A Night Song

Post #6 -- Scroll down for previous posts.

Over spring break this past March, I went on an Alternative Spring Break trip to Washington, D.C. to learn more about homelessness. Eleven other students and I participated in the Homeless Challenge (Urban Plunge) through the National Coalition for the Homeless in order to experience homelessness first hand. This is my story.

At last, it was time for sleep. Sitting on my sleeping bag, I began to take off my gym shoes, finally freeing my sore feet from their Adidas prison. I had just gotten the right one off and peeled back my rain soaked sock, when Steve turned to me and told me I had better put it back on. On the street, you sleep with your shoes on, inside of your sleeping bag. There are two reasons -- it prevents others from stealing your shoes and it allows for a quick departure if need be. So grudgingly I squished my foot back into the shoe and tucked myself into my Coleman Mummy.

I laid there and everything began to sink in. I was actually sleeping on the street. It was something that I had been looking forward to for months and I was finally doing it. The crisp breeze whipped at my face, because although we were under an awning, there was nothing to break the wind. I wrapped my scarf around my head, while simultaneously trying to make it my pillow, but it was itchy and uncomfortable. In fact, there wasn’t much comfortable about sleeping on the ground. The cardboard beneath my body offered little cushion for my bones; my ribs and hips fought a losing battle against the concrete. And after a full day of walking and moving, it seemed that when finally given their chance, my legs had no idea whatsoever of how to relax.

After much tossing, turning, and rustling of my sleeping bag, I settled into a position...not necessarily because it was comfortable -- but more because I realized finding a comfortable position would be impossible, so I just admitted defeat.

I closed my eyes. The symphony of the night began its hum. The whoosh of a passing bus offered up the opening chords. Steve, despite his promise of staying awake, had already settled into a deep sleep and his steady snore filled the alcove. Distant car horns added some percussion, and the melody swelled with the sirens of a speeding ambulance. As the night’s music washed over me, my thoughts wandered through both the lands of logic and nonsense. What if a police officer yelled at us to move? Would I ever be able to fall asleep? What if a stray bullet somehow barreled its way through my leg? (I did warn you some thoughts were nonsense).

Suddenly, my mind slammed on the brakes and I was jolted wide awake. A man’s voice, full of rage, permeated the air. “DON’T YOU MOVE YO ASS. DON’T YOU MOVE YO ASS!” Less than half a block away, it seemed as if all hell was about to break loose. Over and over again I heard the expletives and threats of a man looking for a street corner brawl. I was tense and I was afraid. What if they got close to us? Would my idiotic thought of a becoming GSW victim become a reality? I concentrated on the angry yells, trying to judge exactly how far away they were and if that distance was changing, afraid to even lift my head up to see for myself. No sleeping bags rustled on either side of me, so I concluded that I was the only one awake. For fifteen minutes the screaming continued, and for fifteen minutes I was consumed by fear.

At last, the yelling quieted and the street resumed its busy yet comforting song. I don’t know how I was able to drift off, but I did. Though every 30 minutes, I woke up, realized that, yes, I was sleeping on the street a few blocks down from the White House, and then went back to sleep. Before I knew it, Steve’s voice was telling us it was time to wake up. It was 5:45 a.m. and I felt like I had slept for maybe three minutes. To our delight (sarcasm), Steve snapped a picture of us just as we had opened our tired eyes -- for his scrapbook :) Immediately, I was in a fully conscious state and sat up without hesitation. After taking about a minute to roll up my sleeping bag and gather my belongings, we were already on our way. While we grabbed our cardboard to throw away and set off towards a McDonald's a few blocks away, I glanced back to the awning. It was if we had never been there.

While we walked we all talked about how it had been to sleep on the street. To my surprise, my three fellow participants were just as wide awake as I had been when the man on the street corner had began his rant. And all three of us had each thought that they were the only person awake! As we were talking about the incident, Steve revealed to us what had actually happened. It may have seemed like a few guys were about to get into a fight -- in reality it was just one mentally ill homeless man screaming at the stationary light post.

