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Upon arriving in the nation’s capital, I ventured to historic Dupont Circle, a bustling area of the city with bars and restaurants, where a local commuter told me I would find people to follow for my project. Patrons in the park mostly sat at the park benches, which circle the park and a central fountain. On the south side of the park, I found a group of mostly men, many playing chess at nearby tables, a few others just hanging around, chatting about this and that. Since it was D.C., I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to overhear that much of their conversation revolved around politics and our current involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan, even among the homeless men. Earlier, while walking the National Mall, I witnessed a homeless man reading the newspaper despite having the appearance of not having much to his name. His hair was in dreads, he wore a large army coat even in the heat and humidity that permeated the air that day, and I could tell that although he was homeless, he regularly kept himself informed about the world around him. This seemed a general trend in D.C.: Even the homeless stayed up on current politics. When I first sat down, I offered one of the men on the benches a few scraps of pizza from my leftover lunch. We struck up a brief conversation, and I discovered that he had a house in nearby Arlington but often frequented the park and sometimes would sleep there as well. Later, he told me his name was Casey, that he was 30 years old, and that he had lived in D.C. throughout his life, a two-year stint in Houston the only time he resided outside of the city. Since Casey wasn’t exactly homeless, I continued to walk around the park to find someone to follow for the night. Nearby, I met Sarah, a 29-year old female originally from an area near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, who has been sleeping at the park for the last week. I discovered that Sarah and Casey have been seeing each other since she arrived at the park. Not long after I started talking with Sarah, Casey came up and joined us, and the three of us talked about the state of homelessness in D.C., as well as about Sarah’s history. Sarah has been homeless since she was about 19. She has worked off and on as a waitress—mostly off —but after a falling out with her family when she was younger, she followed a man more than 13 years her elder up to D.C. to make a new life. She soon found that the move was a big mistake. The man was an alcoholic and regularly abused Sarah, both physically and verbally. Sarah struggled with self-esteem issues, was eventually diagnosed as a depressive and bi-polar, and soon after found herself living on the streets. Ever since, she has been on and off the streets, occasionally living with friends, once spending one year in prison for a drug possession charge, and regularly experiencing sexual abuse on the streets ever since her release. Dupont Circle is her new home. We talked for a few hours, with regulars at the park often coming up to join in on the conversation. Eventually, a man named Randy joined us. Randy is 29 as well. He came from South Carolina to Washington D.C. about five years ago and has been sleeping near Dupont Circle ever since. Casey has lost most of his teeth from a former Crystal meth habit, and as a white male, he’s often ostracized around the mostly black community. Still, Randy has many friends in the park and is generally well received. Only two days ago, Randy had been assaulted by three men, who Randy claimed were trying to steal Randy’s friend’s bicycle. The beating left Randy with a broken collar bone, three fractured ribs, and multiple stitches on his face. He wheezed regularly from his chest pain, and he struggled to sit in a comfortable fashion almost the entire time we spent together. To make matters worse, Randy is an epileptic. Randy experienced a seizure that led to nasty fall about a week ago, cutting his upper right eye and leaving him bleeding on the floor until he woke up in need of medical care. Randy said that he has fallen like that many times before and that he’s lucky it’s never led to death. Sarah, Casey, Randy and I sat around, mostly just talking about life on the streets. Then Casey was soon picked up by a friend to conduct some business. So Randy, Sarah, and I talked about the patrons of the park and how they survive living on the streets of D.C. “When you live on the streets, you have no privacy,” Sarah said to me. But she explained that most of the men had taken her in during the last week, protecting her if necessary. Casey was someone who most of the men feared, so by aligning herself with Casey, Sarah found some immediate safety and protection. Of course, that safety was never absolute. Casey leaving the park was case in point. After a few hours of talking, it started to get dark around the park, and night fell. While we readied for bed, we were interrupted by a stumbling man. After we told him not to, the man tried to walk off with a bag that belonged to one of Sarah’s friends who was out for the night. With Randy hurt, I chased after the