Preface: I am writing this in the first person as someone who is experiencing homelessness and I have never lived without a home. I have spent some time with folks who are homeless and had conversations with some people, but I do not pretend this is at all the same, nor do conversations give me any particular insight, blessing or right to take on someone’s life. I do not know the intricate details of community, care, and survival for the homeless population in the U.S. for the nearly 570,000 people without homes in 2019 in the U.S. I am writing this from multiple positions of power, including that of race, ability, and socioeconomic class.
And, I still felt pulled to write this. This poem is a poetic representation of possibilities of what is happening in the mind of someone experiencing homelessness, but the narrator is not based on any one person or one story. With poetry as one of my mediums for understanding and reflecting on the world, I share in this way because of a recent interaction I had with a man who is homeless and, after reflecting on our time together, I felt pulled to create what I imagine might be going on in his mind. The intention is to draw awareness, to give pause, and to encourage shared humanity.
To the Humans with a Home
When you ask me if this city is home
do you know that I am homeless?
Less being the opposite of more
as if that spectrum could hold us.
From my perspective there are many folks
who have more than what they need.
More houses, things, food, cars–
a garden compared to these weeds.
It’s not that that they are greedy.
It’s the way that they were taught:
be robotic, hold tight, be needy
with this capitalistic backdrop.
We’re see products more than people,
production as an indicator of worth.
So, tell me then, if you’ll even sit,
Where do I belong on this earth?
What am I to you?
What is my human life worth?
Do I take up space, your space,
in my tent with others who care?
Do I make you feel uncomfortable
when I ask you please to share?
Be it food, water, money
Time, conversation, or a smile,
Look at me and listen
To my story for a while.
I am was a child once, you know
with dreams too big to imagine.
I am a sibling, parent, lover, friend,
and worker, can you even envision
me in a suit, in an office,
in another time and day?
But instead you do not see me.
You glance and look away.
But I see you roll up your window
when you come to a red light
while I’m standing on the corner
in the desert sun, baking bright.
I hold up a sign that I’ve written
sharing part of my story
interrupting your day, perhaps,
from the bustling and the roaring.
Please, don’t look away from me.
I, too, am a product of this system.
Driven homeless by depression,
by illness, PTSD, addiction.
My diseases were called criminal
and not treated humanely.
I survived heartbreak and loss,
war and weather, but barely.
I once had stocks and wealth,
I’d invested all that I owned
trusting promises of Wall Street bankers
who sold my assets and my home.
Do you want to know, I wonder,
how those in power really act?
They also walk right past me,
Never respond, never react.
I watch them hold their breath,
hear their judgment, silent profanity.
Seeing me as less than human
does not make you more free.
I know you cannot resolve
all the broken promises, knotted strings
and I don’t expect you to give me
every one of your precious things
Because things can be precious—
they give us comfort and love
but do we really need so much
as marketing execs whisper from above?
So I ask you to stop and see me,
and maybe ask my name.
Don’t quake when I reach out my hand
and please don’t look away.
If you have something to give,
some dollars, water, or food,
I’d appreciate the encouragement
and if I seem it, I don’t mean to be rude.
It’s hard living without a home
without a space of my own
relying on everyone else
as my mental health roams,
and my physical health shakes
and my memories are erased
and my body deteriorates
and I lose my sense of place.
Those well-concocted stories
of 1980s, 90s media fame
when a man living on NY streets
made his living gathering change,
those are stories penned by monsters
who want you to see dirt, scum, and lies,
when you look at me begging
when you see pain behind my eyes.
I may be struggling with addiction
with alcoholism, with shame,
I may be struggling with ailments
that don’t have clinical names.
And these diseases control me
just like materialism can control you.
I’m not the only one addicted
to something I do not choose.
So next time you see me,
under the overpass, on the corner,
look at me fully,
look at me with wonder.
I have learned resilience
in the harshest of conditions.
Living the best I can right now,
that is my life or death mission.
Tucson Resources for Helping Those Experiencing Homelessness
Life Point (clean syringe exchange program)
SAAF (Southern AZ AIDS Foundation; prevention, programs and removing stigma)
The H.S. Lopez Family Foundation Center for Opportunity (volunteering opportunities; the center provides housing, resources and food for those experiencing homelessness)
Blog for Arizona (great information on many local political topics, including homelessness, linked here)
Shelter List (list of homeless shelters in Tucson and other cities)
Ways to Get Involved
Care Packages: You could make a care package of some of the following items and keep it in your car to have on hand when you see someone who is asking for help. Keep it in the front seat or in easy access in the backseat, not in the trunk.
Water Bottles (Not environmentally friendly, but a person’s dehydration is, to me, more important to treat than being environmental and not buying the plastic bottle, in this case. I suppose if you have the funds you could buy reusable water bottles, or glass bottles, and give those out instead.)
Extra socks, clean clothing, etc.
Granola bars, nuts, fruit, crackers: Any food that you can keep in your car for a bit but remember, folks living with homelessness also have allergies and may not be able to eat certain things.
Leftovers/To-Go Boxes: This one feels controversial for me. ON the one hand, if I don’t eat all my food and give my leftovers to someone, perhaps they really do want the food and they see it as a kind offering. On the other hand, this person is entitled to their own food, not the leftovers of me, someone in multiple positions of power. For me, I tend to ask someone if they’d be interested if I have leftovers and am walking, driving and feel it is appropriate, and be totally fine if they say yes or no.
List of Shelters: I had a friend who made cards of shelters in Phoenix, with addresses and phone numbers, and would give them out to folks.
Time and Humanity: The gift of time, conversation, eye contact, a smile, a hello, a good-bye– these actions, though they might feel insignificant, are, I believe, something powerful. Powerful in the sense that we see people experiencing homelessness as people, not less than, or more than, those with a home. It’s not us vs. them. It’s all of us, belonging to and caring about one another.
