a language, a set of behavioral norms and social codes that are alien to the uninitiated. Dirty, unshaven, dressed in shabby clothes and carrying my own plastic bag, I recently tried to penetrate this subculture in order to try to better understand the nebulous world of the poor and homeless in Indianapolis. Dec. 18, 2002 My journey begins at Wheeler Mission in downtown Indianapolis on Wednesday afternoon, Dec. 18 at the height of the Christmas holiday season. Intended as a "reconnaissance," my first visit to the mission was simply to see inside a building I"ve driven past a thousand times. In the past, I would try to ignore the small queue of downtrodden men that always seemed to loiter at the mission"s entrance. These are the faceless poor, the people we want to pass as quickly as possible or, when we encounter them on the street, avoid making eye contact with. The poor and homeless are the personification of America"s "caste system," an unspoken reminder of the failure of our social and economic system. At the entrance to the Wheeler Mission is a glass-enclosed entry station where everyone seeking shelter has to register. It is a sunny 40 degrees out and a sign taped to the entrance glass states, "This is not a winter night" - meaning it is not so cold out that the mission has to accept everyone who may be seeking a place to sleep in its dormitory. Once inside the mission, it is clear that the hub is the Dayroom, a large, cement block room painted with orange-tan and beige paint, with cheap chairs, a few game tables and a large screen TV. At one end of the Dayroom, facing west, is a short, plastic Christmas tree. A large glass wall with three, arched window panes frames Delaware Street. The steady flow of late afternoon traffic heading north goes unnoticed by the 50 or so men "hanging out" at the mission. In my disguise, I take a seat along the south wall and feign a tired appearance, watching the steady stream of humanity that ebbs and flows from the Dayroom. Men with obvious physical handicaps and health problems are common. Some have aluminum crutches, a few are using walkers and a couple are in wheelchairs. One man, who I would later discover is an Air Force veteran, is walking very slowly with a walker, his left foot heavily bandaged. In a later conversation on Christmas Day, he would tell me he was a diabetic and had to have two toes surgically removed at Wishard Hospital because of poor circulation. His remaining, bandaged toes were partially exposed and had a gray pallor that didn"t look promising. About half the men at the Wheeler Mission are veterans. There are a few who look old enough to be World War II or Korean War vets. But most of the others are aging Vietnam-era veterans. In the mission, there is a law of territoriality. You don"t get into another man"s space, and you don"t ask a lot of personal questions. It"s difficult to get these men to open up beyond a simple greeting. After about an hour, I leave, but not before finding out where I could connect with many of these men again. Dec. 20, 2002 On Friday, Dec. 20, the Indianapolis Homeless Veterans held their annual Stand Down Christmas Dinner at the Tyndell National Guard Armory on Pennsylvania Avenue. "Stand down" is a military term either for when a solider or his unit is taken "off the line," off of alert status or replaced in a military formation. The term can have a negative connotation, depending on the context. This annual stand down event is designed to reach out to needy and homeless veterans by providing them with a Christmas meal and a few other holiday amenities that they would not otherwise receive. The Indianapolis office of the Veterans Administration has a special VA Homeless Team that coordinates the program and several social service and health agencies are on hand to provide everything from education and job assistance to eye examinations and blood testing. Many other local volunteer organizations with programs for the homeless are here to help as well. When I enter the armory, in the same costume as before, I am greeted by one of several volunteers at a registration table. She asks me if I"m a veteran. When I truthfully tell her "yes," she asks for my last name and the last four numbers of my social security number. No further identification is required and as I move forward she says kindly, "Thank you for serving our country." To my surprise, there are at least 600 people in the armory gym. A really good jazz band plays Christmas carols interspersed with jazz classics. Several young children are sitting nearby on the floor paying rapt attention to the musicians. I"m surprised to see so many women and young children present. Many of the children are obese - because of poor health care and poor diet and eating habits. Many of the women also look like they are the products of a lifetime of inadequate health care. All have a haggard and desperate look, bad teeth and poor skin, and in overhearing their conversations, it"s clear they don"t have much education. Part of the program that afternoon is the Marine Corps Toys for Tots program where handsome, spit-shined Marines in their tailored, dress blue uniforms help Santa Claus give out a toy to each of the children. Something inside me says, "Forget the toys, give these kids some good health and dental care instead. Help some