“It’s Sunday Afternoon

By Scott Wyatt 

It’s around one o’clock on a warm April Sunday afternoon. The year is 2009 and America is just coming out of a recession.  I’m sitting in the LDRC, a multipurpose building on the Central Arizona Shelter Services campus, (CASS as it is called on the street). Located at 12^th Ave., and Jefferson in Phoenix, Arizona, this building houses several of the agencies that assist homeless clients. They do a good job for the several thousand passing through the door of CASS in a year.  The offices are arranged in a semi-circle around an open area containing a dozen large round tables which help fill up the rest of the room. 

About thirty people are scattered throughout the room. A few are sleeping hunched over the tables, while seated in the institutional plastic chairs, their heads resting on a dirty plastic trash bag or donated backpack.  These “pillows” contain most, if not all their worldly possessions.  When you’re homeless, restful sleep in a safe place is as rare as a “twenty” in the wallet. 

Looking around the dimly lit room, I see a few folks are doing their own looking.  There is an unnatural commonality in the eyes of these faces, not unlike the haunted look you see in picture books of refugees, or soldiers awaiting the next battle. It is the look of one who has traveled too far and seen too much, a kind of hopelessness mixed up with resignation, resulting from the confused acceptance of years of broken promises, unfulfilled dreams, wrong choices and in some cases, gut-wrenching tragedy.  If one looks closely at the sun-burnt faces lined with countless wrinkles, occasional facial scars, it doesn’t take much imagination, if you have the courage, to imagine some of these tales of woe. 

These roving eyes are scanning the room, searching, seeking answers, “Who’s coming? Who’s going? Who is talking to whom?  What deals are being made? Is there something that I can get a piece of?”  Having traveled for the last 18 months, sometimes resting up in these shelters, I know now, the search is for hope.  “Hope” is life’s blood for the homeless.  These “hopes” are as varied as the people in the room.  This afternoon no one is more important than another-no one needier than the next.  Maybe, the hopes and desires of us all spring from our common hope-maybe more of a wish- “tomorrows got to be better”. 

One group of “refugees” gathered today have a different look.  These are the Psychologically Challenged or as they are labeled here the “SMI” (Seriously Mentally Ill). They seem to exist in their own time and space – a world where dreams and hopes do come true. It’s easy to spot these special folks.  Some are talking or yelling to themselves and their friends, mortal eyes cannot see.  Others sit in corners or with their backs to a wall wearing an expression of polite vacancy.  It may appear nothing is going on behind those eyes, but I have talked with some and if you have the good fortune to pick the right time, their humanity comes through loud and clear. 

These folks present an extremely difficult challenge for the staff. There are never enough resources, and some resources and policies are out of date. History shows that regardless of the political party in power, when budgets are trimmed, social services go first.  When Assisted Living and State Mental Hospitals monies run out the psychologically challenged are literally turned out on the streets.  In fairness, if there is a demonstrated danger to themselves or others, some are kept housed, some locked up. 

  Sadly, mental illness which goes untreated get worse for the individual and society.  When they are turned out, many lose or run out of their medications. Often, lacking the mental and or financial ability to refill their prescriptions, they turn to alcohol and or street drugs to help them cope.  This brings them into contact with the predators of the streets. 

Here in the “Zone” no one is surprised when a man or woman shows up in the food or service lines with cuts, bruises or a cast, the result of having been assaulted.  Violence is commonplace here on the streets and although the Police and Sheriff Departments patrol the area, it is impossible to be everywhere, all the time. It is worse for the homeless women. Stories of assaults and rapes are common.

A common misperception of the homeless is that we are lazy, and on drugs and alcohol.  Yes, some are. But many I have talked with ‘just want to work’.  At this shelter, and the others I have stayed at, the greatest need is employment.  There are many agencies and churches that provide food and clothing – they even park outside the property and give the stuff away.  But I have yet to come across a church or other social organization that will risk employing us. 

 

 There are “Temporary/Day Labor Agencies that fill this void but pay minimum wages while billing the company at twice or three times the minimum.  Rarely are there enough jobs to go around. We take these dirty, sometimes dangerous jobs since something is better than nothing. Working for a couple days a week at minimum wage gets most through the week. Some homeless find regular jobs but most don’t.  Some are not physically able to work, others have outdated technical skills.  Many have worked labor jobs all their lives.  After a few years of living this way, even the most open-minded person becomes bitter.  It is easy to begin to blame people, places, and things.  As the days of homelessness flow into months and years, even the minimum social skills required to seek and hold a job dwindle.  In today’s economic climate, a man or woman who has a car, home, “cell phone” and a stable work history often finds it challenging to find a job. 

Rumors abound here in the “Zone”.  The current rumor is that tomorrow morning a man will be looking for a few people to hold signs…he pays seven dollars an hour. I need to see if I have a clean pair of pants.  I’ll get up at three-thirty am and be standing on the dirt patch across from the scrapyard before four…