Most street people have an interesting relationship with the world's religions, because they are constantly being offered help and counsel from the local chapters of every temple imaginable. Furthermore, the homeless have a lot of issues that most religions try to answer:
"Who are we?"
"Why am I suffering so much?"
"Doesn't anybody care?"
While everybody asks these questions, the crisis of homelessness perhaps cranks up the heat a little. It's interesting how being in basic survival mode every day can still leave you enough room to be philosophical and spiritual. A lot of social workers and street outreach people would say that basic needs should be a priority; funds should go primarily to blankets, food, shelter, etc. While I agree that raw resources are important, I think the philosophical/spiritual needs are also significant, and the functional approach ignores them. Plain old secular pragmaticism is not enough, it seems.
I have shifted my opinion on religion quite a few times. At one point, I was a born-again Christian, living on the street, and trying to get all my friends to join the church. At another point, I was practicing Buddhist meditation. At other times, I was spewing atheist rhetoric about churches exploiting homeless people, and taking a Marxist "Opiate of the masses" stance on things.
At this point, I don't care where it comes from, I want people to help in whatever capacity they can. They can pick their own reasons for helping. The problem is so massive and threatening, that I find little space for my judgments about why a particular person is involved. I like the compassionate attitude that religious people try to demonstrate, and I know from my own religious experiences that they are doing what they think is right. I also believe that though each belief system has components that I may or may not agree with, they all have universal themes of compassion, humility, and courage that directly address the spiritual needs of the street person in crisis. Religion also makes a great substitute for client-centered counseling, which sadly doesn't get funded very often.
Similarly, I couldn't care less if a politician funds a new housing project because of a looming election. Most who work on the ground in homelessness solutions would be happy to take the funds. To me, it doesn't matter why you do it, and it doesn't even matter what need you are addressing, spiritual or functional. I just want you to get out there and show them you are thinking about them in some small way. The most important message that you could have sent me when I was homeless was that you noticed me. The other details are not as important as you think they are.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
My Story 1
I was looking over my previous posts, and I realized that I haven't said much about my past. I want to take some time to tell you part of my story now:
I was born into a single parent family, consisting of my Mother, my older half-sister, and me. My sister's father was a deadbeat alcoholic, and my father was a deadbeat alcoholic, so my mother took care of us with the assistance of what was then called "welfare." She was a hardcore biker lady, who frequented the worst pubs and bars. I'm talking about those places that always have grand names like "The King Edward," or the "Royal York," but smell like a bathroom, inside and out. These places always had the two doors: one for "gentlemen," and one for "ladies and escorts," a product of a long-gone era. My sister and I were the two stringy-haired kids sitting on the curb outside these holes, waiting for our mother inside. Though the image of kids waiting for their parents outside a bar would shock the modern world, back in the seventies it was somehow more acceptable. Besides, we kids knew how to make up good stories for anybody who asked us what we were doing.
My mother was "cool," in fact, she was beyond cool. She had curly black hair down to her waist, leather "bitch boots," and the finest quality leather biker jacket. She could walk into a bar she had never been in before, sit down with the a bunch of bikers, and say "What the fuck are you looking at? Buy me a beer!" She always brought home the most interesting characters: guitar players, warlocks, psychics, and poets-- all of them wearing black leather jackets. I'll talk about her life a bit more later, but it will suffice to say she was not ready to be a parent.
My sister Sherri, being nearly 3 years older, filled the gap my mother left by looking after me a lot. She was a gorgeous girl. Every school we went to immediately placed her in the number one popularity spot. Not only was she one of the best-looking girls, she was always taller, more developed, and stronger than her peers. I've read some literature about girls in poverty hitting puberty faster, and I believe it-- Sherri looked like a woman at 13. She bailed me out of more conflicts with bullies than I can count, and at certain points, I could terrorize bullies by merely mentioning her name. Sherri always knew what to do. We went hungry a lot, and she would borrow money from her richer school friends, or sneak food out of their houses. She was like any typical kid raising a kid, though: I didn't have a set bedtime, or chores. I didn't even have to brush my teeth. Sherri was my best friend, and we spent hours being just plain silly and talking about what we were going to do when we got out of this mess.
We moved a LOT. I remember going to more than 25 different elementary schools. I'm sure there were more than 25, but my memories are just a big, fuzzy mess of teachers and bits of curriculum. Of course I never finished a grade legitimately, and the schools that we attended just placed Sherri and I in the grades that we were supposed to be in, according to our ages. I don't remember my teachers from elementary at all... not a one. I can't even put a rough sketch of a face to any of them. They passed through my life like the river of social workers and cops that surrounded my family.
