Please read this.
Thursday, 13 December 2007 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiedoesI want to tell you a story.
Close to where I work, there are two men I see regularly. Homeless men - one, in his fifties, a Parkinson's sufferer with a very carefully managed Big Issue stand (his trolley, containing all his possessions, and little plastic wallets and magazines wrapped up in elastic bands); his name is Michael. He is remarkably friendly and cheerful, and extremely grateful to anyone who would spend the time to stop an say hello and buy one of his magazines. He has been there as long as I have and longer. Close to four years, at the very, very least.
The other man, Tony, is a young black guy - a Londoner - in his very early thirties. He sits huddled on the floor outside the chemist, never looking up, always lost in his own little world. Sometimes, you can see a tear rolling down his face, but he never looks up and never hurts anyone. Never asks, except for a baseball cap with a few coins in it, sitting near his feet. Tony first appeared about a year ago. Maybe a little less.
I first talked to them both because, back in summer, I had to step in and protect Tony from a horrible little man from one of the local shops, who was harrassing him. The week before, the same man and physically attacked him. The police had advised Tony to 'just go somewhere else'.
Afterward, I sat down and talked to Tony a bit, and to Michael. They are both intelligent, normal human beings. I remember being struck at the time by the fact that neither smelled of alcohol, neither was on any kind of drugs or illegal substance (even though Michael clearly should have been, for his condition). I asked if there was anywhere they could go, and if people helped them. Tony told me that St Mungo's were useless and that they promised the earth and never delivered. He told me, though, how he slept in the park and rubbed Michael's ointment - the only treatment he seems to receive for his Parkinson's - into his back for him.
When I left, I gave him £10 and told him to get himself something to eat. He tried to give the money back. I wouldn't let him.
I went home that night and collected information on as many local organisations and shelters as I could; I printed them each a copy. Michael asked me if I was a social worker. I told him that I wasn't, I just wanted to help. He was so grateful and promised to pass on the copy for Tony, which I know he did.
Yesterday, on my way home, I saw Tony again, sitting in his usual spot, weeping, with nothing but a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders in the seriously fucking bitter cold. I didn't stop. I was on my way to buy expensive cheese for the office lunch, and it was already 7pm because I'd stayed late at work. By the time I got home, I'd decided not to get the cheese because I felt guilty; terribly, terribly ashamed that I hadn't even taken the time to stop and give him a quid for a cup of tea when I was about to spend a fiver on fancy cheese. I almost wrote about it then, but I just couldn't bring myself to.
Today, I mentioned it to Elly, the girl I sit next to; she'd been planning to work at a shelter/soup kitchen this Christmas, but simply couldn't fit in the minimum timetabled hours. We decided that we were going to see what we could do - give him and Michael spare sleepingbags, if they wanted them, see if there was anything else. At our Christmas party we had a wealth of food left over, so we wrapped some up and took it outside. We could only find Michael, so we gave him some wrapped up turkey and stuffing sandwiches. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek in thanks. Tony wasn't there yet.
Later, when I left, at about half six, I did see Tony. I gave him the food and asked how he was. He told me he wasn't too good, because his nan had had a stroke and they'd given her until the weekend to live. He said he'd been at the hospital with her all day. She's his only family. She raised him when his mum kicked him out when he was twelve. As someone who doesn't speak to their own mother, and hasn't since she was eighteen, but is especially close to their nan, this really got to me. He told me he'd been asked to meet St Mungo's at five, which is why he hadn't been there. He went to meet them where they asked, and they didn't show up. A few weeks ago, he was given a place in a hostel where they move you up a housing ladder until you get your own place; the maximum you can stay - ONCE - is three weeks. When he three weeks were up, they had nowhere for him to go, so they put him back on the streets. He's sleeping in a subway - which I guess is at least an improvement on a park.
I asked him how he ended up on the streets, and how long he'd been here. "Thirteen months." He told me how he'd been living with his girlfriend, and she'd cheated on him and the new boyfriend had kicked him out. I asked what he did for a living, before - he's a cook. He listed his certificates and qualifications to me. One of which was first aid, which is what I co-ordinate.
This is a young man, with qualifications, who is homeless through no fault of his own who has been told by the social workers, that if he were a drug addict or an alcoholic, they could give him more help because then he'd have an 'illness'. Imagine how frustrating that is.
