Kids on the streets are a whole different breed. And when I say “kids,” I mean adolescents. Most of them, I fear, are out there because they have lived with such shocking abuses at home that whatever evils they meet in the streets couldn’t possibly be worse than what happened to them at home. Some are on drugs. Some have been out there for years. It’s not unusual to talk to a seventeen-year-old who will tell you that he or she has been out there for four or five years. They have no desire to go home, and will grow up on the streets, doing what they can to survive. Many have come from other places and cities; some want to go back home but can’t afford to or organize it. They tend to stay in groups. I have never seen an adolescent alone or even with adults. They almost always tell you that they are older than they are. Almost all believe that they will “get it together” one day, and many can, with the right help from the right hands. They have a sturdy, determined look about them. Life is still ahead of them, and despite whatever hardships they’ve encountered, many will survive.
They were the hardest for me to walk away from when we left, because they reminded me so much of my children, and I wished we could do more for them, although they were often leery of us. They didn’t want to be taken anywhere, sent home, or dragged off the streets against their will. The one thing I always did was call a remarkable San Francisco organization called Larkin Street Youth Services, which is set up to assist young people with medical care, shelter, education, finding jobs, drug treatment or rehab, a program for kids with AIDS, or reunification with their families if desirable. Their street teams reach out both with vehicles and on foot, and I always let them know the location of young people I saw, knowing they would go out to them. I hoped the street teams could talk them into going inside. Sometimes they succeeded and sometimes they didn’t, but they always tried.
So running into adolescents was rare for us. On one particular night we were in a back alley, and I can’t remember if it was a tent or pile of cardboard boxes we spotted, but out of it emerged a couple of teenagers about sixteen or eighteen right out of a movie or off a CD cover or on MTV. I had never seen such dazzling punk gear in my life: spikes and chains, leather and red plaid. The girl was wearing a pair of knee-high combat boots. He had a towering mohawk that was glued into place. They had piercings and tattoos on every surface, but in their own crazy way, they were so beautiful to look at, and so extreme, that all of us smiled. We chatted with them for a while, gave them our stuff, and didn’t intrude on them further. They wanted no additional help. And in their own outrageous way, they were one of the prettiest sights of the night. They weren’t God’s Last-Stop Curve Ball—we came upon them halfway through the night and they boosted our spirits for a long time.
There are a thousand other such stories, all of them gut-wrenching, touching, funny, devastating, heartbreaking, like the woman who leapt up from her rags and boxes in a doorway and said, “How did you know? It’s my birthday!” She was ecstatic, and we all hugged her and wished her a happy birthday. One man was totally encased in a roll of tin foil he had found, to keep warm. We saw a woman with a dozen cats who we saw for close to a year, all of them on leashes. I was always afraid of the dogs out there. The people I met made their way into my heart within minutes, but their pit bulls and hungry mongrels never did. We had enough to think about, without worrying about getting attacked by dogs. I like dogs and have several of my own, but the dogs we saw on the streets scared me. The team often laughed at me for it. Show me a guy who looks like he might kill you, and most of the time, I could stand my ground. But show me a dog who bares his fangs at me, and I would run like hell, and babysit the doughnuts till the rest of the team got back. Yeah, okay, and I ate a couple of the chocolate ones with sprinkles while I waited. No one’s perfect.
SIX
Some Scary Moments
Not everyone we met on the street was friendly, though we were remarkably lucky and had very few incidents. On the whole, people met us with kindness and gratitude, and sometimes concern for us. And then there were a few who reminded us to keep our guard up, and be alert and watchful. We were venturing into someone else’s world, and a hard one. We could have easily become targets for someone’s anger or frustration or fear. There were areas we stayed out of by unanimous consent, as I’ve mentioned. We also decided, after a few unnerving experiences, to avoid places where people were living in cars, old trucks, or school buses. The danger for us there was that we couldn’t see who was inside, how many, or what was coming at us when the doors opened and they came out. I liked working outdoors, seeing a wide area where I was working, and who was around me, and who was running toward us. I don’t like surprises, and those buses and trucks were an invitation to bad surprises. After a few of those, we decided to avoid them. On the whole, we were pretty brave about the areas we ventured into. Some of what we did was just plain foolish, done in innocence and determination. But we were clearly blessed, and most of our clients were incredibly wonderful people. And sometimes even the less wonderful ones provided a certain kind of blessing.
We often reminded each other to look out for weapons as best we could. I suspect that many of the people we dealt with carried them, anything from handguns to knives and even razors. I have seen razors flashed next to a pant leg, then quietly slipped into a pocket. We were aware. But we also posed no threat. We wanted nothing from them—we gave, we didn’t take. But in the case of someone mentally unstable, particularly if you startle, frighten, or worry them unduly, you can easily set them off. We gave plenty of warning as we approached, with that resounding “Yo!” We stayed plainly visible, we announced what we had to offer, and theoretically there was safety in numbers. There were almost always eleven of us in three vans, although admittedly once out of the vans, we spread out. We didn’t mean to, and we tried to stay in pairs or groups, but sometimes there were too many people, spread out themselves, who needed us, or we drove into someplace darker than we expected, or there were thirty people hidden in the darkness when we thought there were only two or three. We took our chances on the streets like everyone else, no matter how careful we were.
