Editorials

 
By Adrienne Harris
Volunteer

2^nd & D.  That’s how most people who have stayed there refer to the John L. Young Women’s Shelter. It’s one of those places you occasionally hear about when someone is trying to build up her street rep.  However, I don’t know whether the “harshness” of the place is all that impressive. D.C.’s resources surpass anything available in the surrounding area, yet the need exceeds anything this city can provide. John L. Young is often the starting point for those facing homelessness in DC. Perhaps it’s the easiest shelter to get into. Nevertheless, doing so is a chore.

The first hurdle is not to become disheartened while waiting in line. Even if you arrive  one hour before the doors open, that hour can easily seem like three.  This is where you start classifying everyone around you. This one never talks; this one only talks to herself; this one usually just scowls, but if she does say anything, it’s usually at the top of her voice; this one glares at you; this one’s exchanges are more in the nature of performances…

If you took your time, you’d probably come up with ten different groupings, maybe more. Don’t get me wrong; if you took the time to listen, I’m sure each person would tell  a unique story. But let’s be real: your situation is too much to deal with at the moment.  Not too many people are stupid enough to go there. Or, perhaps I should say that not too many who will eventually get out of there are stupid enough to go there. For those determined to “fix,” or at least improve their situation, focusing on their problem is definitely the order of the day.

Anyway… if your courage holds up, and you actually get to the point of entering the building, the first thing you’ll have to do is open your bags or your luggage. Everything is searched… Scissors? – gone… Razors? – gone… Nail polish? – gone.

How smoothly this process goes depends on 1) the attitudes of those being submitted to this search and 2) the level of hostility coming from security personnel. I was lucky. During my stay, security was pretty good. (Nice people.)

Okay… assuming the most optimistic outcome  (for the newcomer, anyway): one of the regulars missed the curfew, so, you have yourself a bed (probably an upper bunk). – For those who’ll have to try again tomorrow, Union Station’s bathrooms are fairly easy to access. – Relief overtakes you to the point of getting giddy or emotional, depending on your level of exhaustion.

Now the paperwork begins. After about what feels like an hour of giving a stranger way too many details about your recent life right there at the front desk (you are sitting, so you don’t quite feel like you’re yelling your business from a mountain top), you are given verbal and written information, a bed number, and sent on your way.

The dorm is basically a warehouse-sized room filled with steel bunks. Once you’ve found your bunk ( a challenge in itself), you prep your bed with the linen that’s been deposited on your mat, and do your best to make yourself at home, all the while stealing glances at your new neighbors.

You will also see a  table a few feet away where dinner is served, a few long tables to eat at, and a television with a few folding chairs around it.  The bathrooms are to the left.

With any luck, there will  be a male staff member around. Let me be clear: I’m as much a feminist as you can get without screaming or carrying a poster around, but from personal experience, I’ve found that one sensible man is worth five stern women as far as maintaining some form of order is concerned.

If you don’t need to go to the restroom, you’ll make your way to the serving table if dinner has begun. Seconds are served only after everyone has had a chance to eat.

By this time, a couple of scenes have unfolded. Perhaps the social worker, or even the facility director, has had to emerge from her office to handle the situation. I’ve received social services in the D.C. area for about 18 months. Wanda, who worked in that office when I was at 2nd & D, was the best social worker I’ve seen during all that time.

Her job seemed impossible. But she pulled  it off admirably. I never heard negative words in reference to her, an accomplishment that to my knowledge has yet to be duplicated. She actually LISTENED, and displayed  a decent amount of understanding without getting emotional. She made it a point never to allow herself to get friendly and chatty with clients, and she remained impartial. Remarkable.

I could go on, but since I must keep this to 1,000 words, I’ll limit it to this: You will find yourself in the center of a few dramas, regardless of your disposition. You might find your background and ethnic group has more to do with it than anything else. While receiving social services in DC, you’ll find that the African-American culture is the mainstream society in which you’ll have to function, or at least deal with. I’ve received more than a couple of threats, and have been referred to as a “white devil.” How well-trained a facility’s staff members are and what their sentiments are will determine how skillful you will have to be to respond to the situation.

As all this might suggest, I do not recommend John L. Young to anyone. Yet I still carry John L. Young’s number in my coin purse.

Adrienne Harris is a student at University of the District of Columbia. She stayed at John L. Young Shelter a year ago when she was homeless. She now has housing. 

