It was almost time to lock up, near 10:00pm, when there was a knock at the door of the Catholic Worker. Trent had set up a fire – it had just begun to bloom – and we were settled, both reading, in the living room.
It is rare for someone to come to the door at night. It is rare for unexpected guests to come to the door at all. Thirty-five years old, the Denver Catholic Worker has earned its reputation, and most know that we are usually a full house, and that we like to keep the atmosphere calm and familiar for the residing guests.
I was reminded by a glance outside that the snow had formed a soft, white pillow atop Denver’s concrete. For people without shelter, the sudden drop in temperature – to not much higher than zero – was making life much more difficult, if even survivable.
“We have no room in the house right now,” Trent was telling the presence outside. I got up and walked to the kitchen, afraid of the reality that this was someone kind, someone sober, someone incapable of working, someone I couldn’t blame for his or her fate (it is an ever-present challenge not to do so). From down the hall, I saw only the back of my friend, Trent’s head bowed forward – I couldn’t see who stood before him. “I’m sorry,” Trent said, before asking the person if he or she’d like some food. As I turned toward the kitchen to warm up some leftovers, I heard a voice; it was a mangled, woeful slur, neither intimidating nor intoxicated, a voice of confusion, of fear. The speaker explained that he had just come from the hospital, and that he was dizzy and weak.
He came inside and sat near the fire. He put his hands out toward it, and I watched his long, dry fingers outstretch. “It’s nice,” he said. His hair was gray, and I realized the main reason for his speech impediment: he didn’t have teeth. “Do you guys drink coffee here?” he asked. “Not at night,” I said, “but I can make you some tea.” “With sugar?” he asked, and smiled.
Hubert was from New Jersey, like me, and came to Denver to be near his cousin, who had promised he could share his housing with Hubert. But this cousin, who wound up unable to fulfill that promise, instead tried to steal Hubert’s disability income. Hubert seemed unsure as to where the money was, exactly – at one point he seemed to say it was with his father, down south. But based on his appearance – he was perhaps in his seventies – I imagined that Hubert’s father might not still be around. He seemed to me not much different from a lost child, someone who’s been lost, looking for a safe place for a lifetime. Still, instead of a cold shell, there was a softness about him, something naïve and gentle. His vulnerability alarmed me. Somehow, the fact that the majority of the homeless population is made up of those with untreated mental illnesses hasn’t completely registered.
“Where did you sleep last night?” I asked as I flipped through our winter shelter resource book. Trent was in the office calling shelter after shelter, each one offering him only the same thing we had already offered Hubert: “Sorry, we’re full.” Hubert, eyes big, gratefully holding the cup of hot tea, answered my question as he took a sip, but his answer was unintelligible. Hesitantly, I asked him again.
“I slept in an alley. Behind a dumpster. It was real cold.”
He frowned, and, with his thin fingers, took the tea bag from the mug and placed it in his bag to reuse at another time. “Do you want some more tea bags?” I asked, and he said, “Yes, yes please!”
I nodded and excused myself. I called a few more places; most of them were closed. I refused to believe that the only option for Hubert, a mentally-challenged man in his seventies, a man with tuberculosis, was to sleep atop ice with only one blanket.
I invited Hubert into the dining room and gave him some steaming pasta. One of our other guests – an eleven-year-old who has brought so much joy into our house with her talents in song, dance, and comedy – came in and asked me if I would be attending her school play (earlier, when Hubert first arrived, she’d grabbed me by the elbow and asked, “Who is he? Is he homeless?” “Yes,” I said, and instead of shrinking away, she gave me a hug). “Want to hear what I’ll be singing?” she asked, and Hubert looked up at her and smiled. She began, “I don’t want a lot for Christmas…” While Hubert ate, she continued to sing, dance, twirl. There was no apparent hesitancy in her to be loving towards this stranger, clearly in need. It was common sense to her. She gave me another squeeze, affirming, and went upstairs.
“Have you stayed at any shelters recently?” I asked Hubert. “The Mission. But I don’t like it there. It’s dangerous! People are real mean. They pick on me.” “What about trying to retrieve your disability income?” I knew that gaining control of his SSI (which would only be possible with the support of some kind of case manager) and having someone help him maintain it would be the only way Hubert could ever afford to sleep indoors. “What about St. Francis Center? Have you been there?” He shook his head, remembering. “I can’t go there for two more days,” he said, “but that’s only two days.” He looked hopeful and tried to eat another spoonful of food. “I had to use the bathroom real bad, see? And the line was so long, like an hour, and I didn’t want to have an accident in my pants, and so I left and went outside and found a private spot behind a house. Apparently, a lady at St. Francis saw me.” I couldn’t imagine how the answer to a man’s desperation for a toilet would be to make toilets and similar resources even more inaccessible. “Make him work for it” seems to be the sentiment, even in regards to someone almost entirely helpless. “Make him pay for his mistake.” But in this case, I couldn’t figure out what the “mistake” was. Urinating is not something we can control or repress because it is “bad.” It is a basic need of the human body – when the need is ignored, this can affect already ill health. I wondered why our reaction is so cold-hearted – when we see an old man in need, why are we so concerned with protecting ourselves or our organization from him? I pressed on. “Is there any way you could see a social worker to regain access to your disability income?” He shook his head and repeated his telling of the St. Francis incident. He was confused and tired and stuck in a time and place that no longer was. I wanted to shake him, tell him, “Even if we find you a place tonight, you probably won’t have anywhere to go tomorrow!” But I knew that would have been fruitless.