Better Believe Steve

It was nearing nine o' clock, so off to the ESPN Zone we went. Our guide Steve arrived to the corner a few minutes after nine, carrying with him a large duffel bag. He sat us down right there on the sidewalk next to the ESPN Zone and told us this is where he used to come to watch all of the sports games through the windows. I guess once a sports fan, always a sports fan. After sharing our day's experiences, he told us where we would be sleeping that night. Coincidentally, we would be settling down right on the corner where Adam and I had panhandled earlier―underneath the awnings of the CVS at 13th and Pennsylvania. Evidently, this was the area in which Steve had been homeless. It was comforting to learn that Steve knew every single little nook and cranny around these blocks, as well as all the other homeless people that hang around here.

Steve then told us to run across the street and grab our cardboard to sleep on from the dumpster in the parking garage. As the four us began to take off towards the crosswalk at the end of the block, unsure of exactly where we were supposed to go, he playfully shouted, “Where in the world are you guys going? You're homeless! Just cross the street wherever you want, for God's sake!”

We found the cardboard boxes right where Steve said they would be, and I grabbed the biggest one I could find. From there we set off to our sleeping spot a few blocks away (crossing the street wherever we pleased). As we approached the two long awnings, it was apparent that we were sharing the space with two “neighbors.” Steve said he knew the person underneath the first awning, and probably knew the second person as well, but couldn't be sure underneath all of the blankets. We laid down our cardboard over the concrete and configured our sleeping bags with the girls closest to the wall and Adam and Steve on the outside.

We slept beneath the awning on the right.

After everything was set up, Steve called us over to some steps a few meters away. Gathering around Steve, he pointed out all of the federal buildings around us. We couldn't have been in a safer place―right across the street was the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, to its right was the U.S. Customs and Border Protection, to its left was the Drug Enforcement Agency within the Department of Justice building, and two blocks down was the J. Edgar Hoover Federal Bureau of Investigation Building. Basically, not only were there about twenty cameras on the top of every single building, but we had the entire nation's law enforcement within a two block radius.

Our guide, Steve Thomas

Steve began to talk. Instantly, the mood became serious―even the street seemed to keep its noisy chaos at bay, kneeling at the feet of a story needing to be told. Born and raised in the D.C. area, Steve grew up in the hood with his sister and single mother. His mom didn't believe in welfare, so while she constantly worked two to three jobs, he was left to fend for himself the majority of the time. Also, as I've mentioned, Steve is a king-sized dude―but also the biggest softie around. As a kid, he was made fun of frequently for his size. Like any person, he really just wanted to be accepted and liked by the other kids―so from an early age, he began doing whatever it took to get approval by his peers. When he was 13 years old, the older boys on the block invited him to smoke pot with them. Being the insecure bear that he was, he was just happy to be included. By age 15, he was dealing drugs and dropping acid. Somehow, he managed to graduate high school―but his mother had not once uttered the word college, so it was just assumed that he would grab his diploma and then grab a job. Luckily, after graduation, he found a job that paid over $17.00 per hour (in the 1970s, mind you) as a construction worker building the subway system in the city. The gig lasted a few years, but soon enough the subway was completed and it was time to find a new job. Steve found work at the Post Office and for the first time ever, he was surrounded by all adults.

One night, his co-workers invited him to a party. While he was there, a guy pressured him to try cocaine. At first, Steve declined--he was proud that he had managed to steer clear of the “hard” stuff his whole life. But the guy kept hounding him to give it a try, taunting him. It was Steve’s desire to be liked and his need for approval that carried him to that fateful moment when he caved in and tried it. “It took me 30 seconds to try it and 30 years to get off.”

After a random drug test at the Post Office, Steve lost his job. He decided to join the Air Force as a technician. Steve was a hard-worker, talented, and well-liked by the whole crew. So much so that he was being considered for placement at NASA. But as soon as things began to look up, another drug test barred the way to success. The General serving above Steve was so impressed by him, he made sure the terms of Steve’s discharge would never appear on paper.

Steve got a few more jobs here and there, but it was always the random drug test that nailed him. Finally, he began working as a truck driver. Although Steve traveled everywhere, he could not leave his drug addiction behind. “I had drug dealers in 25 states. Within 10 minutes of getting into a city I could find drugs.” And soon enough, once again Steve’s addiction left him out of a job.

