Spring Broke: Taking it to the streets

More stories soon. I promise. Graduating, finals, fundraising for a non-profit, securing freelance journalism jobs and moving can take its toll on a man.

Love,
Ryan

Because of this, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback. Thank you all for the suggestions. They’ve been duly noted.

People are all about talk in our generation…especially in our American evangelical setting. There’s bible studies every day of the week, conferences, lectures, books…you want to hear someone talk about God or if you want to read about God, Western civilization’s got something for you.

I don’t think God gives two shits about our talking any longer.

I see couples who are friends of mine who say they grow closer to one another through things like daily bible studies and devotions together, but when it’s time to get up early in the morning and paint a house or build a wheelchair ramp or plant a garden or do some service, they’re too tired from talking until four in the morning the night before with “the one God has set aside for them.”

I call bullshit.

How about basing your faith in action? How about founding your relationship on something like going every day for an hour of tutoring at a local elementary school? Not to say seeking Truth (with a capital T, but we’ll get into that later) through studying/discussing/struggling with/debating the Word is a bad thing…but when it’s the only thing you do, what kind of fruit are you bearing?

We’re a generation that does a lot of talking and if we followed it up with just as much action, we’d be doing so much more to build up the communities around us.

And as cheesy and “Christian” as it sounds, the kingdom is advancing, and we need to be a part of that advancement. People need Jesus, but they need a roof too. People need to read the Gospels, but they need food. People need to obey the laws of Moses but they need a hug and a bike and a dollar.

Our generation needs to get it out of their fucking head that simply accepting Jesus into their life is the last step. That He’s going to make everything all flowers and dewdrops. Jesus is going to make things hard. Really hard. Really frickin’ hard. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the same line peddled to me: “I’ve never been happier than when I was a Christian.” Then you’re not a fucking Christian. You’re not sacrificing yourself to the fullest to love those around you.

There’s women in my life I could lust after. My finances are going to the shitter and stealing some food would make things a hell of a lot easier. I could probably get away with it too. I could probably cheat on my girlfriend too and boy would that night be awesome. Before Jesus, I could have done all of these things and it would have made me feel oh-so-much happier.

Not anymore. He’s going to put stuff in front of us that make us weep and wail but He’s going to give us ample opportunity to grow as a result of the perseverance that comes from accomplishing it. And He’s going to give us a never-ending fountain of strength and energy and encouragement to draw from to walk down those paths.

He’s going to be a lamp unto our feet, He’s not going to be a moving sidewalk and do all the work for us.

Sadly, it’s the people farthest removed from the Church who are showing some of the best examples of Love (again, capital L). And if Christ is Love, then what does that say about us as Christians? It says we’re looking in the wrong direction.

We can learn a lot if we just get over this fear of being “tainted” by the secular community. Frankly, I want to get tainted. I think our American evangelical, Michael W. Smith-loving, fake-smiling, stab-you-in-the-back generation could stand to get a little tainted.

When you’re tainted you start yourself on a pathway of realization. You start to understand. You not only see what people are dealing with, you live through it.

I’m a man of action. Want to read a book. Read the epistle of James. Read about how James states over and over and motherfucking over how we’re supposed to be putting our fucking faith to the test through action. Love, love, love, rinse, repeat. It’s that simple, people.

And it doesn’t have to be service on Saturday morning. There’s a friend of mine who hates waking up early. He likes poker. He’s an excellent gambler and cards are his forte. He goes to the poker room every week, plays for a few hours, makes a few hundred dollars profit and donates it all to a shelter in Texas for women who are victims of domestic abuse.

Does he call himself a Christian? No. But he’s advancing the kingdom of God better than any of my friends who do identify themselves as one.

Love,
Ryan

This is my second draft. If you guys are willing to read the whole thing, let me know where I can improve this. Thanks, Ryan.

It is hours before sunrise on Wednesday morning and I am awakened by two raccoons crawling all over me.

I rip my sleeping bag off my shivering body, bolt out of my makeshift bed underneath the 312 bridge and scream as though the heavens above needed to hear my cries. I am alone. I am terrified. I am in over my head.

While fellow classmates were drinking their afternoons away on the beach during Flagler College’s spring break, I was taking the week-long vacation to answer a question: What’s it like to be homeless in St. Augustine? What better way to answer that question than go homeless for four days and nights?

After all, St. Augustine has shelters to protect those without homes. We’re a popular vacation spot, home to a multitude of tourists from which homeless can surely beg for enough money to eat and maybe get a cheap motel every once in a while. And it’s a warm, coastal city and it doesn’t seem to get too terribly cold here either. How bad could it truly get?

I learned it can be bad. I learned it can break a person’s heart. I learned there’s so much more we can be doing if only we tried.