I'll bet you're wondering how my mother kept the courts and the system at bay, since our migration patterns were obviously damaging and one would think that my sister and I would have been placed in care after the 10th move. My mother was a master of deception, flying beneath the radar by changing welfare workers, and making up stories to every new one. She was terrified at the prospect of us kids being taken away, and she made damn sure we knew how to lie to the cops and the social workers as soon as we learned how to speak. Mostly, she hid us from the system by moving every few months, which I guess stumped the Canadian government agencies. She probably couldn't have done the same today, but I'm sure that there are a few kids that slipping through the cracks for different reasons.
So my early childhood was a blur of nomadic slum living, dotted with some really damaging neglectful behaviour on the part of my mother, and held together by my strong older sister. There is so much more, but right now I feel I have said enough...
Derek
I was born into a single parent family, consisting of my Mother, my older half-sister, and me. My sister's father was a deadbeat alcoholic, and my father was a deadbeat alcoholic, so my mother took care of us with the assistance of what was then called "welfare." She was a hardcore biker lady, who frequented the worst pubs and bars. I'm talking about those places that always have grand names like "The King Edward," or the "Royal York," but smell like a bathroom, inside and out. These places always had the two doors: one for "gentlemen," and one for "ladies and escorts," a product of a long-gone era. My sister and I were the two stringy-haired kids sitting on the curb outside these holes, waiting for our mother inside. Though the image of kids waiting for their parents outside a bar would shock the modern world, back in the seventies it was somehow more acceptable. Besides, we kids knew how to make up good stories for anybody who asked us what we were doing.
My mother was "cool," in fact, she was beyond cool. She had curly black hair down to her waist, leather "bitch boots," and the finest quality leather biker jacket. She could walk into a bar she had never been in before, sit down with the a bunch of bikers, and say "What the fuck are you looking at? Buy me a beer!" She always brought home the most interesting characters: guitar players, warlocks, psychics, and poets-- all of them wearing black leather jackets. I'll talk about her life a bit more later, but it will suffice to say she was not ready to be a parent.
My sister Sherri, being nearly 3 years older, filled the gap my mother left by looking after me a lot. She was a gorgeous girl. Every school we went to immediately placed her in the number one popularity spot. Not only was she one of the best-looking girls, she was always taller, more developed, and stronger than her peers. I've read some literature about girls in poverty hitting puberty faster, and I believe it-- Sherri looked like a woman at 13. She bailed me out of more conflicts with bullies than I can count, and at certain points, I could terrorize bullies by merely mentioning her name. Sherri always knew what to do. We went hungry a lot, and she would borrow money from her richer school friends, or sneak food out of their houses. She was like any typical kid raising a kid, though: I didn't have a set bedtime, or chores. I didn't even have to brush my teeth. Sherri was my best friend, and we spent hours being just plain silly and talking about what we were going to do when we got out of this mess.
We moved a LOT. I remember going to more than 25 different elementary schools. I'm sure there were more than 25, but my memories are just a big, fuzzy mess of teachers and bits of curriculum. Of course I never finished a grade legitimately, and the schools that we attended just placed Sherri and I in the grades that we were supposed to be in, according to our ages. I don't remember my teachers from elementary at all... not a one. I can't even put a rough sketch of a face to any of them. They passed through my life like the river of social workers and cops that surrounded my family.
I'll bet you're wondering how my mother kept the courts and the system at bay, since our migration patterns were obviously damaging and one would think that my sister and I would have been placed in care after the 10th move. My mother was a master of deception, flying beneath the radar by changing welfare workers, and making up stories to every new one. She was terrified at the prospect of us kids being taken away, and she made damn sure we knew how to lie to the cops and the social workers as soon as we learned how to speak. Mostly, she hid us from the system by moving every few months, which I guess stumped the Canadian government agencies. She probably couldn't have done the same today, but I'm sure that there are a few kids that slipping through the cracks for different reasons.
So my early childhood was a blur of nomadic slum living, dotted with some really damaging neglectful behaviour on the part of my mother, and held together by my strong older sister. There is so much more, but right now I feel I have said enough...