He returned to Washington, D.C. but did not have much to return to. His family had left him and he was out of a home. “As I walked along Pennsylvania Avenue, I saw people on every bench, and it hit me, ‘They're homeless, and I am too.’” Steve turned to us and pointed to a bench across the street--it was the exact bench that became his home.

Why didn’t Steve stay in a shelter? Actually, he did try to stay in a shelter at one point, but the conditions were too unbearable that he “would have died on the street rather than go into one of those shelters.” He told the story of when he tried to use the restroom but there was no toilet paper. So he went to ask the attendant if he could have some toilet paper. The attendant ripped off exactly three squares and gave it to him. That was it. Between that and the smell of dozens of unshowered adults in extremely close quarters, Steve, like many others, actually preferred the streets.

It took over a week for Steve to build up the courage to shake a cup for spare change. He wasn’t proud of the position he was in and he didn’t want anyone to know he was homeless. But he needed the money. So he stood on the street corner with his cup. The very first person who walked past him yelled in his face, “Get a damn job.” In that instant, Steve became a broken man. He never tried to shake a cup ever again.

One night, Steve’s spirits hit an all time low. He stole his friend’s gun from a few benches down and brought it back to his bench. Laying down, Steve put the gun to his head. But somehow he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. He lay there, cursing God for robbing him of the courage he needed to go through with it. As it so happened, a doctor from the local shelter happened to be doing some rounds that night. The doctor drove around in a van and checked in on different homeless people to make sure they were okay. After the Unity Healthcare van pulled up to his bench, Dr. Thomas Garland walked over to Steve, knelt down, and asked him if he was okay. Immediately, Steve broke down and told the doctor everything that had happened. When he was finished, Dr. Garland asked, “Will you allow me to help you?”

It was at that moment when Steve’s life began to turn around. The doctor checked his blood pressure and found it to be dangerously high--Steve should have been dead. He gave Steve a few pills and told him to come back to the shelter to start a recovery program the next morning. Since that night two and half years ago, Steve has been completely clean and sober. A year ago, Steve started his own non-profit organization, S.T.E.V.E -- Striving To End Vagrancy Everywhere. Now known throughout the city as “Better Believe Steve,” he is the second leading homelessness advocate in the city and the number one speaker for the Speaker’s Bureau of the National Coalition for the Homeless.

“I dug my hole and laid down in it, pleading with God to just throw the dirt on top. And He did. But instead of burying me--He planted me.”

Unexpected genorosity

*Post #4 - scroll down for Post #3, Post #2, and Post #1

After a half hour of laying on the bench, I began to hear the familiar slap of raindrops on plastic garbage bags. Adam and I gathered our belongings and started walking back into the downtown area. As we walked, it began to rain harder and harder. We sought shelter in the nearest corner Starbucks, just as the skies ripped open. We watched from the window as the streets flooded within minutes, thankful to have made it inside just in time. While we sat, I remembered a tip that one of the guides had given us. I decided to give it a shot and walked into the restroom, locking the door. I lifted the lid off the trash can and pulled out the half-full garbage bag. And voilá! Underneath it, just as the guide had said, was an extra garbage bag. I snatched it up for future use as a poncho and put the garbage can back together. Strolling casually out of the restroom, I couldn't quite keep my grin at bay, as I was feeling like the slickest street-rat ever.

When the skies let up, our hungry stomachs told us which goal to accomplish next. We left the Starbucks and walked a few blocks north, searching for another homeless person who could direct us to a shelter. We came across an older Middle Eastern man who appeared to be on the streets. At first, we kept walking, unsure of ourselves. But after a few strides, we turned back around and just went for it. And to our surprise this man could not have been any kinder. With his thick accent, he told us exactly where the three closest shelters were, what time they served dinner, and which one was co-ed. Then, to our astonishment, he pulled out a $5 bill from his pocket and handed it to us. “There's a McDonald's right up the street. Take this and get two fish fillets off the dollar menu―they're pretty filling, and don't taste too bad.” After I pocketed the money, I shook his hand and thanked him profusely for his generosity.

As Adam and I walked away from him, I couldn't believe how kind he had been to us. It was exactly what the Coalition had told us would happen. Our greatest resources on the street would be our fellow homeless people. They would be the ones to help us out, point us in the right direction, give us advice. It is simply amazing. They are the people who have the least to give, the people struggle the most, and yet somehow they are the people most willing to lend a hand. I feel like homeless people are so willing to help one another out because they really don't have anyone else who watches their backs or looks out for them. United by common hardship, they form a community.

