Chapter One: The World Hovering Around Me

It was six o’clock in the morning. The only way I knew this was the faint sun peeking through the openings between the buildings and the thud of the newspapers as they were thrown from the van on the road outside my tent, each landing at the door of the businesses that lined the sidewalk. In the short three weeks I had called this my home, the sounds of the streets became my wake-up call. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known the time of day, as my life had become one long trudge through minutes, hours, and days—from tent to dumpster, from dumpster to soup kitchen, from soup kitchen to… to whatever came next.

Sometimes I would find myself walking along the pier aimlessly, hiding my face from the crowds of people filing in and out of shops and restaurants. Other times I would find myself sitting in the corner of an alleyway, hiding behind heaps of garbage. My days were spent either in search of or hiding from—in search of my next meal or a warm jacket, or a place to sleep—hiding from hunger, from sight, from a life I was ashamed to be living.

It was six o’clock in the morning and I wished I had reason to rise, at least more reason than to relieve the pain in my stomach. The last meal I had was maybe forty-eight hours ago. If you can even call it a meal—a few scraps from a dumpster behind a pizza place near where I normally slept. Since then I had felt nauseous and I am sure I had a fever, as I woke up hot and sweaty on a forty-degree morning.

I lay there, thoughts of a life that seemed so far away invaded my subconscious. A warm bed. Roommates bustling around the room, readying themselves for their morning classes. Still an hour before I had to leave for my nine a.m. class. I was comfortable and safe in my middle-class bubble.

The door opened. The door closed. I was alone in my own comfort, blanket pulled up to my chin. Eyes closed. A feeling of contentment flowed through my body. I drifted off, catching the last bit of sleep I could before rising and filling my stomach with food from a dorm-sized fridge at the side of my bed.

Soon my alarm sounded. I reached over and gently patted the top of my alarm clock, silencing the intermittent buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz. I sat up and allowed myself time to waken to the new day. I was a bit tired from two nights of cramming for midterms, the first of which was in just forty minutes—an exam for which I felt fully prepared.

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, reached for the ceiling, and yawned. I stood slowly and then knelt on the ground in front of my fridge and pawed through its contents. A small apple juice, a yogurt, and a half-eaten bagel. I didn’t think twice. I just filled my belly.

A few minutes later I was rifling through my closet to find my left shoe. For some reason, I always seemed to set each shoe in opposite corners of the room as I came home for the night and haphazardly made myself comfortable. Then, when needed the next morning, I could only find one. I exited my closet and did a three-sixty, scanning the room for the displaced object, my eyes finally landing on what could only be the toe of my shoe peeking out from under my bed.

I limped over to the bed, sock and shoe on my right foot, sock only on my left. This, in my middle-class bubble, was the biggest obstacle I would face—a misplaced shoe. I leaned down, pulled out the missing article, and slid it on my foot. Problem solved.

Today’s problem, though, on that forty-degree morning, was where to now. The soup kitchen was a mile away, but good scraps could be found behind the many restaurants in a four-block radius. The dilemma—chance the rancid garbage and inevitable stomach-churning or walk the mile and wait in the two-block line for runny eggs and stale bacon. How I longed for the half-eaten bagel in my dorm room fridge… even with the missing shoe.

I unzipped my tent and peered out the door. The sidewalk was beginning to fill with people, coffee in hand, hustling to one of the offices high above the street, many with a view of the fish market and the glistening waters below. I turned back inside my tent and began my morning ritual—rolling up my sleeping bag, stuffing my few belongings into my backpack, and then taking my tent down and storing it away in its long-faded blue sack. These tasks became a necessity early on when I learned the hard way that nothing’s safe on the streets once it was out of arm’s reach.

I brushed my teeth with a toothbrush I kept in my pocket, using salt from packets I swiped from McDonald’s a few days earlier as makeshift toothpaste. I rinsed my mouth with the last of the restroom water I had in an old Avion bottle, spit in a small garbage can near my sidewalk home, and set out on the mile-long trudge to breakfast, backpack securely on my back, full of my life’s possessions, my portable home carried under my arm.

I was now pretty familiar with my surroundings, though I still made rookie mistakes, one of which was forgetting that not only was I living on the streets, I looked and smelled like I was living on the streets. Catching a glimpse of myself in a store window was all I needed to jar myself back to reality, a reality I tried to push out of my mind each and every day. Much of the time I still thought of myself as the person I was, just a few short months ago—a successful college student in my first year of undergrad. Yet, in reality, a whirlwind of unforeseen circumstances brought that life to an abrupt end.