Derek
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Involving Healthy People
I have a problem with the gurus of the world, that is, the folks who reach a level of understanding that drives them to climb the nearest mountain and stay up there meditating for the rest of their lives. I am talking about the people who live healthy and enlightened lives, and remove themselves from those who are unhealthy. We live in a society that stresses the importance of "choosing the right people" to associate with. While I agree that we have to remove ourselves from negativity at times, I am frustrated and saddened when I see the lost souls who have exhausted all resources, and can't even get another human to talk with them for 5 minutes. All the gurus on all the mountains could be leaders, but they choose to quietly smile at the suffering world. While I admire this quality of non-attachment, and I have even strived to attain it at times, part of me still thinks we have to keep our feet in the world. Buddhists have, for example, the concept of the "bodhisattva," the person who can attain enlightenment, but will not enter nirvana by choice; he/she longs to teach others and help those who do not understand. The bodhisattva stays in the world to help others. To me, this is the ultimate in compassion. Christians also have a similar concept in "spreading the gospel." I'm sure all spiritual movements have some mention of the enlightened soul who is devoted to helping others after enlightenment. It makes sense, doesn't it? Who will teach if all the learners leave upon completion of their lessons?
Statistically speaking, if you take a random sample of 100 people in Canada, maybe 10 or 20 people will need a great deal of emotional support and resources (I'm really just guesssing here). Some of these people may have never been taught basic life skills. Maybe 10 or 20 of these people will be gifted, happy, blessed souls, and the rest are somewhere in between. It simply makes sense for the healthier folks to be supportive to the less fortunate. I think for the most part, really well-developed people help out the community... a lot of them volunteer, donate, and teach where they can. Yet there is an idea out there that nothing can be done about the suffering of humans, and that the wisest choice is an a-political, passive, and removed position on the more controversial parts of our society. Furthermore, many of the people who are "half-healthy" (if I can use this silly term) are either trying to "remove themselves from negativity," or do not believe that they are "ready" enough to help.
So you have a hundred people who are all separated from each other, when they could be digging in and connecting. On the street, people have learned to find counsellors and teachers within their own communities: one street person will emotionally support another. When I lived on the street, I saw all the roles of society carried out on a miniature level; there were "counsellors," and "preachers," "political activists," and "educators." Because the rest of society has exiled the street community, it makes do in whatever way it can. Unfortunately, the advice you receive is a little warped. "Counselling sessions" can be done over a bottle wine, and political activism might involve smashing the window of a government office(not incredibly effective). In many cases, it was just the blind leading the blind. There were a few genuine helpers who were not in crisis themselves, but they were so overwhelmed with the great need around them that they couldn't spend much time with their street clients.
We need the gurus to get off their yoga mats and befriend some struggling people, really. To me, it's part of the spiritual journey. We also need some of those average folks to admit that they are ready enough to help in some small way. Forget donating, go out and spend five minutes with somebody you would normal filter out of your life. We're all connected, so in a way, that's YOU sitting on the sidewalk needing help, and you are about to walk by and pretend you didn't see yourself.
Statistically speaking, if you take a random sample of 100 people in Canada, maybe 10 or 20 people will need a great deal of emotional support and resources (I'm really just guesssing here). Some of these people may have never been taught basic life skills. Maybe 10 or 20 of these people will be gifted, happy, blessed souls, and the rest are somewhere in between. It simply makes sense for the healthier folks to be supportive to the less fortunate. I think for the most part, really well-developed people help out the community... a lot of them volunteer, donate, and teach where they can. Yet there is an idea out there that nothing can be done about the suffering of humans, and that the wisest choice is an a-political, passive, and removed position on the more controversial parts of our society. Furthermore, many of the people who are "half-healthy" (if I can use this silly term) are either trying to "remove themselves from negativity," or do not believe that they are "ready" enough to help.
So you have a hundred people who are all separated from each other, when they could be digging in and connecting. On the street, people have learned to find counsellors and teachers within their own communities: one street person will emotionally support another. When I lived on the street, I saw all the roles of society carried out on a miniature level; there were "counsellors," and "preachers," "political activists," and "educators." Because the rest of society has exiled the street community, it makes do in whatever way it can. Unfortunately, the advice you receive is a little warped. "Counselling sessions" can be done over a bottle wine, and political activism might involve smashing the window of a government office(not incredibly effective). In many cases, it was just the blind leading the blind. There were a few genuine helpers who were not in crisis themselves, but they were so overwhelmed with the great need around them that they couldn't spend much time with their street clients.
We need the gurus to get off their yoga mats and befriend some struggling people, really. To me, it's part of the spiritual journey. We also need some of those average folks to admit that they are ready enough to help in some small way. Forget donating, go out and spend five minutes with somebody you would normal filter out of your life. We're all connected, so in a way, that's YOU sitting on the sidewalk needing help, and you are about to walk by and pretend you didn't see yourself.
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