I take what’s mine, then take some more
It rains, it pours, it rains, it pours
——
Today it was pouring rain in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and I came across something horrific that could be considered urgent, timely, and pressing, all at once, requiring action right now…
I saw a homeless man on the side of the road drenched in a deluge of a thunderstorm. My heart went out to him, but I did not hesitate, I drove right on by. Most of us can identify. Many of us feel for that homeless person on the side of the road, and keep on driving anyway. I don’t know what the solution is, it has got to be systemic if we are to make a dent in this social problem. If we go home and donate for charity you’d probably be doing more good. But do not deny the power of a few dollars given directly into the hands of the needy, the human being in front of you.
I have a bit of a history related to the issue of homelessness, and I will provide a few stories and a few actions and a few ideas as to how to deal with this unfortunate byproduct of an economy and a society that tragically allows this to happen.
I will try to relay different situations in which the horror of homelessness penetrated my conscience and the things I did about it, or conversely when I did not do anything about it–like today when I passed a man in the pissing cold rain without sparing a dollar or even a minute of my time.
My first real confrontation with the emotions that the presence of the homeless solicited in me, was in San Francisco during my honeymoon at the YMCA transitional housing center.
To cut the story short, I had a revelation about heaven on earth and was driven to help people see it for themselves. No one was farther from heaven than the homeless who were actually in varying degrees experiencing inner circles of hell on earth. I paraded around the city yelling at the homeless that GOd loves them, and heaven on earth will touch them–in the most unlikely moment. I did not have the desired impact among those homeless people who were very confused by my words and actions…
‘Story’ [TEXT]: One night during the honeymoon I stayed up late while my wife, Anna, slept. Scattered noises came from the diverse guests that penetrated the cheap walls of our hostel. It was located in the worst area and many homeless stayed occasional nights to get cleaned up.
Across the hall I heard noises coming from the shared bathroom. Still wide awake I heard the sound of a woman’s shock when the shower came on. There was no hot water that night in the hostel. She started to whimper, then there was a wail of intense suffering. I left my room moved by the woman’s cries. The ability to rationalize away the pain of others had broken down and compassion coursed through me.
The woman was in her fifties with long wet gray hair and left the shower in torn dirty jeans and a soiled damp t-shirt with a bar of soap in her hands. I was sitting at the front of my door with tears running down my cheeks, “I’m so sorry.” She sat down next to me and the empathy moved between us as we continued to cry. Our emotional worlds connected and then she hugged me, “Thank you.”
Anna was with me as we walked around the Tenderloin on our last morning in San Francisco and this time was able to witness firsthand my attempts to bond with people on the street. I showed kindness and understanding to all the downtrodden people I encountered. Anna was nervous, but genuinely touched that I seemed to be having an effect on these people.
Anna and I explored the Tenderloin until we were tired from walking. We came across a church. It was a modest church, but I was impressed by the steeple’s ascent towards the sky and wanted to go inside. As I entered the church I was feeling blessed that my life had been so complete. I felt grateful.
The dozens of homeless people sleeping on the pews throughout the church had not been so lucky, and I covered my mouth to muffle my sobs. Heaven was a matter of perception and some were willfully oblivious to it, others were barred from seeing it. Some were so isolated and oppressed by the circumstances of life that they could not find happiness or beauty in the world.
My modest efforts over my honeymoon did not go far enough. Something extraordinary was necessary to alleviate the suffering around me. I vowed to do everything I possibly could to help the poor and black, the helpless, and those without hope.
I felt the calling and the calling consumed me. I had lived more than my share of happiness. I had experienced the white beauty of the world and others had not. I promised God that I would willingly die for the homeless sleeping on those pews. Then in the next moment I decided I would die for them. I wanted to die for them. My life was nothing in the face of such an immensity of suffering. I saw myself as a sacrifice.
Empowered by the intensity of my feelings, I took off all my clothes and asked the social worker standing at the front of the church to sacrifice me for all the people laying in the church.
The social worker asked me, “Do you need to see a doctor?”
I was baffled. Then the social worker told me to put my clothes on and that I would be better to God alive. I explained that I felt the need to do something more significant to help all these people. The man told me there were other ways…
It wasn’t long before I confronted the issue of homelessness again. This time a few weeks later back in Los Angeles where I invited a homeless man into my home.
‘Story’ [TEXT]: The strangers passed by in the street confused, ignoring my manifesto. I did see one man who was listening. His name was Michael. He was an African American man in his sixties from Tennessee who was living on the street. I sat down next to Michael on the pavement and we talked for hours, our crazy wisdom ricocheting back and forth. As I was preparing to go home to cook dinner for Anna, Michael said to me, “See if you can understand this.” He started speaking tongues, a garbled wild speak that frightened me. But then it started to make sense in my dizzied mind. Michael saw the recognition on my face, “Holy shit! You understand me speaking tongues, right?”