The composition of the permanent team of Yo! Angel! was racially varied, so people were likely to be comfortable with some of us and not others. But there was a face and style for everyone. We were one North African, two Asian (one Japanese, one Chinese)—although you almost never see Asians homeless on the streets—two Hispanics, and six Caucasians. Of the eleven who composed the permanent team, three were women, eight were men. So there was pretty much a flavor, nationality, style, and gender for everyone’s preferences about who to deal with. And we worked wonderfully as a team, and loved each other. The work we shared for so long was a powerful bond between us. We considered our street work a sacred engagement. Most of us just about never missed it, except in an emergency. My guess is that in eleven years, we each missed it once, twice at the most, and only for injury or illness. I stayed home once for a bad back, and worked on the streets with a cast on my leg for six months, with a torn Achilles tendon. None of us ever wanted to miss those nights, for whatever reason. We tried to get out to the streets about once a month from September through May.
The scary moments were overwhelmingly outweighed by the wonderful ones, for all of us. We acknowledged the hard incidents, and learned from them. In our very early days, we walked into a situation that looked like a fairly large and mixed group, and within minutes we realized that we had wandered into a group of homeless people being robbed by a bunch of young predators. It was a lesson for us, that the weakest and most unfortunate are preyed on by others who take what little they have. There is definitely a pecking order on the streets. We walked into the midst of that group like innocents, smiling happily at those we were about to help, as one of the predators looked at me and rolled his eyes. I was dressed in rough clothes, looking plain but clean, but probably even in my roughest gear, work boots and an old parka and wool cap, I looked pretty civilized. The leader of the predatorial group glanced at me
in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a wry grin, as we all realized the mistake we’d made. Trying to stop what was happening would have been too dangerous for us. We couldn’t and we didn’t, although I was sad about it. I explained rather nervously that we had brought some things to give away. He asked if there was enough for them, and we nodded. “Okay, leave some for us too, and go,” he ordered. He was laughing by then, and even their victims were smiling a little. We must have looked pretty silly, Goody Two Shoes and Her Band of Merry Men walking right smack into the middle of something where we didn’t belong and that was potentially very dangerous for us.
We left enough for everyone and got out quickly. We felt bad about the homeless people being ripped off, but we were extremely grateful that we hadn’t been attacked. It was an early lesson in awareness on the streets. In some areas, even angels have to watch their backs. And it was a good warning to us to be more careful in the future. We constantly reminded each other to stay alert. It was easy to get too comfortable and cocky. That’s usually when bad things happen.
Another time, I managed to get myself trapped at the back of the van, while waiting for clients. The person standing on the street, handing things out at the back of the van, ran the risk of being shoved up against it and getting squashed, if the recipients got too anxious or were too numerous. It was best not to be back there alone. I think Jane was standing near me, but everyone else had fanned out to find people as much as a block away. We were handing out stuff as fast as we could. I noticed, farther back in the line pressing against us, a man with intent, piercing eyes. He looked angry and nervous, and hostility oozed from him as I noticed his hand go to his waistband and adjust something. It could have been a gun, but whatever it was, he was suddenly right up against me, looking down at me with an expression of suspicion and fury. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, referring to the things we were handing out. “Because I want to,” I said as calmly as I could. “I think it’s important and people need what we have to give.” He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, his eyes boring into mine, as I thought, Shit, this guy is going to kill me. We were belly to belly with a crowd pressing up behind him. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to make him angrier than he was, and then suddenly his hand left his waistband. He nodded, took what I’d been handing him, and glanced at me one last time as he murmured, “God bless you, Sister.”
My knees were shaking when he left, and it was one of those times when I wondered if I was crazy to be out there, and asked myself what I was doing. Was our outreach work insanity or blessing? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. But I do know that I was braver on the streets than I have ever been anywhere—within reason, and with good friends close at hand. I wouldn’t have done it alone, and couldn’t have anyway, not on the scale we did. Although I’ll admit, on very cold or rainy nights, I sometimes went out alone with supplies to give away. I couldn’t stand lying in my comfy bed, thinking about them and not doing something about it.
On another night, we were handing things out on Market Street. We had stopped to help a few homeless people in a doorway, and somehow in the wide expanse of open space on that street, people saw us, understood what we were doing, and came running. We were literally mobbed. Too many wanted too much and came at us too quickly. We had agreed on a signal if there was trouble. No questions asked, move fast, all we had to say was “Go! Go! Go!!” and talk about it later. Someone said it, Randy, I think, and we jumped into the vans, slammed the doors, and drove off, with people running after us. If they had been able to yank the doors open, they would have. But Younes, Paul, and either Bob or Tony were too fast for them. We took off like bats out of hell, and stayed off Market Street after that. It was too wide open, and we were too visible. The danger there was too great for us. We stuck to smaller, darker streets, where the challenges we were likely to meet were easier to control.
