In the Shadows

We just woke up a man with a swastika tattoo on his hand. Next to
it, an “SS” symbol, and the words “FUCK OFF,” all in block caps,
probably written at the jailhouse. The man’s other hand is swollen from
breaking it in a recent fight, and his foot has a chunk of flesh
missing on top, from the flesh-eating bacteria necrotizing
fasciitis—contracted, it seems, in a fit of bad karma.

“He kicked me in the face,” says the man’s wife, who has just woken
up next to him, and is now rolling a cigarette from freshly procured
butts. “And to this day I still blame all the drugs he had in his
system. But he didn’t take care of the little cut and the next day [his
foot] was the size of a balloon.”

If building relationships is what homeless outreach is about, then
it also takes a special kind of person to get past the judgments most
of us might make when faced with such people, who are truly down on
their luck. Is it ever tempting for these outreach workers to judge,
though? I mean, she’s casually telling us he kicked her in the face,
like it was nothing.

“If we do that, we’re done,” says Guy Rabe, who’s been an outreach
worker with the homeless nonprofit JOIN for nine years. “I don’t see
the individual in front of me as any different from myself.”

“That’s kind of the philosophy,” says Jarvis Allen, who’s been doing
the same job for two years. “That these are people just like us, but
facing different cultural and socio-economic issues.”

Take this particular couple, for example, who Rabe and Allen just
woke up at 7:45 am on the Eastbank Esplanade, under the I-5 overpass.
Rabe recognizes that the man’s tattoos would be “an impasse for any
standard employer.” He has seen them housed, through JOIN, for about a
year and a half. But they couldn’t stop inviting guests ’round, and
there was a suspicion of fencing stolen property, so they got kicked
out (they were not arrested for a crime). Nevertheless, another
outreach worker is working with them both to get a second chance at
housing soon.

“For me, it really is one of those cases where it’s about the
longevity of the relationship,” says Rabe, who has known some of his
clients for a decade and not given up on them through several attempts
at being housed. Which is when it strikes me: I don’t have his
patience.

But I wish I did. Rabe and Allen have countless similar
conversations every day, whether it’s with meth addicts in need of ID
to turn in scrounged scrap metal, or with people fleeing violence from
others on the street, or simply with the guy living in a van who wants
help with his taxes before he moves into housing. But that was just
last Wednesday, June 18, and it seems their perseverance, tenacity,
good faith, and humanity are required anew, on a daily basis.

As Rabe is talking with the man and his wife I notice the homeless
couple’s tone soften after a few minutes. Rabe suggests the man should
stop by JOIN later to get medical treatment for his broken hand, and
all of a sudden the guy has warmed up completely and we’re exchanging
our best rat stories.

“I used to have a cat and a rat, the cat was called Cheeseburger and
the rat was called Stuart Little,” he’s telling all three of us, now.
“And nobody would believe it, but these two would play together all the
time.”

“Stuart Little used to go up to Cheeseburger and just bite him on
the ear,” says his wife. “Just to get his attention.”

And she’s giggling like a schoolgirl. You simply wouldn’t know that
a minute ago they’d both been relating the details of a nasty episode
of street violence. And the conversation continues.