When I told him we'd talked about getting him a sleeping bag, if he wanted one, his face just lit up, "Oh God, yes please."
I asked him if there was anything else he needed that we might be able to get. "One bedroomed flat?" he joked. Then, more seriously and with great humility, "Well... the only thing is, my trainer's got a sole falling off - it's held on with rubber bands, look."
"Okay, so some trainers or boots, then?"
"Anything. I could do with anything as long as it's not like this, you know?"
He's a size eight. I'm going to the local charity shops, this weekend, so see if there's a respectable pair I can get him.
I offered him a hat I have (I just washed it and it's on a radiator drying right now) and his only other request was, "If you've got any, a pair of gloves wouldn't go amiss..."
That's all he asked for. Shoes that don't take in water, and a pair of gloves.
When I gave him £2 and told him to get a drink to go with his turkey sandwiches, he gave me such a happy smile and said, "Chocolate."
"Chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate, yeah..." He honestly looked like the prospect of a cup of hot chocolate was a dream to him. He was that grateful.
Personally, I feel really, really shitty for not being able to do more to help him. I'm going to buy him some gloves and some socks as well, to keep warm (someone had already given him a fleece, which he was really pleased with). But at this time of year, while we're all fussing about what shitty bits of tat to buy our loved ones - about how we're going to max out our credit cards on self-indulgence - think of people like Tony. Like Michael.
They are both good, sweet people who deserve so much better than this. And we, as society, have completely failed them. Not everyone on the streets is a waster or an addict. Some of them are people like us who have just been dealt a really shitty hand in life. You don't have to give them money - give them a sandwich, or an old jumper you don't wear any more. Listen to them. Remind them that they're people. If you can, print out information on local centres, so at least someone else might be able to help them at times like this.
Put yourself in their place. Just for a minute. If nothing else, it'll make you grateful for what you have, no matter how bleak it sometimes seems.
And in a similar vein to Patrick's post, recently, never let the people around you come to that. There should always be another way. Even if it means making sacrifices yourself - bend a little, be someone's bridge until they can make it out and back into their own place. Just don't let anyone you know end up in Tony and Michael's positions. Please.
Close to where I work, there are two men I see regularly. Homeless men - one, in his fifties, a Parkinson's sufferer with a very carefully managed Big Issue stand (his trolley, containing all his possessions, and little plastic wallets and magazines wrapped up in elastic bands); his name is Michael. He is remarkably friendly and cheerful, and extremely grateful to anyone who would spend the time to stop an say hello and buy one of his magazines. He has been there as long as I have and longer. Close to four years, at the very, very least.
The other man, Tony, is a young black guy - a Londoner - in his very early thirties. He sits huddled on the floor outside the chemist, never looking up, always lost in his own little world. Sometimes, you can see a tear rolling down his face, but he never looks up and never hurts anyone. Never asks, except for a baseball cap with a few coins in it, sitting near his feet. Tony first appeared about a year ago. Maybe a little less.
I first talked to them both because, back in summer, I had to step in and protect Tony from a horrible little man from one of the local shops, who was harrassing him. The week before, the same man and physically attacked him. The police had advised Tony to 'just go somewhere else'.
Afterward, I sat down and talked to Tony a bit, and to Michael. They are both intelligent, normal human beings. I remember being struck at the time by the fact that neither smelled of alcohol, neither was on any kind of drugs or illegal substance (even though Michael clearly should have been, for his condition). I asked if there was anywhere they could go, and if people helped them. Tony told me that St Mungo's were useless and that they promised the earth and never delivered. He told me, though, how he slept in the park and rubbed Michael's ointment - the only treatment he seems to receive for his Parkinson's - into his back for him.
When I left, I gave him £10 and told him to get himself something to eat. He tried to give the money back. I wouldn't let him.
I went home that night and collected information on as many local organisations and shelters as I could; I printed them each a copy. Michael asked me if I was a social worker. I told him that I wasn't, I just wanted to help. He was so grateful and promised to pass on the copy for Tony, which I know he did.