  
By David Rubin
Vendor

When I think about the fundamental differences among German, Chinese and U.S. laws, it seems crystal clear that there is a new need to redefine freedom and happiness.

Take the differences between German law and U.S. law regarding contracts, especially between landlords and tenants.
Where in the U.S., contract agreements are required to be expressly stated between the two parties concerned, in German law, the government’s judiciary branch spells out those contracts and there are fewer complications in housing matters. The end result is homelessness in the U.S. because housing issues are not under full government control.

Chinese law speaks of virtues and ethics as main pillars of the nation’s legal system, more important than personal wishes and individual lives. Thus, it becomes irrelevant what one desires in life or whether one is individually successful, so long as one is virtuous. Poverty as a way of life has never been so acceptable as it is in the U.S.

The English law has resolved my immigration case, yet I cannot find employment or housing.
I believe the U.S. can learn from the Chinese and German legal systems. I say it would be the end of homelessness and poverty, and not a return to British imperialism.

 
By Anna Katharine Thomas
Editorial Intern

People always say “it seems like yesterday…”

Well, this time I guess it is my turn. It does seem like yesterday that I embarked upon my first train ride to Metro Center. After walking in the wrong direction for a few blocks, I turned around and finally arrived at the back door of the Church of the Epiphany. My fellow Street Sense intern, Hannah Morgan, let me in.

I walked up two flights of stairs oblivious that one day in my near future Allen Hoorn would soon force me and Randy Meza, another intern, to carry an unnatural number of old newspapers back down to the recycling bin. I had arrived at the Street Sense office.

I couldn’t believe my internship was about to start. I had been waiting for this day since I interviewed with editor Mary Otto, and here I am now at the close of it all, saying goodbye. It has been a wonderful experience. I’ve enjoyed everything, from my first day when I was immediately sent out to cover a story, to writing notes at vendor meetings until my hand cramped.

Do you want to know a secret? This is really a fun place to work. You have to have tough skin as an intern though, because you have been hired so that Allen can pick on you and give Mary and Eric a break.

My favorite part of writing stories for Street Sense were the days when I was sent out to find faces and voices that represented what my story was about. Sometimes I think journalists, and even readers, can get bogged down in discussing numbers and forget that the millions of people mentioned in an article are people, and they have a voice. Making that voice heard was the best part of my job.

Being an intern at Street Sense has had its ups and downs. I don’t think I am allowed in Bank of America again thanks to the enormous amount of change I brought in to deposit for the newspaper. I was however, able to build connections with people from wonderful organizations around Washington that are working to help the homeless.

I know I will come back one day. As this semester has proved, no earthquake, hurricane, or terrorist threat will stop me.

By Jeffery McNeil
Vendor

President Obama’s poll numbers are in the mid 40s. Discontent with government is high, and we have nine percent unemployment. Under any other circumstances, there would be no reason to re-elect the incumbent.

However, the 2012 presidential race is unprecedented. Despite Citizens United, the rise of the Tea Party and overall apathy toward the president, Obama has found an ace in the hole. The Republican primary has turned into America’s

While this may be the greatest television programming since “American Idol,” one of these clowns can be sleeping in the Lincoln bedroom. That person will also be in charge of our nukes, which is no laughing matter.

Republican operatives like the Koch Brothers and their well-financed PACs have tried very hard to oust Obama, only to turn their party into an alternative to Comedy Central. The lineup of challengers to face Obama in the general election has turned the president into a formidable candidate. This is sort of reminiscent of Muhammad Ali and his Bum-of-the-Month Club, where he squared off with such superstars as the Quarry brothers, Chuck “the Bayonne Bleeder” Wepner, Randall “Tex” Cobb and George Chuvalo. This strategy worked for Ali until he ran into a lucky haymaker from Ken Norton.

While Ali’s career was extended by fighting tomato cans and stiffs, the president may win a second term fighting against the lineup of, shall we say, unimpressive Republicans. Say hello to Bum-of-the-Month Club II: Herman (Big Daddy) Cain, Rick (Bush Lite) Perry, Newt (Breakfast at Tiffany’s) Gingrich and Mitt (Flipper) Romney. Obama’s strategy to win is simple: lay on the ropes while the Republican candidates make dopes of themselves, each taking wide swings at the president only to leave bruised, bloodied and battered. If the debates got any sloppier, the highlights would be shown on ESPN.