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My experience started on a Monday evening. I had arranged to meet my host, Shamus, 41, at a gas station near his “home” underneath the 312 bridge.

Shamus is the epitome of what it means to be homeless in St. Augustine, a city he’s called home for the last four years. He’s a bald man with crooked teeth and a sunny disposition.

He, like many in St. Augustine’s homeless community, is a worldly man. He’s lived in or traveled to thirty-six states and fifteen countries.

He loves jumping into stories from his youth, something most homeless in St. Augustine are ready to do at a moment’s notice. He grew up in Pennsylvania, playing timpani drums in orchestras during high school. “I was invited to play in the Philadelphia Philharmonic for a summer,” he mentions as casually and wistfully as if he were describing the weather.

And like many in St. Augustine’s homeless community, he suffers from some sort of mental illness.

Shamus has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. According to the New York Times, paranoid schizophrenia most commonly manifests itself in auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions or disorganized speech and thought.

“Something I just can’t stand is when the people in this town just don’t understand you,” Shamus said as we got down to his makeshift camp under the 312 bridge and started setting up my bed for my first night’s sleep. “People yell ‘Hey, go get a job! Make something of yourself!’ They don’t about me. It’s hard. It’s hard for me.”

In a recent survey of 100 students and 25 small-business owners in St. Johns County, over 35% said they believed that the homeless “chose” their condition, one student saying that “if they weren’t so lazy, maybe they could get a job and get out of where they are.”

“People think I’m just lazy,” Shamus said. “I yell back, ‘I’m not lazy! I’m not lazy!’ They don’t get it. They just don’t get it. People think I chose this. People think, ‘He must choose this life.’”

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As I got to the gas station, Shamus said the first thing we should do is eat some dinner.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Shamus said as he peddled away on his bike.

“Where to,” I asked, trying to keep up on the beach cruiser I had brought for the week.

“I’m in the mood for chicken. Let’s go to KFC,” Shamus said with a grin creeping its way onto his face.

As we arrived at a nearby KFC restaurant, Shamus lifted the lid of the dumpster and jumped in.

“You chose a good night to start,” Shamus exclaimed.

“I’m not eating open containers of meat out of a dumpster,” I said.

“Then you’re going hungry,” he said.

“Can’t we go to a shelter downtown,” I inquired.

“Hell, no,” he said with a laugh. “There’s only room for a few of us there at night and they don’t open up to more unless it gets down to really cold temperatures.”

“Is there only one shelter in this whole town,” I asked worriedly.

“Yup,” he said. “We need more shelters, sure, but that doesn’t change the fact that if you want to eat, you’re going dumpster diving.”

“I’ll have some potatoes,” I conceded.

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As we make our way to camp underneath the 312 bridge, the temperature is near-freezing with the wind chill taking it well into the twenties. Shamus has another bit of wisdom to impart upon me.

“Take off one of your shirts,” he said. “You’re going to sweat too much. You can’t sweat too much when it’s this cold.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to sweat too much,” I asked.

“You sweat too much in freezing cold and the sweat will freeze,” Shamus explained. “I had a friend come out to camp a few months ago and almost die because he bundled up too tight. He woke up in a layer of frozen sweat. He nearly died from hypothermia.”

I went to sleep with one less shirt on.

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According to a 2007 survey by the Department of Children and Families and the Florida Coalition for the Homeless, there were an estimated 1,238 homeless in St. John’s County. Couple that with the fact that St. Augustine has only one true shelter for the homeless in the St. Francis House and you’ve got a lot of men and women braving the streets homeless, hungry, cold and tired.

“There’s really not a lot of relief for them,” Phil King, case manager of the St. Francis House, said. “We’re the only game in town and we have to serve thousands of people a year and with only a couple of full-time staff it can get truly overwhelming.”

“I was lucky enough to get a job as a server at Harry’s and that’s real fortunate for someone like me to get,” Jason, 31, said. “But I’ve got a shift tomorrow morning at 10:30 in the morning. At St. Francis [House] I can’t get a shower until at least 1:30 p.m. I need to smell good, but I need to get to my job. Do I show up smelling bad or do I not show up smelling good? There’s enough honest, hard-working people just struggling to survive that we can have another shelter or two.”

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For the next two days, Shamus wanted to have me talk to people he thought could give me more insight into life on the St. Augustine streets. We biked over to the bridge at the intersection of U.S. 1 and King St. As we hopped over the metal guard railing and walked down the rocks, I was introduced to a half-dozen people who slept under a bridge no higher than two feet.

“When it rains, it floods,” Kimmy, 32, said. “We have to get our stuff on out of here or we’ll get washed by this here garbage water.”

“They’ve made it so that we’re like cockroaches. You can’t sleep on the bay front. You can’t even sleep on the grass. When the sun goes down, we hide away like little animals,” a man known as Dragon, 35, said. “The city’s made it so that you can’t sleep anywhere. You can’t sleep in the gazebo. We have to sleep where we piss. We lay our head down in our own filth. What else do you do when you can’t find something to shield the wind at night?”