Michael went on to tell me he had fallen into a coma last year and was on his way to Heaven before being jerked back into consciousness and brought back onto the dirty streets of Los Angeles. Michael’s story was told with a power that shook me. I told Michael I believed Heaven was a matter of perception and Michael said he knew exactly what I was talking about. I said that I would come back in half an hour with some Jambalaya and Southern Comfort rum.
I invited Michael to my home and we continued up the hill to the graduate student housing where my wife was waiting. Anna believed in charity and service to the poor and had to believe in me. With openmindedness she welcomed Michael to our home. We all sat down to the jambalaya…
Another encounter in Barcelona ten years later…
‘Story’ [TEXT]: I stepped in front of a bus. It put on its brakes in the middle of the three lane road. Now that I had the attention of the swarming crowds opposite the cathedral I began. I stood tall in front of the bus gazing at the growing audience with a celestial confidence. I looked up at the Sagrada Familia and pointed to where the golden cross would finally rise to complete the cathedral. I pointed to a black homeless man lying on the ground. I stared hard at the people gathered and asked them with a stare, why?…
Then Atlanta…
‘Story’ [TEXT]: I walked all the way back from the ghettos of Atlanta and found the Greyhound Bus Station again on route. I planned to book a ticket to Miami for the next morning. The place was more like a way station to and from Hell. I was horrified by the way the poor traveled in the United States. They shuffled sadly and tiredly to the entrance to smoke and then back to metal seats to stare at the floor of the bus station. They carried their life possessions in garbage bags and raggedy duct taped suitcases with broken zippers. They were going to places that held little promise to relieve them of their poverty.
Most of the people stuck in there were beyond downtrodden. They were obese, demoralized, destitute. They begged for money to buy candy and snacks to nourish them on their journey by bus from one Hell to another. The tattoos externalized the darkness inside of them, black spiders, massive skulls, and giant crucifixes. They laid bare their pain as a warning for others to stay away. They cursed their existence under their breath and children just screamed. No one locked eyes, no one wanted to be reminded of being in that hellish place under the gaze of another who suffered the same fate.
I stood on the edge of another circle of Hell. I unloaded my privilege for a lighter load through the Hell I was about to travel through. I took out $200 from the ATM and walked outside of the bus station. I began passing out $20 bills to all who were gathered there until the money was gone.
I did not feel good about myself, realizing it was a drop in the ocean of suffering, and went to smoke a cigarette in an adjacent abandoned parking lot, knowing I needed to do more. I sat down next to a garbage can and stared hard into the pavement. Why should I go live a life of privilege running a start-up in Barcelona when these people were living in Hell? In the cracks of the ground I realized I could not just abandon all the people who had fallen through.
I could not leave these people behind by going to Europe. I started shaking from the realization of what I would have to do. I would have to go back to Los Angeles to finish what I started. I would find the place where I had met Michael on the streets. I could live there for as long as it took. I would have to give up everything. I would lose contact with all family and friends. I would be cold and wet and hungry. The Hell that Michael lived would be mine. I would be homeless with only God by my side.
I asked God for a sign that this is in fact what I was supposed to do. My eyes moved to the broken glass next to me, and I saw in the reflection of the street light, beauty so exquisite that I shed a tear. I stood up mesmerized by the vision and the telltale sign. I had to follow the path to the streets, my new home…
Moving from wild action to theory, years later I came up with a modest plan and a pie-in-the-sky solution to homelessness in Los Angeles…
‘Worlds-Fair’ [TEXT]: We will pick up every homeless person off the ground from all of Los Angeles. We will build a safe space of quality that will be the greatest institution of care, rehabilitation, safety, and service, attractive enough that there will be a clear choice to work on improving the conditions that led to their homelessness.
The center will be a massive complex to house all homeless people and those who are in transition. It will even be luxurious to some degree, a haven and a sanctuary for those who have suffered and deserve a slice of happiness for all their turmoil. This is more than housing, it is an effort to bring these people back to society and to work that is meaningful. The choice to do drugs and drink alcohol comes from desperation, it is the only way to numb the pain. This center for rehabilitation aims to give them a life that makes the choice of drugs and alcohol unnecessary and pointless, the choice is clear, to raise up and find a new purpose in life.
The Worlds-Fair will design this center and design the method for helping the homeless find their way there (Read more).
I take what’s mine, then take some more
It rains, it pours, it rains, it pours
We are taking and taking and taking, while the homeless take take take the pouring rain.
*INSIDE THE CARNIVAL.ME* 