Just say hi
Photo by Zac Durant on Unsplash
I drove by a homeless man today sitting in front of a drug store entrance with a cardboard sign. When two people walked out, he smiled brightly and greeted them. They in return averted their eyes, pretended not to see him, and shuffled quickly away.
What would it be like to have your presence invalidated all the time? For people to not see you?
I live in a city where many complain of a “homeless problem.”
“Some people just don’t want to be helped,” they say.
I have heard kindhearted people dehumanize the homeless. Making jokes, even taking photos of them while they’re sleeping, without consent, and posting the photos on social media for laughs. (Laughs, to my horror, which they get!)
I was at a summer street festival with a group of friends when they spotted some punky street youth. Two people in our group sneaked up behind them and started exaggeratedly sniffing around. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Wanting no part of this, I separated from the group.
When I think of the homeless, I think how easily I could have been one of them. If I didn’t have the means to pay for my medication. If my parents hadn’t been there to take care of me when I was diagnosed. If I had gotten lost in the streets during an episode, I could easily have been wandering the world alone, not knowing where I am.
Out of over half a million homeless people surveyed, “…25% of the American homeless… were seriously mentally ill at any given point in time. 45% of the homeless had a form of mental illness.” – Mental Illness Policy Org.
I could easily be one of them.
I think of all the people who were dealt a less fortunate hand in life. For example, the kids in foster care who get bounced from home to home and never adopted.
“Approximately 400,000 youth are currently in foster care in the United States. Approximately 20,000 of those youth age-out each year without positive familial supports or any family connection at all. Within 18 months of emancipation 40-50% of foster youth become homeless.” – Foster Focus
I think of Summer from my high school, a sweet bespectacled girl with a brown hair and an easy smile. I didn’t know she was in the state’s care until she’d run away from her foster home, never to return.
Trying to protect me, my parents always taught me not to make eye contact with people who live in the streets. Avoiding them was to avoid potential unpleasant confrontation. I grew up practicing this until college when I decided it sounded fun to volunteer at a soup kitchen. I expected to make dozens of sandwiches and dole out bowls of steaming soup, which I did. What I did not expect was to sit among the homeless people partaking the meals. Over time, mutually therapeutic bonds formed over casual conversations and laughs over cheesy dad jokes. They were just normal people. They were not there to hurt me or rob me. I didn’t need to fear them or put up extra armor to be in their proximity just because they were homeless.
I’m very lucky that my college scholarship program furthered my education by hosting a speaker series on homelessness curated by a caring former mayor. There were panels made up of homeless people and I obnoxiously peppered them with endless, inappropriate questions, like, “How did you end up with SEVEN kids while homeless?”
Looking back with more maturity and perspective, I am mortified by my naive questions. But I’m glad I asked them. They helped me peel back the layers of misunderstanding, fear, and mystery. My bold and insensitive questions allowed me to really learn the story behind a strong, devoted mother who would do anything for her children, who herself, starving, started drinking hard alcohol at age 5 because that was the only source of sustenance in her neglected home.
The speaker series provided a safe space that allowed me to ask my judgmental questions, to really listen to the people kind and patient enough to educate me and delivered me to a place of compassion. To a place where when I meet a person who lives in the streets, I can smile, look them in the eyes, and just say hi.