It was not long after midterms of spring semester my freshman year. I received notice that my student loans were denied and I owed a full semester of tuition to be paid by month’s end or I would be dropped from all my classes and would have to vacate my dorm room.

After a stress-filled two weeks of frantic phone calls, emails, and trips to the financial aid office, I figured it out. I didn’t solve the problem, but I did solve the mystery. My parents did not fill out their portion of the FAFSA and I would not be eligible for student loans until they did so, which wouldn’t be in time to cover the current twelve-thousand dollars for my spring dorm and class bill. I was shocked. I knew they didn’t take the news well when I told them, but I never thought they would abandon me, not fill out the paperwork, leaving me high and dry without warning. Our last interaction was not pleasant, but right before we sat down and I told them, we had gone over my FAFSA application and they planned on finishing it the following day. But sadly, it did make sense. My uptight, bible-thumping parents, who had me and my siblings pray before each meal and read bible verses before bed, were shocked when I told them I was gay.

“No you’re not,” my mom replied in haste. “You were the captain of the football team. You had girlfriends in high school.”

My dad just sat there, turned away from me, and said nothing.

A few weeks later, I had my answer. I knew my parents had turned their back on me.

I called. My mom reluctantly answered. I told her my situation. I told her I had nowhere to go and would need to come home until this was worked out.

I sat on a silent phone. She didn’t say a word.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re not welcome here until you come to your senses.”

“Mom?” I questioned. “What do you mean?”

“You need to figure this out yourself.”

“Can I talk to dad?”

“Your dad doesn’t want to speak with you.”

And that was it. The line went dead.

Come to my senses? I asked myself. Figure this out? The only thing to figure out is why my parents were abandoning their eldest child—the child they drove all around the state and up and down the West Coast, sitting in bleachers every weekend during football and baseball season through middle and high school.

Most of my friends were in college or the military, but I was still able to find couches to sleep on the next two months. I stayed with one of my friend’s parents for two weeks, but could tell I overstayed my welcome—I’m sure my parents had something to do with that. Then I split time on the couches of the only two friends still in the area, one drank too much and his apartment smelled like weed all the time. The other was struggling to make rent, so I got a job, but by the time I got my first measly paycheck he had lost his job and we couldn’t make ends meet. Now I made my way to the soup kitchen—strangely enough though, it had become a place of solace. While it wasn’t my idea of fine dining, I felt accepted and seen there. No judgments. And now that I had no home, no friends’ couches to sleep on, I had to take what I could get.

There was a rotating group of pastors who shared meals with us. They never preached, formally or informally. They just talked and took an interest. I noticed that one pastor, in particular, seemed to really understand life on the streets. He was usually there two or three mornings a week. He is one reason I was willing to wait in line for the stale bacon.

After visiting the mission a few times, I made it a point to find ways to talk with Pastor Jim, the pastor who so easily sat next to dirty homeless people and blended into the conversation. He had a way of connecting with everyone that made each individual feel important and made it easy to open up. One morning, I was telling him how I had only been on the street for a short while. I didn’t go into great detail, but did tell him I had a falling out with my parents. He looked at me, softly put his hand on my shoulder, and told me he was homeless when he was young as well. He said he was saved by the church and then eventually he dedicated his life to God. This was the first time he had really brought up religion, but the way he presented it felt natural. He was not pushing it on me. He was being genuine. He was opening himself up to me, treating me like a normal human being. He just shared his story as I had shared mine. I was always used to religion being forced upon me—this is the way you pray, this is what you need to believe.

While my time at the soup kitchen was nice, I didn’t make it there every day, or more precisely, very often. Depending on where I pitched my tent and how I felt when I woke up, I may lay in bed, hoping to sleep through my empty stomach while the street woke up and the throngs of people buzzed around. Many mornings it felt as if the world was hovering around me—life was going on, people were going about their lives while I huddled up in my tent, invisible. But on this forty-degree morning, I made my way to my first meal in two days, anticipating a cold wait in a long line.

Still a few blocks away, I looked forward and saw the last man standing. The line was at least two blocks long. I picked up my gait and hurried to find my spot at the end knowing that if I was too far back, there would be slim-pickens once I made it inside.

It was amazing how out of place I felt just a few weeks ago, but how at home I felt in that line now. I still remember how reluctant I was, just three days into my life on the street. The smell alone made me gag. But now I noticed nothing, it was a part of the life I was living, no matter how far out of my mind I tried to push my reality.