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There has been a progression of laws set forth by the city over the last three years specifically aimed at running the homeless out of town. No surprise as St. Augustine mayor Joe Boles was quoted in the Oct. 9 issue of Folio Weekly as calling the homeless “scary and creepy” and urging those at a City Commissioners meeting “to be compassionate, but [not] be crippled by that compassion.” Nearly two years ago, the city of St. Augustine made it illegal to sleep in the gazebo in the plaza downtown. Less than a year ago, the city outlawed sleeping in the square downtown from the hours of 2 – 6 a.m. Just recently, city law has made it illegal for the homeless to sleep anywhere at any time out in the open.

And because of the ordinances put in place by the city, the homeless in town are forced to set up camp miles from potential job opportunities.

“I had a job for a week or two, manual labor type stuff, but I had to set up camp miles from where my job was,” Dragon said. “I couldn’t make the trip every morning. They fired me. I’m sure if we could camp closer to town or if there were some sort of mass transportation in this town, I could have kept my job for a little bit longer. I might have even gotten off the streets and into some crappy housing.”

The laws put in place are doing nothing more than making it harder for these people to crawl out of the life they are so desperately living.

Perhaps mass transit is the answer. There are jobs available and people willing to work them, but because they’re forced to live under bridges where their sleep is continually interrupted by flooding, wild animals and other homeless intruders, they can’t make it to their jobs early in the morning.

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When I got back to camp, I easily fell asleep from a long day of biking around the city.

Not thirty minutes later, I was startled awake by a crash just inside camp. Raccoons and possums were fighting just feet away, screaming and hissing loudly, gnashing their teeth, clawing ferociously at one another. More raccoons joined the fight and a host of possums sprinted out of the nearby brush. In all, a dozen wild, potentially-rabid animals fought all over the camp as I attempted to defend myself with whatever blankets I had nearby.

After a half hour of fighting, the sun had gone down and it was dark save the moonlight on the rising tide just outside of camp. A shadowy figure made its way down the rocks and into camp.

“Shamus,” I called out.

No answer.

“Shamus,” I exclaimed.

The figure cocked its head and stared at me intently. He formed his crooked mouth into a smile, muttered to himself about demons, devils and pitchforks, walked in circles and then slowly back up the rocks.

It was at this moment that I knew Shamus was telling the truth when he said that he did not choose this life. I was so scared. I was so alone. Just two days in and I knew I would never choose this. No one would choose this fear. No one would choose this vulnerability. No one would choose this isolation.

The ignorance of St. Augustine’s residents and business owners was, and still is, mind-blowing. There was no help from the people in charge. No shelters or government-backed food drives. How can our local leaders see what’s going on around us and choose indifference? How can you truly think someone would choose this if there was another option available?

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In the morning, I made my way downtown and to St. George Street, the busiest street in St. Augustine and therefore the best chance to ask for some money and maybe buy some food and water. This was my first time panhandling without Shamus’ help.

As I made my way to a busy corner where I could park my bike and sit down, a woman was talking on her cell phone and ran directly into me.

“Sorry,” I said reflexively, not meaning it.

“Hey, you watch out for me, you hear me, boy” she exclaimed.

I could feel all of their eyes on me. Children pointed and giggled, men whispered to their wives, I heard one woman say into another’s ear, “They’re infesting this town.”

Dragon was right. They, we, are treated like cockroaches.

I had to get away. I had to ride my bike out of there. I went a mile down the road, sweating in the midday heat. I looked frantically for a water fountain or a public restroom to wash my face of the dirt and grime I had accumulated the previous days. But I couldn’t find a single public bathroom. Or water fountain.

“The only public restroom open twenty-four hours a day is the one at the Marina by the bay front,” Flagler senior Amy-Rose Simpson said. Simpson recently completed a dissertation on homelessness in St. Augustine for her degree in sociology at Flagler. “And water fountains are scarce as well. In a touristy city, you’d think there’d be more, but there’s not.”

According to the 2004 census, St. Augustine has a population just over 12,000. You’d think with thousands of tourists coming every week, and the only public restrooms in historic downtown closing at 5 p.m. daily there’d be more than one public restroom open all night. But there’s not.

“That’s an injustice not just to the homeless, but to all residents,” Simpson said.

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“You’re the first person to ever want to come out to my camp if even for a few days,” Shamus said on the fourth night, holding back tears. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”

And just as Shamus started to cry, so did I. They were tears I never thought I’d shed. A part of me actually wanted to stay. A part of me wanted to look after Shamus forever.

“You’re the first person in a long time to show us any love,” he said.

Hopefully I’m not the last.