man, retrieving the bag. The man was older and obviously mentally disabled to a certain extent. He wore an ankle bracelet that had been turned off, which Randy said was evidence that he had been in a shelter and that the man would be in trouble with the police if they saw him walking around. When I retrieved the bag from the man, Randy saw it fit to yell and argue with him. They threatened each other while I tried to mediate, telling the man to walk away. He did. Soon, though, the man returned. My back was turned and all I heard Casey say was, “uh, oh, Tyler.” So I turned around and stood up. The man had obviously just rummaged through the trash, looking for a weapon of sorts to attack us. His primary target was Casey, though, and not me. When I walked up to the man, I didn’t fear him much, as I had seen earlier that he didn’t provide much of a threat. Oddly enough, he carried an empty cardboard tube, apparently the best weapon he could find. I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the dilemma. “Walk away,” I yelled at the man, as Randy shouted behind me. Eventually, the dust settled, and the man walked away, probably soon to be arrested for bothering local neighbors, rambling around with the ankle bracelet turned off so he couldn’t be detected by GPS. I sat on the grass next to Randy and Sarah. Randy had been contemplating going back to the hospital since he couldn’t fill his pain medication without his Medicare card, which he left in a neighborhood far away with a friend. Turns out, we should have gone. Instead, we fell asleep for a bit. Soon, a man named Dee arrived at the park, his yelling waking us up. “I’m gonna hurt me some white folk,” Dee said as he approached us. “You got any money?” he asked me. I told him no, and he responded by saying that he “don’t fuck with broke people. After a few minutes of drunken shouting, Sarah calmed Dee down by telling him that I had saved his bag from being stolen. He told me stand up. I did. Then he gave me a big hug before he left to go find some cocaine. More alert than before, I put my head back and thought about leaving before Dee returned all yayed out. I didn’t have to worry about it. Soon after Dee and his friend, Mickey, left to go retrieve some drugs, an emergency happened. Randy began to seize up, his body shaking and twitching, as rain started to fall from above. “Call an ambulance,” Sarah said to me, as Randy lay writhing in pain. I put Randy on his side and told him to be patient; help was on the way. The ambulance arrived about five minutes after, and luckily Randy recovered from his seizure. Still, he was in a great deal of pain, complaining about his chest and not being able to breathe. Because Sarah said she was afraid of hospitals, I accompanied Randy to the ER where I tried to sleep while he was treated for a few hours. At about 6am, Sarah called me in tears. She said she was soaked and at the Starbuck’s. Randy was discharged about the same time, so we traveled back near Dupont Circle from George Washington University Hospital, in order to get some coffee. After coffee, Sarah said she had called a friend and was going to his house for a bit. I wanted to check out a soup kitchen and homeless advocacy organization called Miriam’s Place, so Randy and I walked about ten blocks to a church basement where the soup kitchen operates. Miriam’s place is a breath of fresh air. Started in the 1980s, the kitchen has evolved from a food service, to case management, to offering creative outlets for its members. Besides serving what Randy and Casey told me is the best breakfast in town, complete with biscuits and sometimes pancakes, Miriam’s Place provides art time, with bead making, and creative writing workshops. Sometimes there are also yoga and geography classes, as well as local bird spotting informational sessions. I watched the volunteers and workers interact with the patrons on an intimate level. The organization not only helps feed the people who walk in without asking questions; they give hope and opportunity through the art sessions. Additionally, one of the program heads, Sara Gibson, told me that Miriam’s Studio, the name of the art sessions, seeks to include who she says are often isolated members of the city within their own communities. Sara ran me through a brief history of the kitchen, as I watched the beneficial impacts in action. Full time volunteers help keep the operations running smoothly, case managers guide members to jobs and other services, resident workers help control the community. After watching Randy draw some art, participating in a poetry workshop, and talking with members of Miriam’s Kitchen, I left in a great mood, despite not sleeping for more than an hour the night before. Randy and I walked to the bus stop. We said our goodbyes because he was headed to a friend’s where he could stay and try to recover from the night before. I went back to Dupont, sat for a bit, reading the newspaper and watching Dee strut around, and then went to my hostel for some well needed rest. Next stop: Baltimore. Find out more about Miriam’s Kitchen: http://www.miriamskitchen.org/ |
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