Despite all the hype for the Obama-Romney showdown, the undercard is far more entertaining. Whether it’s Rick Perry and Social Security, Herman Cain and foreign policy or Jack Abramoff alleging that Newt Gingrich is corrupt, America can’t change the channel. We can’t wait to see who is going to bite off someone’s ear next. These debates might soon end up on pay-per-view.

This verbal jousting has been exciting, with numerous knockdowns and low-blows being delivered. Remember, though, that this is only the preliminary. We have to stay tuned for the main event. We don’t really know which Bum-of-the-Month member will be tapped to enter the big ring. Romney could yet emerge victorious. However, even after saying no, no, a thousand times no, Sarah Palin just might come out of hiding and jump in at the last minute. For all we know, Michele Bachmann could be training for a return to the big time. Or maybe, just maybe, Dan Quayle will rejoin the fray and compete with Donald Trump to see who becomes the Great Right Hope.

Get your popcorn ready and don’t walk away from the TV. You might miss something you won’t forget.

At Jeffery

By Frosty Bibbee
Vendor

I have been homeless for a short period of time, just three months. I’ve met some good people and some very strange people. I tried staying in a men’s shelter but I don’t deal well with a lot of people in a small enclosed area. Having to go through a metal detector, put my bags through an x-ray machine, and getting patted down by the special police just to get a hot meal and a place to sleep was not exactly working for me.

So I started hanging out in one of the local parks and sleeping outside, where I am to this day. While there, I met a group of younger homeless people and a young lady. She adopted me as a grandfather type. She gave me a blanket and showed me a couple of places to crash for the night. Besides, I had always assumed there was safety in numbers.

One place was a park when it wasn’t raining. Another was a building on the back steps that was covered and sheltered from the wind. This was great but the only drawback is being woken up between 3:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. every day. By whom you may ask? None other than Homeland Security, yelling rudely for us to get up and get moving. They say it is for our own safety, so off we trudge, every morning, into the cold, windy, wet and not-so-safe streets of Washington, D.C.

I’ve been mugged and had all my clothes stolen, yet I survived. The Army taught me well. Why didn’t I call the police? Not having a cell phone was the primary reason, and besides, why would they pay attention to a homeless veteran. I think all the homeless people living on the street should be given a cell phone with only 911 installed so we can call for help. Also, they could give each of us a Louisville Slugger baseball bat for our safety and security.

Homeland Security doesn’t bother with the homeless.

Because we don’t have a home!

By Jeffery McNeil
Vendor

James Madison warned of the dangers of the factions and special interests that would subvert democracy in his Federalist Papers. He was no big fan of partisan politics in general, or of using money and power to influence elections. This same sentiment is often what spawns third party movements.  Those movements are nothing new. They are as American as the flag waving on the flagpole outside the White House. There have been both good third-party movements, like the labor movement and the civil rights, and bad movements like the Tea Party and the Ku Klux Klan. But whether you sympathize or disagree with their cause, third parties can have an impact on society.

The approval rating of Congress is at 9 percent, the Republican Party is to the right of planet Zoltron, and disappointment with Obama is pretty high. It is no accident that people are protesting in the streets. They are red-hot with anger at the establishment and its inability to understand the discontent of everyday  Americans. That, combined with the callous attitudes of the super wealthy, has brought our country to the brink. When you go to an Occupy Wall Street rally and see the type of people who are out there protesting, it changes your mind about the Occupy movement. It includes laid-off workers, college students, the middle class, and people who are living in actual poverty.

Many people that I talked to in the D.C. occupations feel that the game is rigged against them, both on Wall Street and on K Street. They feel like we live in an upside down system where those who steal get rewarded and those who have been robbed are punished. It astounds and baffles many that Wall Street executives sent the world economy into a tailspin and still walked away with millions (if not billions). Meanwhile, a homeowner can miss one mortgage payment and get tossed out on the street. When Wall Street gets in a jam, they can go to that golden goose called Capitol Hill and ask for a handout courtesy of the American taxpayer.

The protests show how upside down our country is right now. An Iraq war veteran protesting for a job gets knocked unconscious with a tear gas container by the Oakland police. But those who ran our country into a ditch got new Ferraris, and still have their million-dollar homes and meals at fancy restaurants, all paid for with taxpayer money.