Outside of the McDonald's, it was like a homeless mecca. There were more homeless people hanging out right there than we had seen the entire day. As we crossed the sidewalk, a young guy wearing a Greenpeace shirt introduced himself to us. After his spiel about the rainforests, through which we nodded emphatically, he thrust out his clipboard and asked us to become members...'contributing' members, that is. “Um...I don't really have an address...or any money...sorry.”

Walking away from him, I couldn't decide if I was offended or not. Clearly, we had no money to give to his organization, so why would he put us in that awkward circumstance? On the other hand, was it better that he didn't judge us rig ht off the bat―that he treated us like any other passerby? I'm not sure.

The McDonalds where we ate. (gotta love google maps street view haha)

Sitting in the McDonald's window, Adam and I feasted on our dollar menu meal―a side salad for myself, a double cheeseburger for Adam, and a medium order of french fries to share. It hit me then, why so many homeless people are overweight. When your cheapest and most filling food option is a greasy double cheeseburger from Mickie D's, you're bound to pack on the pounds...and the health risks. I recently learned that the average life expectancy in the homeless population is estimated between 42 and 52 years, compared to 78 years in the general population.

With full stomachs, we trekked eastward to check out the shelters that we had heard about. Though we had just eaten, we both agreed that we wanted to at least see what the shelters looked like. The further east that we walked, the seedier the area became. Just as I was thinking that maybe we should turn around, we came across the three shelters. Outside the steps of one, there was a loud and raucous group of people. We bit back our uneasiness and crossed the street to the shelter. But as soon as we were there, the intimidation was just too great, so we kept walking. On our way out of the area, we both remarked how we were ashamed that we felt threatened―but it didn't change the way we felt.

The Open Door Shelter for Women

Federal City Shelter

We made our way back to the National Mall for a second go at napping on a bench. The location was great because the Smithsonian Castle has a giant clock on one of the towers. That's something else that I never thought about until this experience―knowing what time it is. Homeless people don't have cell phones to pull out and check every five minutes to see the time. Not knowing the time was something to get used to. It was like just floating through the day, rather meeting checkpoints. Throughout the day, I asked a few random people for the time. It was weird to have to depend on other people for something as simple as the time.

Benches on the National Mall in front of the Smithsonian Castle
-AKA Kelsey's Favorite Place to Nap-

Anyway, this go around, I was able to relax enough to slip into a light sleep. We woke up just as the sun was beginning to set behind the Washington Monument. That's right―the sun came out for the first time that day, just to sneak back down into the night. But it was a beautiful sunset. As we were admiring the sky, to our surprise, our two other group members, Luna and Kaitlin, walked onto the Mall just a few yards down from our benches. We ran towards each other and basically tackled each other with giant hugs―just like it happens in the movies. It was just so welcoming to see a familiar face. They sat down on our benches and told us their tales of the day.

Apparently, they had not fared as well as us at panhandling, and by late afternoon they were becoming seriously worried that they weren't going to be able to eat. Fortunately, they ran into a wonderfully generous and colorful character outside of Union Station. Known as The General, he is permanently camped out on a stretch of sidewalk in front of Union Station, along with two other homeless people.

Union Station

The General's home base

When Luna and Kaitlin asked The General for help, he immediately jumped to their aid. He fished out a few wadded (and moist) $1 gift certificates to McDonald's, and then added another dollar bill of his own “for the tax.” He then told them about Martha's Table, a food van that goes around to different parks and hands out sandwiches, as well as when and where they could catch it. He sent them on their way and told them to come back later if they wanted--he would share is his skittles and they could play music together. After getting five sandwiches each from Martha's Table, Luna and Kaitlin went back to Union Station to thank the General.

As they talked with him, it was apparent how wonderful his spirit was. All he wanted to do was to make people smile. He even told them that he knew some other girls around their age that he could get them in touch with, to make friends on the street―“but by no means should you feel pressured to like them, because you don't have to, you can make your own judgement, but just in case you want to meet other young people it might be nice, but again no pressure...” Once again, it was evident how helpful and generous the people on the street can be.

