The Invisible Man

Last night I was talking to my son, a senior at FSU. He mentioned encountering a homeless man while biking to the store. The man had been a musician at one point, and struck Tom as being kind, gentle and oddly youthful even now. As the two continued to talk, Tom began to pick up symptoms of mental disorder and/or addiction. Toward the end of the conversation the homeless man described hearing voices which could not be suppressed.

Eventually Tom had to leave, pausing to give a few dollars. The man was grateful, but far more so for the conversation, for having been seen. Tom reported his last image was of the man waving, and asking that Tom do well so that he could help “my kind.”

Of all the things homeless persons leave behind - safety, shelter, decent clothing, a chance of a good job, regular meals, possibly sobriety and sanity – the most painful loss is their humanity. The homeless are no longer visible to society, and on those rare occasions when they are noticed, they are viewed with contempt. And we wonder why a few of them get in our face, walk around flying signs where they are clearly not wanted, and in other ways become a nuisance to the upstanding citizens around them.

There is a bravado about men and women who proclaim their love for the homeless lifestyle, and pledge they would live no other way. It is their way of affirming their humanity, insisting that they have choices in their life and are not victims of mental illness, circumstance, and despair. But I have met very few homeless for whom that act is anything but a façade. Given a true choice, they leave homelessness behind very quickly.

This summer uncovered a deep well of homelessness among young families, and theirs is a difficult situation that has rightly gotten a lot of attention, from the public and from service providers. But as winter approaches, it is well to remember those who haven’t had a home in years, and whose hope and opportunities were crushed a lifetime ago by rejection, abandonment, developmental disabilities, mental illness and addiction.

One of these women, abandoned by her spouse, moved me to tears as she described an earlier point in her life, when all her possessions were reduced to a single grocery bag, placed in the back of a stroller which contained her infant daughter. She walked up and down the streets, wondering how she had lost every vestige of normal human contact, how no one she knew or saw cared if she and her daughter had a place to sleep, a meal, or a way to get out of the rain. She eventually lost her child to the foster care system, and soon thereafter lost her last hold on self-respect. But to this day she still hangs on to a thread of hope, that her life will change and she will have a place of her own.

Those women and men who run the cold night shelters and soup kitchens throughout the two counties have a deep empathy and understanding for those for whom life has been difficult and confusing. They dole out not just stew and pillows, but warmth. They place a value on all human life, and learn to know each individual on their own terms. They play cards and checkers, and listen, and affirm the existence of a human soul within everyone who comes for help.

This generosity of spirit makes an enormous difference to many of the homeless, though there are some so damaged and torn over the years that not even the most amazing radiance can penetrate the dark. But in every case, such light is a blessing to those who who live in it and with it, and for those like me who are surrounded by the loveliest people on earth.

Summer of Lost Hopes

This has been the summer of lost hopes. The recession and loss of jobs in tourism and fishing have left many young families destitute. Older individuals and couples struggling to maintain jobs and housing have been literally dumped into the streets, where they live in cars or tents. On any given day, 28 people look for rooms at Opportunity Place that are not there. Most of these are children.

Responding to a call from Sen. Bill Nelson’s office, the staff at Opportunity, Inc. collected data for a single point in time, not just on people served, but people calling or coming in requesting service. These calls came into the offices in Crestview, DeFuniak Springs, and Opportunity Place in Fort Walton Beach.

On August 30, 65 persons needed emergency shelter. There was room for 34. Sixty-two households were facing loss of utilities. There were funds available to help nine of them. Forty-seven families came with notices of eviction. Again, we had funds to help nine. Thirty-seven families needed food. Food baskets went out to a different set of nine. Thirteen people asked for services we do not provide, such as health care and mortgage assistance. We provided referrals for each of these.

These numbers are not an aberration, nor are they unique to Opportunity, Inc. On that same day, Sharing and Caring in Crestview provided food to 97 families. Tri-County in Fort Walton Beach took applications for rent and utility assistance from another 92 families.

The women and families who come to us by and large will work hard to provide a life for their children if given the opportunity. For those who show up at the right time on the right day, the opportunity is often there. Ninety percent of our shelter residents leave Opportunity Place with a job and secure housing. But most do not get that chance. There is very little room in the inn right now.

Melinda came to Opportunity Place six months pregnant, with a 19-month-old girl. She had no job, no money, and no friends or family. But she had a goal: to make a life for her growing family. And she came at a good time. We had space available.
Through JobsPlus and Okaloosa Walton Child Care Services, she secured child care for her toddler. Through Opportunity Place, she got the contacts for a job. She knew she had three months to save enough money to have her baby and care for her small family for those first precious few weeks after the baby’s birth. She decided she didn’t need a cell phone, or minutes, or sodas, or new shoes. She saved every penny, and at the end of three months, had $2,000 in the bank.

Melinda had her baby boy on August 5. On August 9, they moved into their own home, with the financial security to get them through the next six weeks. Soon, Melinda returns to work, while her children attend safe, secure, quality child care programs.
We often dismiss the homeless as a handful of panhandlers who cause distress to many in the downtown area. These are real people also, with mental health and substance abuse issues that are often virtually incurable. But out of the 2040 homeless people in Okaloosa and Walton Counties, the numbers they represent are but a rounding error.

The tragedies among the homeless concern those who have been dropped out of the economy and cannot find their way back in. Some of them are nearing retirement age, and may never find another job. Others graduated from high school and college and have been unemployed or underemployed ever since. And some of them are babies and toddlers, whose lives are being blighted by disruption and despair.

My job is joyful. Everywhere I go, I meet families who have encountered homelessness, and prevailed. Melinda’s story is one of many tales of triumph over adversity. The churches, non-profits and individuals working with her colleagues need your help to create a few more.