One Night in the City

Several weeks ago, I had the distinct privilege of sharing dinner with a number of homeless people in Baltimore city. Through this experience, I was able to see the homeless for who they really are: real people, with real problems, who are just trying to fight through them.

In all my prior experiences in the city, I was taught to treat homeless people differently. We were not to make eye contact with them, never give them money, and by no means should we sit down with them and have a conversation. I viewed them as insane, drug addicts and lazy. I don’t believe these ideas sprung out of no where, they are the social norms, accepted in our society as truths. They are barriers that have passed down from generation to generation that keep us far enough from the homeless that we may not see the truth of who they really are. On the night I feasted with the homeless these barriers were shattered.

We decided to go in the waning second of the NCAA National Championship. We were at a friend’s house who had decided to have a huge party for the game. At the end of the game, there was quite a lot of food left uneaten: whole roast beef and turkey sandwiches, chicken wings, et cetera. The friend’s family would not eat it all, so we commandeered the platters and headed down to the city.

The homeless village was dark and lifeless when we arrived at half past midnight. There were mounds of blankets and tarps piled three feet high, illuminated pinkish-yellow by the ominous street lights. Shadows of rats skittered from one pile to another, looking for a spare crumb or some trash they could get there nose into. It was hard to believe we were standing in the midst of such poverty just 20 minutes away from a house of full bellies and warm beds.

What was even harder to believe was that someone could survive in this bitter climate. The temperature was no more than 28 degrees when we entered the squatter city and it was due to drop. The combination of cold temperatures and unhealthy living conditions are a deadly combination, dramatically increasing the possibility for these individuals to come down with a life threatening illness. Despite the frigid conditions there were warm hearts to be found in this place.

The first man I got the chance to speak with was named Tino. Tino used to be manager of the maintenance staff at Camden Yards, just ten blocks down the road from his makeshift bedroom on the steps of St. Vincent de Paul Church. However, when the season ended, he found himself out of a job. Without a job and a lack of support from his family, Tino lives on the streets many nights a week. The night before I met him, he had spent the night at his mother’s house; however, she refuses to support him as long as he struggled with his demons.

Tino, like many people in Baltimore city struggles with drug addiction, particularly crack cocaine. When he told me about his addiction, I immediately thought back to many public service announcements that had portrayed drug users as violent people with no will to live. (Not to say that drugs aren’t bad, that not what I mean at all, I know they ruin lives.) However, here sat in front of me a man full of life, with a vision of greater purpose for his life and a realization that his addiction was in no way the source of his identity. Tino is not a crack head; he is a man, struggling with a problem, a creation of God’s that has gone down the wrong path and by His grace, Tino will be pulled out. Tino talked to me about his hopes to get an apartment from a Beans-and-Bread type organization and his hope to kick the addiction that he has struggled with for the last twenty years.

Tino and I prayed together that night. We prayed that he might get a home, get a job and get right with his family. We prayed that God might reveal to us His purpose for our lives, and that it would be enough to keep us from addictive habits we fall into. But most of all, we prayed that the ignorance blanketing the city would be lifted, that the suburbanites might rise up, lend there time and money, and squash poverty. Finally we prayed that people would no longer see a homeless bum, but a man.

Senior Jesuit Peter-Ham Kolvnbach said in a speech from 2000 that “When the heart is touched by direct experience, the mind may be challenged to change.” On that night my heart was touched by Tino and the rest of the people in the squatter village. They changed my whole perspective of the homeless and how they ought to be treated. To Tino, I would like to say thank you.