From Giant Squid to Park Bench

*Post #3 - scroll down for Post #2 and Post #1

Overall, we were incredibly fortunate. After a few unbelievably generous donations of $20, $10, and $10, as well as some random change, Adam and I had amassed over $50 in less than an hour. We later learned that the previous record was only $36―heck yes! But be aware that panhandling is really luck of draw...most of the other groups made only a few bucks, and in one unlucky circumstance, a measly 26 cents.

Before we felt that we overstayed that street corner's welcome, we packed up our stuff. Our stomachs were holding their grumbles nicely, so instead of getting something to eat, we headed to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. Standing in line for the museum, I noticed that the security officers at the entrance checked everyone's purses and backpacks before entering. Soon enough, it was my turn. Unfortunately, I had tied the knot incredibly tightly on the garbage bag that held my sleeping bag. I struggled for at least three minutes to untie it, all the while the line behind me grew longer.

The security woman watched me, annoyed. The people at my back stared, and I could feel their judgment as they took in my outfit, my garbage bags, and my hair that was now a frizzy and tangled hot mess, thanks to the rain. Three minutes seemed like an eternity. At last the damn thing relented and I showed the woman the inside of my bag. That wasn't enough, though. In front of everyone, she had me actually open the case to my sleeping bag and asked what it was. At that moment, I wanted to scream, “I'm homeless―c'mon already, it's obvious!” But instead I just replied coolly, “It’s my sleeping bag.” I continued to hold my tongue as she proceeded to poke and prod in my backpack and second garbage bag. As she went through all of my miserable belongings―a half roll of toilet paper, a Styrofoam cup, scraggly pieces of cardboard, a nasty baseball cap that I picked up off the street―I felt a wave of embarrassment.

However, as I stood there, I was able to console myself that I was merely playing a role. It was my character that was experiencing this shame. But then my heart sank as I realized that homeless people are not playing a role―they don't have a “real life” to which they go back home. Day in and day out, homeless people are humiliated. A number of homeless people used to have high-paying jobs and nice houses―they are not proud of the position that they are in, of the life they now live. In fact, who wouldn't be embarrassed to carry around all of their worldly possessions in a beat up garbage bag? I think many people feel that they have nothing in common with homeless people, that they cannot possibly relate to them. However, I've found that homeless people are just people―they have feelings just like you and I. And we have a lot more in common than society would lead us to believe. Anyway, I can only imagine how small a person must feel after exchanges like these.

After finally getting through security, I headed to the information and asked the woman for a map. “Of what?” she snapped. I was taken aback not only by the idiocy of her question, but by the tone it carried. “Uh..the museum??” I replied. As she handed one over, I played the part and asked her if all of the exhibits were free of charge. Her response was a biting and abrupt, “Yes.” And that was that. Calling her a snob would be mighty polite.

We stuffed our belongings into the lockers and then set off to explore the exhibits. It's funny―as soon as I ditched my bags, I no longer felt like a homeless person but rather just like a scruffier and dirtier version of myself. After admiring the (quasi)GIANT squid [to me, it was a disappointment - I was a expecting 35 foot long monster and this thing was *maybe* 12 feet long], Adam and I checked out the new featured exhibit, Human Origins. It was a wonderful exhibit--with lots of bones, skulls, and more bones. As we were finishing up, we actually ran into two fellow participants, Ruth and Tim. After all of us shared our experiences up to that point, it was clear that Tim was the big winner―he had garbage-picked a really sweet jacket that transformed him to 100% homeless, and while dumpster diving, he came out with a full loaf of bread!

Tim and his awesome homeless jacket

We parted ways with Ruth and Tim, and decided that after all of this walking it was time for a nap. So we left the museum and walked right over to two benches on the National Mall. Stretching out on the bench, I used my backpack and sleeping bag as my “pillow.” I wasn't sure what to do with my second garbage bag, though―there wasn't enough room on the bench, but I didn't want to let go of it, with the fear that someone would try to run off with it. I settled on holding a part of it and let the rest dangle to the ground. Positioning my hair in front of my face, I closed my eyes and let my senses take over.