of these women keep their families together." But for many of us, today"s meal might be the high point of the holiday season. I go through the food line where a meal of overcooked, tasteless ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls and cake is served on a black plastic plate, along with a can of Coca-Cola. I sit down at one of the long tables hoping to engage in conversation with some of the veterans and hear their stories. It doesn"t happen. We merely sit there quietly and eat. It"s as if everyone there is trying to cling onto some hidden thread of dignity, or remember some fond memory of happier times. Some consume everything on their plate with such gusto that you know they haven"t eaten anything substantial for some time. Others just poke at their food and find it to their disliking. Where is it written that the poor have to happily accept and like everything somebody gives them? The real gift of the day is not the free meal. Nor is it Santa Claus, the toys for the kids, the jazz music or even the services of the health agencies and social service organizations present. Instead, it"s socks. Clean, dry socks. One of the volunteer groups has obtained a large quantity of socks, hats, gloves and other winter clothing items to distribute at Stand Down 2002. These are the discards and overruns from discount stores and logo outlets. Once the word starts circulating that new socks are being given away, there is a rush to get a pair. I follow some of the men to the sock table, and as I get near the front of the line, a burly volunteer thrusts a pair of white socks with the NASA logo on them into my hands. "These aren"t my size, they"re too small," I tell the guy standing next to me. He replies, "Don"t worry. You can trade them for cigarettes out on the street." Now I understood the reason for this rush on socks. They are a medium of exchange, a form of seasonal currency for homeless men. Leaving the armory, I have a stroke of luck. I"d been looking for a particular homeless man who has been roaming the streets of downtown Indianapolis for at least the last 25 years. He is a tall, slender African-American who wears his hair in long Rastafarian-style dreadlocks and pushes a grocery cart through the streets and alleys of the Mile-Square. As I am walking in the alley north of St. Clair Street, heading toward Ft. Wayne Avenue, there he is, pushing his grocery cart filled with aluminum cans and other belongings. As he gets closer, I say hello and he returns the greeting. I introduce myself and mention that I had seen him the other day at the Wheeler Mission. He"s friendly and tells me everybody calls him by his street name, "Space." He says he stays at the mission every now and then when he"s not staying with a network of downtown friends. I tell him I"m new in town and looking for a place to stay and something to eat. He offers some suggestions. Then I make a mistake. I tell him I"m interested in finding out more about homeless people in Indianapolis; immediately, his defenses go up and he says he has to go. I"ve tried to befriend him too soon and crossed over into his territory. Now, I"m a threat. Fortunately, it"s not the end of our conversation; I will see him again on Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 2002 It"s about 4 p.m. when I arrive downtown. It"s a dark, gray afternoon and a heavy snow is expected. My goal is to spend Christmas Eve at the mission to see how people muddle through the holiday. I-65 is nearly empty as I drive into the city and the skyline contrasts sharply with the darkening sky. During major holidays, downtown Indianapolis becomes a ghost town much like it was in the 1950s. The sidewalks are still rolled up at 5 p.m. On this Christmas Eve, the city seems especially barren. In spite of all the new buildings and architecture, Indianapolis looks like a piece of old jewelry, discarded, out of fashion. Before the great "white flight" from the city into the suburbs, and before the malignant "shopping mall sprawl," the downtown core was a magnet for city residents. It was not only the center of commerce, but also the center of social gravity for the community. Now there is a new "natural order of things." Because of our affluence, and other social factors, we live in one place, work in another, go to school in another, shop and socialize elsewhere and worship someplace else. Only the poor are still bound by a common geography, living in the shells of old neighborhoods and communities. It"s 5 p.m. and I"m walking on the Circle. A heavy, wet snow has started falling, and a few of the white horse-drawn carriages are trying to get the last of the tourists staying in downtown hotels. Their drivers look like frozen characters from a Chekhov short story, bundled against the elements in a seemingly infinite number of layers of padded, Gore-Tex material. The more affluent upper class is at the Columbia Club where members and their guests are arriving in a slow, steady stream for dinner reservations. An occasional panhandler passes unnoticed under the maroon Columbia Club canopy, while a trio of young doormen scurry back and forth from the curb with luggage and attend to valet parking. It"s nearly 7 p.m. when I arrive at the mission. About 75 men and five women are gathered in the chapel, waiting for the evening service. I take