Yesterday, on my way home, I saw Tony again, sitting in his usual spot, weeping, with nothing but a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders in the seriously fucking bitter cold. I didn't stop. I was on my way to buy expensive cheese for the office lunch, and it was already 7pm because I'd stayed late at work. By the time I got home, I'd decided not to get the cheese because I felt guilty; terribly, terribly ashamed that I hadn't even taken the time to stop and give him a quid for a cup of tea when I was about to spend a fiver on fancy cheese. I almost wrote about it then, but I just couldn't bring myself to.
Today, I mentioned it to Elly, the girl I sit next to; she'd been planning to work at a shelter/soup kitchen this Christmas, but simply couldn't fit in the minimum timetabled hours. We decided that we were going to see what we could do - give him and Michael spare sleepingbags, if they wanted them, see if there was anything else. At our Christmas party we had a wealth of food left over, so we wrapped some up and took it outside. We could only find Michael, so we gave him some wrapped up turkey and stuffing sandwiches. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek in thanks. Tony wasn't there yet.
Later, when I left, at about half six, I did see Tony. I gave him the food and asked how he was. He told me he wasn't too good, because his nan had had a stroke and they'd given her until the weekend to live. He said he'd been at the hospital with her all day. She's his only family. She raised him when his mum kicked him out when he was twelve. As someone who doesn't speak to their own mother, and hasn't since she was eighteen, but is especially close to their nan, this really got to me. He told me he'd been asked to meet St Mungo's at five, which is why he hadn't been there. He went to meet them where they asked, and they didn't show up. A few weeks ago, he was given a place in a hostel where they move you up a housing ladder until you get your own place; the maximum you can stay - ONCE - is three weeks. When he three weeks were up, they had nowhere for him to go, so they put him back on the streets. He's sleeping in a subway - which I guess is at least an improvement on a park.
I asked him how he ended up on the streets, and how long he'd been here. "Thirteen months." He told me how he'd been living with his girlfriend, and she'd cheated on him and the new boyfriend had kicked him out. I asked what he did for a living, before - he's a cook. He listed his certificates and qualifications to me. One of which was first aid, which is what I co-ordinate.
This is a young man, with qualifications, who is homeless through no fault of his own who has been told by the social workers, that if he were a drug addict or an alcoholic, they could give him more help because then he'd have an 'illness'. Imagine how frustrating that is.
When I told him we'd talked about getting him a sleeping bag, if he wanted one, his face just lit up, "Oh God, yes please."
I asked him if there was anything else he needed that we might be able to get. "One bedroomed flat?" he joked. Then, more seriously and with great humility, "Well... the only thing is, my trainer's got a sole falling off - it's held on with rubber bands, look."
"Okay, so some trainers or boots, then?"
"Anything. I could do with anything as long as it's not like this, you know?"
He's a size eight. I'm going to the local charity shops, this weekend, so see if there's a respectable pair I can get him.
I offered him a hat I have (I just washed it and it's on a radiator drying right now) and his only other request was, "If you've got any, a pair of gloves wouldn't go amiss..."
That's all he asked for. Shoes that don't take in water, and a pair of gloves.
When I gave him £2 and told him to get a drink to go with his turkey sandwiches, he gave me such a happy smile and said, "Chocolate."
"Chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate, yeah..." He honestly looked like the prospect of a cup of hot chocolate was a dream to him. He was that grateful.
Personally, I feel really, really shitty for not being able to do more to help him. I'm going to buy him some gloves and some socks as well, to keep warm (someone had already given him a fleece, which he was really pleased with). But at this time of year, while we're all fussing about what shitty bits of tat to buy our loved ones - about how we're going to max out our credit cards on self-indulgence - think of people like Tony. Like Michael.
They are both good, sweet people who deserve so much better than this. And we, as society, have completely failed them. Not everyone on the streets is a waster or an addict. Some of them are people like us who have just been dealt a really shitty hand in life. You don't have to give them money - give them a sandwich, or an old jumper you don't wear any more. Listen to them. Remind them that they're people. If you can, print out information on local centres, so at least someone else might be able to help them at times like this.
Put yourself in their place. Just for a minute. If nothing else, it'll make you grateful for what you have, no matter how bleak it sometimes seems.
And in a similar vein to Patrick's post, recently, never let the people around you come to that. There should always be another way. Even if it means making sacrifices yourself - bend a little, be someone's bridge until they can make it out and back into their own place. Just don't let anyone you know end up in Tony and Michael's positions. Please.
no subject
on 2007-12-14 09:41 am (UTC)