I spoke recently at the “Enough is Enough” rally here in DC. The people I met there were not left-wing revolutionaries by any means. They were regular old Republicans and Democrats. But they are becoming the new left—as in, those who have been “left out” of the what they were told was the American Dream. They are looking for moderate leaders who are willing to compromise and solve problems. They find it infuriating that not one Republican believes you should increase taxes on the rich, and no Democrats who are willing to talk about the need to reform elements of our government programs.

They were not looking for a hand out. They were just asking their representatives in Congress to look out for them. They are sick of the bickering and partisanship in Washington, and they want solutions, not excuses. Average Americans keep getting poorer. We need a leader who has the cajones to tell his corporate buddies that the handouts are over. The time is ripe for a third party that is looking out for regular Americans.

By Jill Frey
Editorial Intern

Over the years, homeless people in America have been stereotyped as dirty, alcoholic drug addicts who lack life experience and education.  This misinformed generalization lasts even today, but Rabbi Sid Schwarz has led a movement that is helping Jewish teens look deeper.

The Panim Institute is the Jewish learning institute of B’nai B’rith Youth Organization (BBYO Inc.)  Panim holds seminars in Washington, D.C throughout the year to educate high school students about advocacy and social justice. About nine years ago, Schwarz was leaving a Panim seminar when he found a man “jamming out” to a fake boom box. The rabbi asked this man his name and if he could hear the music; the man replied that indeed he could hear the music. He said his name was Jesse and that  he was the mayor.

            Schwarz replied, “I’m sorry, sir, I know the mayor of this city, and you’re not him.”

But Jesse took the rabbi down below a Federal Reserve building where Schwarz discovered Jesse was the mayor of a homeless community. From then on Schwarz brought his students to this community to form relationships with the homeless people and practice what came to be called Street Torah.

            Street Torah soon spread to a Panim summer program called Impact: DC which gives teenagers the chance to come to the District and learn about activism and lobbying with leading activists and policy makers. In summer 2010, I was fortunate enough to participate. While the lobbying aspect of Impact: DC was exciting, it was Street Torah,  and the chance to work with homeless people that truly struck me.

Our group arrived at McPherson Square, carrying  “offerings” of socks, soap and shirts to help strike up conversations. Still, it was bewildering getting started. We divided up and headed off in several different directions but at first I was not sure where to turn.   I walked up to a man and offered him my soap. He unfolded his hand and as soon as I could place the soap inside his grasp he turned and walked away. Not a word, not a gesture of gratitude. I wondered could Street Torah actually be genuine? Was the rabbi’s story complete fiction? Did homeless people actually fit their stereotype? Then, I met Charles. Because I had already used up all my offerings, I now had to use my instincts to connect.  I took my best friend by the arm and we approached a man eating lunch on a bench. I introduced myself, “Hello, I’m Jill and this is my friend Merrit.”

            This man reached out to shake my hand; “Hi, I’m Charles.”  He proceeded to ask, “Do you have a shirt? All I have is this sweatshirt and, well, you know how hot it gets here in the summer.”

I grabbed a shirt from a staff member; I could not watch this man burn up in a Washington, D.C. heatwave. We asked if he was originally from the District. He has been here his whole life and would not have it any other way. We asked if he was a Redskins  fan; he pointed to his chest with the Redskins logo. Charles told us that his nephew played football and had a chance to play college ball, but that in his first practice, the young man broke his knee and lost his scholarship to attend university. Then came Charles’ first words of wisdom for the day: “Once you get hurt, you ain’t never the same.”

            I empathized with Charles and his nephew. The previous year I tore my ACL and was unable to dance for my high school team. I went through surgery and rehab and even got to perform again, but I knew what he said was true. “Once you get hurt, you ain’t never the same.” Our conversation turned to telling Charles about the advocacy and service we were doing in the District. Charles listened attentively, and before it dawned on me, he made a second observation that struck me as profound and all I could do was nod my head in complete agreement.

“You might come across some people who you might think are smarter than you, but they’re not. If you can do this, and you can do that, then you can do anything you put your mind to.”

            Normally, talking about the weather would be a last resort. However, the weather inspired a comment that I can only call Charles’ third stroke of genius. A large rain cloud threw an overcast aura over McPherson Square. After a long pause, Charles looked up and pointed to the large gray shadow in the sky. Then he took a breath and spoke. “It’s going to rain today and my clothes are going to get wet. But you know what? I’m going to put them in the dryer and tomorrow I’m going to put my clothes back on because it’s a new day.”

