She was sitting at one of our tables eating her third plate of pasta. A white lady with curly brown hair, she was skinny. Sickly skinny. Her coat looked like it was three sizes too big and her hair was matted against her face. Other than looking like absolute crap, she seemed in good spirits. She had managed to find her way indoors with a hot plate food and a new pair of socks.
The event is called Don’t Walk By. It is an annual collaboration experiment in New York City that is run by several Jesus-centered organizations that exist to help people escape the perils of homelessness. Every Saturday in February, hundreds of volunteers walk the streets of Manhattan looking for men and women with no place to sleep. Then the volunteers invite anyone who seems interested to a church fellowship hall where there is food, emergency supplies, and direct service providers who can help people get off the street.
That’s where I come in. I have been doing outreach in New York City for years and one of my primary areas of expertise is navigating the bureaucracy of social services. I once helped a friend’s daughter get admitted into a New York City detox within twenty-four hours by getting her evicted, fired, and transported across state lines. It worked. And yes, that is sometimes what it takes to help someone qualify for services that might save her life.
“Josiah, can you help my new friend. She wants to get off the street.” A volunteer led me to the table where she was sitting. “This is Josiah, he helps people in the street connect with resources.” The volunteer was already explaining the situation before I could say hello. The chair next to the skinny white woman with an extra large coat was empty.
“Do you mind if I sit?” The little things make a big difference.
Too many people make assumptions about homeless folks that negatively affect their ability to help.
One of the biggest problems is autonomy. Homeless people are often told where to go, what to do, and how to go about it. People who want to help assume that homeless people are willing to be helped and then everything just goes sideways. I always ask if I can sit down before actually joining someone at a table or on the sidewalk.
“Of course.” She gave me a big smile.
“Like this helpful person just said, my name is Josiah. What’s yours?” Another helpful place to start when you’re engaging someone in the street is simply to introduce yourself.
“Becky.” She replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Becky. Tell me a little about your current situation.” I always try to make it clear that I am not interested in anything other than what someone is willing to share. I have been with many people when they are doing intakes into shelters and rehabs where they literally ask questions about their medical history, criminal history, relational and religious history all within five minutes of learning their names. Sometimes, less is more.
“Well, I am sleeping in the street. I am a heroin addict.” She said it very matter of factly. Like she was saying, “I’m a pisces.” Or, “I’m a mechanic.” She then proceeded to lift up the sleeve of her massive coat and she showed me the track marks on her arms that were still actively bleeding. “I want help, but I can’t go to the hospital.”
“Oh yeah? Why not?” With heroin and homelessness, it’s likely the hospital would need to be her first stop. I could try to find a different option, but it wouldn’t be easy.
“I’ve been kicked out of every ER in New York City. I can’t go back there.”
“Bellevue?”
“Yep.”
“Beth Israel?”
“Yeah.”
“Metropolitan?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” She wasn’t kidding. There are more hospitals that I could try, but her unwillingness to give those a shot meant it was going to be an uphill battle. “I don’t suppose you have medicaid do you? A benefits card?”
“Nope. I got robbed in the train. And my medicaid is restricted to Bellevue. I won’t go there.” I could hear the resignation in her voice. I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to pull a rabbit out of the hat in this case.
“So your medicaid is restricted, you don’t have ID, you’re shooting heroin, and you won’t go to a hospital?” I was mostly just thinking out loud.
“I know. I don’t think there’s anyone out there who can help me.”
“You’re not making it easy for me, that's for sure!” I said it with a big smile on my face and she laughed with me. Making this kind of joke is risky in some situations, but humor can be relational gold when all someone knows is isolation and judgment.
“Would you be willing to try going cold turkey?” I knew it was a long shot. Cold turkey means just stopping outright. No medications, no tapering, no time to adjust. Just a long dark leap off the ledge of despair in the hopes of landing on your feet and preferably not in your own vomit.
“Nope. I tried that and I ended up getting so sick I thought I was going to die. Look, I know I am a hard case. I told the person who found you that there was nothing you guys could do. But she insisted. I am just grateful for the meal and the socks.” She smiled again.
“I really, really wish you’d let me take you to a hospital. I'll walk you in. They will have a really hard time kicking me out!”
Her smile this time meant that I was playing with the edge of her patience. You can't make someone do something they are unwilling to do.
And if you try, every credibility chip you've earned will be leveraged on the table of the experience that he or she has when they call your bluff and you take them to the ER. I was newer at the time, but I wasn't born yesterday.
I folded. “Can we at least clean up your arms?”
“Absolutely.” My wife was volunteering with us that night and she is a nurse. I got her attention and introduced her to Becky. Within a few minutes they were best friends. Chelsea cleaned up the bleeding and put on some bandages. My wife told her about our lives while she worked and Becky asked lots of questions about where we lived and what we like to do in our spare time. She loved hearing about our beagles and shared about her childhood pets that she had before her life had gone to hell.
She stayed until the very end. I tried to convince her to spend the night indoors at one of our programs for just one night. She declined that as well. When we were all done, I walked her to the door of the church and tragically realized that it was pouring outside. It was raining buckets. Hard. Most of the volunteers were collecting their umbrellas and running full speed to the subway platform a few blocks away.
“Do you want me to get you an umbrella?” Becky was literally walking out into the pouring rain with no place to go and no plan on how to get there.
“No, thank you.” She said.
Then Becky turned back to look at me and gave me one more smile, “Thanks for everything. Get home safe, Josiah.”
“You.. too…” I choked on the last word. It’s just what you say. But as Becky walked outside into the pouring rain and disappeared with no dry clothes, no hot shower, no private roof and no bed to crawl into, my heart buckled with shame. Shame for my provision, shame for my warm bed, my family, even my dogs! “Get home safe,” means so much more coming from her than any goodbye I had ever received. I would get home, sure. But my response to men and women stuck in the streets would never be the same.
