One part desperate; one part vulnerable. A pinch of no security and layered with uncertainty mixed with hope. Walk down the streets of any city and you will witness this recipe in the hearts of any beggar or homeless person. The actual ingredients of a homeless person are living rough, dispossessed, destitute, on the streets, without a roof over your head, and itinerant. The image of having nowhere to go or sleep or even the mundane worry of where your next meal will come from seems unfathomable for most, but for the millions of people who experience this uncertainty it is just another day. We turn our heads to those who are homeless for the mere fact that we wish to ignore the harsh reality of life. This reality is everywhere around us and it was my goal to try to relate to this hardship.
At the tender age of 20, I cannot imagine myself ever having to visit a shelter outside of volunteering. The outrageous idea of stepping outside my bubble to something more realistic might seem preposterous. I felt that to avoid separating myself and the homeless I needed to put myself in their shoes. This, I thought, would be best done by taking my dignity away and putting a cardboard sign in my hand as I stood on a street corner and begged for money.
I would first have to drop my ignorance and become fully aware of homelessness by examining the beggars that filled the city streets of Denver, Colorado. The ideal location would be Colfax Avenue. This street is known for its association with prostitution, crime, and a dense concentration of liquor stores and inexpensive bars. It is a busy street that goes right into the heart of downtown and is a perfect spot for beggars. This famous 26 mile long street is also in the front yard of East High School where I attended high school. While I did not have the nerve to try to pretend to be homeless on the corners of this avenue, I drove down its familiar pavement and observed the residents of the street. On corners the homeless held cardboard signs about needing help in every way. They usually ended with a gracious end note like, “God Bless.” Most talked about disabilities or the economy, and some talked about being a veteran. Their clothes didn’t match, were unwashed, and mostly made of dark colors. Their shoes were muddy and overused, and I doubt many even had socks. How, I wondered, would I make this work?
Tearing through my closet and my mother’s closet I found a pair of old sneakers used for garden work and a pile of old and ripped clothes used for painting and house projects. Taking a piece of cardboard from the side of a box I wrote something simple, “Father lost his job, mother diseased, anything helps. God Bless.” A few deep breaths and I was ready to put my pride on the line and step into the shoes of someone who, by federal definition, “…is an individual who lacks a fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residence.”
I had my mom drop me off on the corner of 17th and Monaco going southbound. Stationing myself by the crosswalk, I could continue to push the button and stop traffic at the light so that more people would have to face the sight of me. All around me were beautiful brick houses that ranged from $790,000 to $1,655,000. At that moment, no words could describe the intense feeling of being totally invisible, yet completely vulnerable. In only a few minutes, I was enveloped with pure helplessness and at the beck of everyone’s watchful stare.
The cars would approach spotting the beggar (me) ahead. Reading the sign in curiosity and looking at the teenage beggar from head to toe, they would search for the compassion inside and make a split second decision whether to be in the spirit of giving, or go about their daily routine. According to the National Coalition for the Homeless, there are three primary inter-related causes of youth homelessness: family problems, economic problems, and residential instability. Most people would look skeptical, as if they were looking at just another runaway teenager. Right away I felt judged and un-trusted. There was no pity, no sympathy, only the stories that the drivers created in their head. I imagined some of those stories related to teen pregnancy or misbehavior. It didn’t matter what my sign said, if it didn’t entertain them by making them laugh or if it didn’t seem severe enough, my story was theirs to create and theirs to ignore.
Many avoided any eye contact and pretended to suddenly be preoccupied with something that had immediate importance and required their full attention. Others would look out their window in a completely different direction. In the moments where the drivers would make eye-contact I felt less fear of judgment and more accepted. It didn’t matter if they offered money, what mattered is that they noticed the harsh reality that surrounded their little bubble. After 14 minutes, frequently looking down at my old childhood watch that latched on to my wrist, a Honda Accord approached and a window was rolled down. Unaware of what to do, I nervously walked beside the silver car’s window that opened up to the inside of the toasty and warm car. My heart was beating at the sound of a drum beating at a fast tempo and I could feel my cheeks warm up from blushing. This Honda was nice but not overly pricey, and inside was a man who stuck out his hand with a single dollar bill. One dollar seems like so little, and yet it wasn’t mine to take. I kindly told the man that I could not accept the dollar because I was doing this for a class experiment and thanked him for being kind and generous. His response was, “Who would ever put themselves through this if they didn’t have to?” and drove off angrily.
The second car pulled up seven minutes after the Honda. This car was a Toyota Corolla, silver, and had a family inside. I was more nervous than the first time because there were more watchful eyes coming from this car. As the father rolled down his window and the mother looked through her purse, the children in the backseat seemed uncomfortable to have my presence come anywhere near their family. They stared at me with wide eyes, half out of curiosity and half out of fear. This family gave me a five dollar bill and a few coins. Again, I had to deny their charity, but thanked them sincerely for their donation. They were speechless as they tried to understand what I just told them. A car honked behind them aggressively reminding them that the light was green, and they drove off embarrassed.
The eighth car pulled up at 3:46 p.m. It was an old lady in a champagne colored Lexis who rolled down her window as her car approached and told me to come to her window. This lady was old and feeble, but handed me a few dollars and told me that I should use this money to buy some healthy food at the store, like an apple or banana. I kindly declined her money, stating my reason, and waited for her reaction. The light turned green and she turned the corner to pull over on the side of 17th. She beckoned for me once again and demanded that I explain why I declined her donation. I explained to her that I wanted to understand, first-hand, the feeling of being homeless and she was sincerely interested. She asked me about my experience thus far and was inquisitive about any research or facts I knew. She explained that she was a loyal volunteer for the Red Cross and had been for over 25 years. We talked for about ten minutes before she drove off.
One of the most shocking things that occurred a handful of times was that a few cars full of men yelled to me, saying that prostitution made better money, or that I should work the streets instead. I was absolutely appalled that anyone would recommend this alternative, and I felt absolutely defenseless. I was hurt that any human being would want someone to sell their body to survive. I could never imagine having to be a prostitute to pay for food or shelter.
From 1pm to 5pm, fifteen cars rolled down their window to donate money to a young homeless female they did not know. During this time, over a thousand cars passed the corner of 17th and Monaco going southbound. What struck me most was the lack of care or eye-contact. They pretended not to see what was blatantly in front of them and were unaware that I was just acting like a statistic. The reaction from each car was anger, shock, or interest. My only hope is that in the few moments of interaction, each of the 15 cars thought about meeting me and homelessness in general. I cannot say I influenced anyone to get more involved or try to help another vulnerable beggar, but maybe, just maybe, they will take a few extra moments and notice the person on the corner with a cardboard sign in their hand.
Standing on the street corner, my dignity was on the line and my “story” was on a cardboard sign. I was just a statistic, another troubled teen yet no one bothered to ask me how I got there besides one old woman. These are the harsh realities and in a country that avoids giving eye contact to those that are dirty and poor, reality can be insensitive. As Sheila McKechnie said, “People who are homeless are not socially inadequate. They are people without homes.”
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