My body ached, its bones sore and tired from standing and walking all day long. The bench was hard and awkward. My bags were too big to make a comfortable pillow and my neck soon became stiff. The cold air managed to weave its way through my clothes and settle into my skin. Every few seconds, I would hear the crunch of gravel as people walked by―sometimes it seemed like they were only inches away from my head. With every crackly footfall, I tensed up. I was afraid―afraid that someone would try to take my stuff, afraid that someone would heckle me, afraid that the police were going to tell me to move. I wanted so badly to fall asleep, but my mind wouldn't surrender its consciousness.

Spare change?

*Post #2 - scroll down to "And so it begins..." for Post #1

Adam and I decided that the first thing we needed to do was to find cardboard to make our panhandling signs. While digging through a few trash bags on a residential sidewalk that hadn't yet been collected, I could feel the eyes of the passerby stealing glance after glance at our raccoon behavior. Interestingly enough, I felt satisfied that I was finally playing this role...a sort of sick pride that these people had fallen for our guises. We came out with a few salvageable pieces of cardboard and set off on our next goal: find a park or construction site where we could dirty up our clothes.

In our search for a park, we walked through the George Washington University campus. It was an extremely peculiar and somewhat unsettling feeling to walk through a college campus. I found that no longer did I feel like I was a college student, or like someone who could relate to these young people that roamed the sidewalks. Instead, I felt like an outsider, a spectacle. Rather than meeting my glances, most of my peers did everything they could to avoid eye contact. As we walked, my mind struggled to grasp what was going through their heads. I asked myself how I would feel if I saw a scraggly, greasy haired, poorly dressed girl walking across the Quad, attempting to make eye contact with me. Would I feel uncomfortable? Guilty? Awkward? Sympathetic?

Adam and I stumbled upon a construction site and hopped the fence. We sat on the ground and basically lathered up our outfits with dirt. At this point, I think I now made a supremely convincing homeless person. From there we walked a few blocks to venture into a Catholic bookstore. One of the tips the Coalition had given us was to assume a low energy and somewhat depressed state of existence, for the simple reason that homeless people are generally broken people. As pumped as I was for this experience, it was easy to see that too sunny a demeanor would instantly blow our cover. Still, it was too early for me to vocally pretend to be homeless, so I let Adam do the talking in the bookstore. In a quiet and depressed tone, he asked the saleswoman if she could point us in the direction of a shelter. The woman was very pleasant and told us about a church a few blocks away that served lunch. We learned that apparently being stranded after a rally is a common occurrence in D.C., because on our way out she asked where we were from and if we had come in for the rally. We fed her our lines, and then literally, as soon as we had stepped foot out of the doorway, the skies tore open. The saleswoman joked that we needed an umbrella…then realized who she was talking to. It was awkward on both ends.

Social experiment number two was to go to a fancy hotel and ask to use the bathroom. We trampled into the Hilton Regency looking a bit like drowned rats. I trudged up to the front desk and, in my best defeated voice, asked where the restroom was located. To my surprise, the man behind the desk couldn't be kinder. Warmly, he told us where it was. [Later, we talked about this exchange with our guide, Steve. He told us that because we didn't smell, we were young, we were white, and it was our first time in there, of course they would be considerate. They wanted us to get in, get out, and never return. If it had been an older black man who routinely asked to use the restroom, it could assured that he would be asked to leave.]

At our next stop, Borders, we bee-lined to the magazine rack, and I pulled out a Glamour to flip through. Sure enough, after a few minutes, a store manager had made his post about four feet away from me, watching my every move like a hawk. Thanks to his hovering presence, I began to feel guilty, despite the fact I hadn't even done anything.

It was nearing lunch-time, so Adam and I trekked back out into the rain to try our luck at finding table scraps. We literally walked into three different Potbelly's, two Corner Bakerys, two Quizno's, a Subway, and a gigantic mall food court, scavenging for unwanted food left at tables. As it turned out, people tend to promptly clean up their area and the table scraps mission soon became mission impossible. Because we were failing miserably at finding leftovers, we tried a new tactic. We asked the restaurant employees if we could sweep or bus tables in exchange for a sandwich or bag of chips. We were denied every single time. At a particular sandwich shop, the worker curtly replied, “No!” and proceeded to ignore me, even though I was standing directly in front of her.