I kept my gaze toward the ground. One thing I learned quickly is not to interact with those you don’t know. Don’t look people in the eye, you never know how they are going to react. Some street people were very open and were looking for conversation, but, unless you knew them personally, you never knew who those people were, and staring down the wrong person could be costly.

I stood there silently, keeping to myself as the line slowly crept forward. I had not lived on the street long enough to gain friends or create a rep, good or bad. I had to put in the time. I had to stay patient. But, I was sure I wouldn’t be on the street long enough for it to matter. I didn’t know how I was going to right the ship, but my denial was strong enough to know that it wouldn’t be long. Whatever that means. So, my silence would be short-lived, I thought to myself. And that was all I needed to tell myself to give me a small slice of hope.

As the sun began to warm the air, I made it to the front of the line, checked in, and grabbed my food tray. I walked inside. My hands began to tingle as the warm air enveloped my fingers. I slowly scanned the cafeteria as I made my way to the food line. Tables were filled with people—filthy people—young and old, men and women. And I would soon be joining and blending in with the nameless masses who, for a short meal, found respite from the streets.

I walked and nodded at each of the servers who pleasantly smiled and scooped food onto my tray, then turned and again scanned the tables of people, this time, looking for an open seat. I spotted a half-filled table in the middle of the room and found my way over, set my backpack and tent on the ground, and sat down.

While I scooped spoonfuls of scrambled eggs into my mouth, I found myself hoping that Pastor Jim was sitting at one of the nearby tables. Our last conversation had been cut short as a ruckus arose across the room and he was called to assist. He had just revealed his early life on the streets before he accepted Jesus into his life. I was drawn toward his ability to share with and relate to street life without preaching, without pushing an agenda. I wanted to hear more and I wanted to share parts of my life with him.

I picked up a burnt piece of bacon and heard the crunch deep between my ears as I chewed, remembering the crispy ends of bacon my mom used to cut off and put on the edge of the serving plate that she set on the dining room table each Sunday morning. As we ate, she would remind us that this meal, “Nourishes and prepares our hearts and minds for a morning worshiping God.” I drifted into a short reverie and found myself floating in memory of a life that once was—a morning breakfast with mom, dad, and siblings, dressed in our Sunday’s best. My thoughts moved quickly from warmth and love, a slight smile on my face, to judgment and frustration, smile evaporating. I now looked at my elders as hypocrites and myself as naive. I longed for my life that lived in the past, that existed in my earlier naivete, yet embraced my newfound knowledge. I lived a life of destitution, yet I was liberated by new thoughts and emotions.

I floated back to reality and then turned my head to each side, hoping to find a familiar face, hoping that familiar face was Pastor Jim. I finally spotted him and a few patrons of the soup kitchen standing in the far corner sharing conversation. I cocked my head and watched as they talked. It was a conversation among men. It was a conversation of respect. It was not the homeless and the church, but human beings in discourse, talking politics or education, or family. They could be at a summer BBQ in the backyard of a friend’s house laughing about the day’s events or at a local bar sharing stories over a cold beer.

I stood up and cleared my table, dumping my garbage and returning my tray. I stood for a moment, thinking of a way to join the conversation in the corner. I turned and peered over. The conversation had slowed, the group was disbanding. Pastor Jim was walking toward the front of the room.

I moved in his direction, trying to make our chance meeting look just like that—chance. I was nervous. I was ashamed of my circumstances. My confidence shrank as I approached him. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat, “Hey, Pastor,” I stammered as our paths intersected.

“Hey—how are you doing today?”

“As well as can be expected,” I replied, trying to sound as cheerful as possible—trying to hide everything that was stamped as clear as day on my face, my dirty clothes, my messy hair. I looked down at my feet and stuttered, “Not sure if you remember, umm… but we met last week.”

“Yes—I remember. You told me about your experience in college.”

“Right.” I looked up with surprise. His reply filled me with a half confidence. “Well, I’ve been thinking about a couple things you said.”

“And what might that be?” he asked, a genuine look of interest on his face.

“Well—you used to be homeless.”

“Yes—many years ago.”

“And you found a way out.”

“Yeah—it was a tough road, but well worth it.”

“I’m sure it was.” I paused to muster up a bit more confidence. “And I’ve been thinking about what you said since last week.” I raised my eyes and finally looked at him with determination. “I need to find my way out.”

“Good.” He nodded and smiled. “That’s the first step. Making it a need. Not a want or a desire, but a need.”

I looked down again. “I have a couple questions.” I closed my eyes and took a soft breath in and out. “I mean—I need to share something with you first.”

“Of course. Go right ahead.”