a seat along the wall toward the front where I can see the entire chapel. There are a couple of familiar faces in the congregation, men I"ve seen earlier in the week at the Stand Down 2002 dinner. Space is there, dozing upright in a chair just a few rows over. He"s wearing a teal colored three-piece suit with a plaid wool shirt, colorful scarf and red bowling shoes, topped off with a baseball cap and dark car coat. In spite of this color combination, Space radiates a certain air of elegance. The chaplain for the Christmas Eve service introduces himself simply as "Chaplain John." He"s a regular member of the mission staff and seems to know everyone there. In fact, before the service starts, he introduces himself to me, asking my name, and remarks that he had not seen me at the mission before. I tell him it"s my first time and I"m just passing through. Chaplain John looks more like a karate instructor than a minister, lean and muscular with a buzz crew cut. His no-nonsense sermon resonates well with the audience, since his own life story is that he was a big time sinner in a previous life and lucky to still be alive before "finding the Lord." Chaplain John holds a roll call and reviews the rules of the mission: After the service, anyone staying overnight in the third floor dorm has to take a shower in the basement. All personal belongings are to be placed in a personal box and the only thing allowed in the dorm is the pajamas you"ll be issued after your shower. Lights out at 9:45 p.m. No smoking and a reminder to "leave the street on the outside." Wake-up is at 5:45 a.m. Christmas Day; 6 to 6:30 a.m. is breakfast. Those not wishing to sleep in the dorm can get a mat to sleep on in the Dayroom. After the service, as the men head toward the showers, I slip away, wanting to see if anyone is wandering around on the street after 9 p.m. in a heavy snowstorm. The Mile-Square is deserted. Christmas Day, Dec. 25, 2002 Christmas morning in downtown Indianapolis is a "Winter Wonderland" after the first heavy snowstorm of the season. In case I don"t notice that fact, the song "Winter Wonderland" is blaring from a loudspeaker on the front of the Emmis Communications Center building. About the only traffic in the Mile-Square that morning is the city"s DOT crews clearing streets and sidewalks of snow in anticipation of returning rush hour traffic after the holiday. The lone person I encounter while walking around the Circle is a homeless man named "Jerry," dressed in a blue quilted jacket and running shoes, who"s panhandling next to the Columbia Club. His pitch: "Could you spare a quarter for the homeless?" By 11 a.m. I"m back at the mission where a special Christmas steak dinner is scheduled for 11:30. The Dayroom is crowded with some new faces waiting to get a meal. There is a terrace level on the roof of the mission where men can go to get a breath of fresh air and grab a cigarette. The terrace has two large, 10-foot-high, wrought iron fences at each end. There are a couple of benches to sit on in good weather. The only guys here this cold morning are those who really need a cigarette. Two men are on the terrace. One of them, a bearded individual with only one tooth, asks me if I have a cigarette to trade. He offers a pair of new socks. I tell him I don"t have any cigarettes, but thanks anyway. He goes back downstairs, soon returning with a cigarette. I say, "You must have found somebody who wanted to trade a cigarette for your socks." He laughs, "No, I just bummed this cigarette. I"ve still got the socks if you want them." I"m curious where he got the new socks, and he tells me that some charity group came to the mission the other day and gave everybody there a Bible, a $20 bill, socks, gloves and other clothing. When I tell him it must have been Santa Claus, he laughs and says that Santa Claus must be a "she" because it was a woman who was giving out all that stuff. Going back down to the Dayroom and queuing to get a ticket for dinner, I meet George, an 83-year-old World War II vet who was in the Army from 1941 to 1944. He fought the Japanese on the island of New Guinea in the South Pacific and had been to Australia and New Zealand. George is an amiable chap, originally from Ohio. He proudly shows me his card, stating he is a lifetime member of the Disabled American Veterans. George is hungry for conversation, the kind you don"t normally find among the regulars at the Wheeler Mission. He asks me a lot of questions, almost as many as I ask him. I can tell that World War II was the defining moment in his life. He wants to know how old I am and when I tell him, he says he wishes he were young again so that he could do things differently. Out of nowhere George quotes Bertrand Russell, the late British philosopher who once said, "Longevity is a fluke." George asks if I knew who Russell was. Living a long life, he says, is one of life"s strange puzzles. George tells me that he has lived for a long time and seen a lot of things, most of which he doesn"t understand. Trying to find meaning in life is still very important to him. I don"t have the heart to tell him that, in America, his generation is dying out at the rate of about 1,200 per day. Eventually they, like the rest of us, will fade into that long winter night of history. After all, it"s Christmas.

Email Print Digg this