Probably one of the scariest nights, although nothing happened to us directly, made us realize how much danger we could be in. We ventured way too close to the infamous Sixth Street. Randy had warned us over and over we’d get hurt for sure if we went there, so we never did. But we were admittedly in the midst of the action that night, and felt uneasy. We saw some homeless people in doorways as we drove by so we made some quick drop-offs and took off.
Minutes later, police cars were whizzing by us. A lot of them. Helping the homeless is not illegal, but it is frowned on by local government, and at first we thought the police might be after us. We had researched the legalities of what we were doing before we even started. I knew for certain we were breaking no laws, absolutely none. But all city agencies, including the police, took a dim view of anyone helping the homeless. We were committing more of an unspoken city taboo than breaking any law, but we knew we’d get hassled if we got caught. I even wondered if they might throw me in jail, just to scare me. And I had long since volunteered to be the one to go, if that happened. After all, it was my fault we were doing it, so I was willing to go to jail, if need be. The four of our crew who were off-duty cops weren’t breaking any laws or police rules either, but it was an unusual thing for them to do, so it might win them some heat. So for all those reasons, we had always avoided the police when we saw them. And that night, they were whizzing past us in droves.
A few phone calls to the right people informed us that someone had just been killed, literally a few feet from where we’d been working. The police were looking for the killer, still thought to be in the area. Another big wake-up call for us. People die on the streets, not just from starvation, exposure, infected wounds, or diseases. They also die from gunshot wounds and stabbings. It was sobering to think about. We finished handing out our supplies a few blocks away, and went home like chastised children. A little more careful, please! We got the message, and were grateful that our instincts had led us to move on.
SEVEN
Supplies … and Teddy Bears
As things do in a conscientiously run operation, whatever its kind, we evolved, and the nature and number of supplies we gave out altered over time. It took us, or me, a while to figure out what our mission really was, beyond the original message to “help the homeless.” The question was, how? And what was our goal? We weren’t in a position to change their situation, to get them off the streets permanently, house them, detox them when necessary, or train them for jobs. We couldn’t solve the broader problem of homelessness, even with eleven loving hearts and four vanloads of supplies. Our nights on the street were both magical and grueling. And our mission to keep homeless people alive for as long as possible, until someone more skilled could help them in concrete ways, worked well for them and for us, for a long time.
At one point, a friend of mine started a small bicoastal program to job-train the most eligible homeless. It was a worthy cause, but for me it was still “creaming.” He was scooping the best of the best off the top, the most functional people he could train for jobs, and was successfully getting them off the streets, long-term at times. Saving a dozen people from the streets per year was a big victory for him. And no question, saving one person is worthwhile. We were serving 250 to 300 a night, ten or twelve times a year, but admittedly not getting them off the streets. I pointed out to him once that his mission and mine were typical of a father and mother. He was urging them to get an education and a job; I was more concerned with keeping them warm, dry, well fed, and alive. In truth, they needed both of us.
Once I was clear about our mission, we began to hone in on what was needed to help people stay alive. Experience was our best teacher. The supplies we started out with were very basic, and sometimes it took a while for us to figure out what was most useful. The homeless themselves taught us. It was important to me from the beginning to give them clean, new, high-quality things. I didn’t want to give them cast-offs, old clothes that didn’t fit and were already worn or dirty, or poor-quality goods that would fall apart. We always gave away first-rate, durable supplies, which added immeasurably t
o our costs. The first thing we added, after the first miserable winter of driving rains, was a rain poncho. There was no point giving them warm jackets if they were going to be soaked to the skin shortly after, while their new jackets turned into sponges. A rain poncho seemed essential. One night, an older man asked if we had a warm scarf. That was an easy addition and made sense to us too. Jane, with her retailing experience, was extraordinary at finding the best quality and best deals, and ordering supplies.
We then ordered a waterproof tarp to cover the sleeping bags, and another to put underneath it. By then, our supplies were really all over the vans, and it was nearly impossible for us to find the bits and pieces—and even harder for someone to juggle it all as they walked back to their camps. It became clear to us that we needed a bag to carry it all when they left us. Jane found a good one, a big black nylon bag that held everything we gave them. A whole other team packed the bags on weekends in my garage.
In order to identify the size of the clothing in our bags, we tied yellow ribbons on the handles for medium, red for large, and blue for extra large. It made distributing the bags easier and more efficient. We had stopped ordering women’s sizes by then—we saw too few women, and gave them the men’s mediums instead. It worked. The bags were strong, serviceable, lightweight nylon. The color we ordered the first time, and stuck with thereafter, was black. Much of the time when people talked about us on the streets, they called us the “black bag people,” and over time, we became legendary. It thrilled me whenever I saw our bags on the street, around town, being pushed on carts, which happened a lot.
A Gift of Hope: Helping the Homeless Page 7