With that I realized how to live my life. I might have a vision of where I want to be ten years down the road, but when it comes to enjoying the little things, like conversations in the park with those who really matter, it is then that you have to realize to take things one minute, one hour and one day at a time. If my purpose is about turning the next page in the book of life, nobody will ever be able to read between the lines.

 
By Jeffery McNeil
Vendor

Before coming to Washington back in 2007 I saw life very differently than I do now.

In fact, my philosophy has been evolving ever since I was a black child, growing up in Toms River, New Jersey. It was a predominately white suburb, and heavily Republican. However not everyone was rich. In fact, most people in my section of town were low income.

Life for me was not easy, growing up in Toms River. My parents bought a house in town  in 1972 when I was around six. We were the first black family to move there. I hated it. I was mocked, called nigger repeatedly, and people would throw stuffed toy monkeys on the lawn. When I started kindergarten, kids would talk bad about the blacks who lived in South Toms River. They also called Spanish people “spics” and made fun of Jewish people by dropping pennies to see if they picked them up.

I realize today that those kids learned these behaviors from their parents.  I believe bigotry is not inherited, but taught. It only got tougher as I got older. I remember as a second grader, we would spend some of our rainy school days in the auditorium watching reel-to-reel movies. Many were from the thirties and forties.  I remember vividly watching Amos and Andy, Little Rascals, Sambo, and movies with actors wearing black-face make-up. The  kids would laugh and I would go home and wail. I still feel the hurt and pain from those days.
 
My parents sat me down and told me about racism.  They talked about the Ku Klux Klan and Martin Luther King Jr.. They also told me about the Holocaust and Adolf Hitler.  They gave me a book to read about American history: extermination of Native-Americans, slavery, and civil rights. I detested people I considered privileged. When I played contact sports I looked to cheap-shot anyone who I viewed as pampered.
 
I guess at that point I was a liberal, but something changed when I was sitting in a history class and I heard the words Democrat and Republican. I liked how the word Republican sounded. “Democrat” sounded too blasé, “Republican” sounded cool; I wanted to be a Republican. It wasn’t a good time to be a Republican though; Watergate was at high tide, and shortly after, Nixon resigned.
 
When I got my first job at sixteen, my boss was an older white fellow who grew up in the Great Depression.  He was an Archie Bunker type. I wouldn’t call him a bigot, just a product of a different generation who did not realize how world he once lived in was changing.

The civil rights protests began to wind down. Yet my parents still had activism in their systems. They were registered Democrats, I still liked the word Republican, but even then,  I was still too young to know what the parties stood for.  I didn’t understand politics at the time.

My boss always talked about blacks and welfare. He hated Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton – called them trouble makers. I also knew blacks who agreed with the white boss. I started to take their viewpoint because I saw many able-bodied people cheating the system.  Some would sell their food stamps to me so they could get drugs. Others would fake injuries to get disability and at the same time pretend to be poor to get Section 8 housing. I dated a woman who had three kids and received welfare, who used me. Instead of blaming her for being a huckaboo, I blamed welfare and considered it a system that enabled hand-outs. I resented black politicians who defended welfare as well as the people who  believed that the world owed them something because they were poor.

I became a self-hating Negro at that time. I blamed my whole race for the misdeeds of a few.

I had a job, kept money in my pocket and became real angry when someone asked me to borrow money. I loved money, dreamed of being rich, and I liked paying for the things I wanted. While I desired material wealth I wanted to acquire wealth honestly. I didn’t want to lie, cheat or sell drugs to become wealthy.

I distanced myself from hustlers, drug dealers and people who were motivated solely by wealth. My thinking about wealth started to evolve in my twenties as I pursued moving up the social ladder. Because of my insecurities about having grown up in a workingclass family I felt awkward around people I viewed as more sophisticated and successful than I.

I felt inadequate because I thought I wasn’t attractive, didn’t have a fancy car or a famous bloodline. Yet I had the ambition and desire to join people I considered part of the local inner circle. These were the businessmen and their young adult children, Republicans who  talked bad about the poor, made ethnic jokes and were snobs.

The members of this  inner circle were furious about affirmative action to a point where it became comical. The younger ones cried that they couldn’t get into good schools or were denied opportunities because they were white. Their parents ranted about their taxes going to take care of black babies and that black men didn’t take care of their children. In this circle there was always a master statistician who could spout numbers that somehow validated negativity towards blacks. They quoted percentages of blacks who committed crimes, who didn’t take care of their children and  how the taxpayers were being stuck with the bill.