I stopped for a moment. What was once background noise, the clanking of silverware—the murmuring conversations that filled the room—seemed to break my concentration. I looked around.

“Don’t worry. Whatever you have to share will stay with me.”

I cleared my throat. “Hmmm—umm—I wasn’t totally open with you about why I left school.”

“Okay?” He nodded, a caring look of interest in his eyes.

“My parents abandoned me and I lost my financial aid because they didn’t complete the paperwork. And when I was kicked out of my dorm, they didn’t allow me back in the house.”

“Can I ask why they did that?”

“Uhhh—yeah. My parents are very religious. We attended church every Sunday and sometimes on Wednesdays. We said prayers before meals every day and did volunteer service through our church. Most of our family time was wrapped around church events.” I paused for a moment. “Last spring I finally found the guts to tell them I’m gay.” Suddenly my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. I took a quick breath. “It took a lot for me to be open with them.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“I knew they weren’t going to like it, but I never realized they would disown me.” A lump began to form in my gut. I could feel a well of emotions clouding my thoughts. I shook my head. “They were supposed to fill out some paperwork for my student loans the next day, but didn’t, and never told me. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I got an email about my tuition and dorm fees. And then a few weeks later I was removed from my classes and kicked out of residency.’

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He pursed his lips, brows furrowed.

“And my parents wouldn’t let me stay with them anymore. In fact, my dad wouldn’t even talk to me.”

“Wow.” He shook his head gently.

“I stayed at friends’ houses for a while, but that fell apart quickly. And then without knowing it—I eventually ended up on the street.”

He reached out and softly touched my hand. “Thanks for sharing. I’m glad you’re able to open up about it and I’m glad you’ve made the choice to find your way out of this situation.”

“Yeah—thank you, Pastor .”

“For me, it took just one thing to get myself moving in the right direction,” he said. “ I decided that getting off the street was as important to me as my next meal. If I would spend hours scrounging food for dinner, I would spend twice as much time figuring out how to get my life back on track.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll do the work.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t easy. It was one decision, but also lots of hard work.”

“As long as there’s a way out, I’m willing to work for it.”

“Okay, well, first off, I want you to go to Christopher House.” He pulled out a card, flipped it over, and wrote down the name and address. “It’s an LGBTQ-friendly mission that deals with people on the streets. They can find you clean clothes and provide meals. They also have a computer room that people can use in exchange for volunteer service—usually, light cleaning and maybe serving meals. Talk with Jeremiah Bailey. He’s in charge of outreach and can help connect you with homeless resources for college students and he may be able to find you some temporary shelter to get you off the street for a while.” He handed me the card.

“Man, that’s amazing. Thanks.” I stared at the gray rectangular lifeline.

“Flip it over. That’s my contact info and the address of my church. I want to see you there this Sunday.” He smiled and winked. “No obligation. I just want to touch base with you and make sure you made a connection.”

“For sure. I’ll be there.” I pocketed the card, looked at him, and smiled back.

“Okay then. Stay safe.”

“I will. Thanks, Pastor .” I stood and watched as he turned and made his way to a group of people milling around a table in the far corner. Then, I patted my pocket and nodded my head. Not only was my belly finally full, but my mind was full of hope, and my body full of newfound energy.

I exited the building into the sunny crisp morning air. A breeze brushed across my face. I squinted, took a deep breath, and started walking back toward my usual resting spot, the street corner I had called home for the past twenty-one days. But after a few paces, I stopped.

I inserted my hand into my right pocket and pulled out the card. I read the address of the church and calculated the distance in my head—maybe two miles. I turned the card over and read the address for Christopher House. A mile in the opposite direction, I said to myself.

I found a seat on a bench on the side of the road, set my backpack and tent beside me, and focused my mind. I had to make a plan. I didn’t want to run to one side of town and then have to trek to the other every day. I shuffled through ideas in my head until they started to come together.

I quietly talked through my plan. “I will find my way to Christopher House, spend the next two days figuring things out there, and then camp out near the church on Saturday night.” I sat a little longer, closed my eyes, and let the cool air flow over my body, my thoughts solidifying and becoming more clear.

A few minutes later I stood up and gathered my belongings. I turned and headed to the curb, pushing the button on the pole and waiting for the signal to beckon me across when I realized what I had just done. I was the homeless man on the bench talking to himself. I grimaced as the image jolted me back to reality. The light changed and the red flashing hand switched to a white figure in the act of walking. I stepped off the corner and, as I walked across the intersection, vowed that that image, the image of the crazy homeless man speaking gibberish to no one, is not who I am. I will find my way back, I thought to myself.