After completely striking out on the food front, we decided that maybe it was time to try our luck at panhandling. We hunkered down outside a CVS at the corner of 13th and Pennsylvania, right in the heart of the government district. Adam scrawled out on his piece of cardboard, “On the streets. Need bus ticket money. HUNGRY.” My sign simply read, “Homeless and Hungry.” We set a styrofoam cup out in front of us and began asking passerby for spare change.

“Spare change, Sir?” “Spare change, Ma'am?” As my voice rung out, I sat and watched the people process my call, and then deliberately choose to ignore my existence. Eyes decidedly straight ahead, they walked on. I knew they heard me; I literally could see the wheels turning within their heads. And yet, they breezed right on by me without a backwards glance. It was as if I had suddenly become invisible; I no longer existed. To them, I was as much as part of the scenery as the light post, the trash can, and the gum on the ground. To them, I was nothing.

Thankfully, although the majority of people neglected to acknowledge Adam and I, a few people did respond to our pleas. One well-dressed man walked over to us, crouched down to our level, and began to ask us questions. “How did you two end up here?” “You need a bus ticket? How much do those cost?” All of his questions made me nervous; it was like we were being grilled. And as we weaved our tale of being stranded and needing bus tickets back to St. Louis, I felt like the biggest fake in the world. The man listened intently to our story and then told us that if we came back to this corner the next day, he would make sure that we were taken care of. Basically, he just told us that he would buy Adam and I both bus tickets. He walked away, and Adam and I sat stunned at his generosity and ashamed that we were the ones to benefit.

And so it begins...

Over spring break this past March, I went on an Alternative Spring Break trip to Washington, D.C. to learn more about homelessness. Eleven other students and I participated in the Homeless Challenge (Urban Plunge) through the National Coalition for the Homeless in order to experience homelessness first hand. This is my story.


6:29 a.m........6:30 a.m. The instant my phone alarm began to blare its tinny tune, I was already up and out of my sleeping bag, excited to begin this new adventure of life on the other side. I'm not even sure if I had actually fallen asleep the night before―it was the whole “kid-on-Christmas-Eve” syndrome. Except this Christmas was more 'trash bag' than 'toy bag.'

That morning marked a full week since my last shower. A thick layer of invisible grime had settled into my skin, making even the cleanest of clothes feel sullied. The grease on my scalp plastered my hair to the crown of my head...I looked like a 12 year old boy who had overdosed on L.A. Looks hair gel. But I was not complaining one bit; I wanted to embrace this opportunity to the fullest, to do my best to experience the many discomforts the homeless deal with every single day. In an effort to really go for the gold, I may or may not have actually borrowed a can of Crisco from the kitchen and sprayed it liberally throughout my mane. Let's just say that it was an unexpected bonus that the Crisco smelled like week-old compost.

Changing into my trusty pair of old black sweatpants, a 10-year-old worn and stained T-shirt, and a faded, neon Windy City Balloon Port sweatshirt circa 1986, it was as if I had just stepped off a runway in Milan..... though perhaps not. I stocked my backpack with a half roll of toilet paper (you never know), a pair of dirty mittens, a warm scarf, and an old, label-less water bottle. Then I wrapped my sleeping bag up in a garbage bag and tied it to my backpack with a piece of string. The final touch to my new homeless get-up was a good old Hefty bag to carry all of the treasures I would surely find on the street.


After downing a small breakfast of a Dixie cup full of cheerios, our brave group of 12 set out to the National Coalition for the Homeless headquarters to divide into pairs and meet up with our guides. During the Homeless Challenge, participants typically meet up with a guide at night to ensure their safety, and the guide is someone who is or has been homeless in Washington, D.C. My partner Adam and I, and another pair, Luna and Kaitlin, were assigned to Steve's group. Our guide Steve was 6'3” and 300 pounds―I couldn't be happier that he would be our protector that night. Because, seriously, who in their right mind would mess with that?

After brief introductions, Steve dove right in and inquired about our “homeless stories.” Part of the program involved coming up with a believable backstory of how we became homeless. Following Steve's advice, Adam and I were now teenagers who had came to D.C. a few days ago for the rally, but now were stranded. Apparently, we were not yet smelly enough to pretend that we had been in the area longer than a few days. Steve then told us to meet him out front of the ESPN Zone at E and 11th at 9 o' clock that night. And with that, we were off!