After exploring all shelter options, Trent called the non-emergency number for the Denver Police Station and explained our new friend’s desperate situation. About thirty minutes later, a policeman arrived to take Hubert to a motel. We gave him an extra coat, scarf, and gloves, some sandwiches, and plenty of teabags before greeting the officer at the door. “Okay, show me some ID,” he said to Hubert, without taking a moment to look at the old man’s exhausted, scared face. Hubert put his bags on the ground and began to rifle through them. His hat fell off. The plastic forks and bananas we’d piled into one of his bags fell out. I ran to get some more things, and when I returned, the officer was walking back from his car. “Well, the system says you don’t exist,” he barked at Hubert. I suppose Hubert, unable to locate his ID promptly, gave the officer his name. “So, unless you can find your ID, you’re out of luck.”
Finally, bent over and searching frantically, Hubert found his ID. “Okay,” the policeman said, “Let’s get you to a warm bed.”
It is rare for someone to come to the door at night. It is rare for unexpected guests to come to the door at all. Thirty-five years old, the Denver Catholic Worker has earned its reputation, and most know that we are usually a full house, and that we like to keep the atmosphere calm and familiar for the residing guests.
I was reminded by a glance outside that the snow had formed a soft, white pillow atop Denver’s concrete. For people without shelter, the sudden drop in temperature – to not much higher than zero – was making life much more difficult, if even survivable.
“We have no room in the house right now,” Trent was telling the presence outside. I got up and walked to the kitchen, afraid of the reality that this was someone kind, someone sober, someone incapable of working, someone I couldn’t blame for his or her fate (it is an ever-present challenge not to do so). From down the hall, I saw only the back of my friend, Trent’s head bowed forward – I couldn’t see who stood before him. “I’m sorry,” Trent said, before asking the person if he or she’d like some food. As I turned toward the kitchen to warm up some leftovers, I heard a voice; it was a mangled, woeful slur, neither intimidating nor intoxicated, a voice of confusion, of fear. The speaker explained that he had just come from the hospital, and that he was dizzy and weak.
He came inside and sat near the fire. He put his hands out toward it, and I watched his long, dry fingers outstretch. “It’s nice,” he said. His hair was gray, and I realized the main reason for his speech impediment: he didn’t have teeth. “Do you guys drink coffee here?” he asked. “Not at night,” I said, “but I can make you some tea.” “With sugar?” he asked, and smiled.
Hubert was from New Jersey, like me, and came to Denver to be near his cousin, who had promised he could share his housing with Hubert. But this cousin, who wound up unable to fulfill that promise, instead tried to steal Hubert’s disability income. Hubert seemed unsure as to where the money was, exactly – at one point he seemed to say it was with his father, down south. But based on his appearance – he was perhaps in his seventies – I imagined that Hubert’s father might not still be around. He seemed to me not much different from a lost child, someone who’s been lost, looking for a safe place for a lifetime. Still, instead of a cold shell, there was a softness about him, something naïve and gentle. His vulnerability alarmed me. Somehow, the fact that the majority of the homeless population is made up of those with untreated mental illnesses hasn’t completely registered.
“Where did you sleep last night?” I asked as I flipped through our winter shelter resource book. Trent was in the office calling shelter after shelter, each one offering him only the same thing we had already offered Hubert: “Sorry, we’re full.” Hubert, eyes big, gratefully holding the cup of hot tea, answered my question as he took a sip, but his answer was unintelligible. Hesitantly, I asked him again.
“I slept in an alley. Behind a dumpster. It was real cold.”
He frowned, and, with his thin fingers, took the tea bag from the mug and placed it in his bag to reuse at another time. “Do you want some more tea bags?” I asked, and he said, “Yes, yes please!”
I nodded and excused myself. I called a few more places; most of them were closed. I refused to believe that the only option for Hubert, a mentally-challenged man in his seventies, a man with tuberculosis, was to sleep atop ice with only one blanket.
I invited Hubert into the dining room and gave him some steaming pasta. One of our other guests – an eleven-year-old who has brought so much joy into our house with her talents in song, dance, and comedy – came in and asked me if I would be attending her school play (earlier, when Hubert first arrived, she’d grabbed me by the elbow and asked, “Who is he? Is he homeless?” “Yes,” I said, and instead of shrinking away, she gave me a hug). “Want to hear what I’ll be singing?” she asked, and Hubert looked up at her and smiled. She began, “I don’t want a lot for Christmas…” While Hubert ate, she continued to sing, dance, twirl. There was no apparent hesitancy in her to be loving towards this stranger, clearly in need. It was common sense to her. She gave me another squeeze, affirming, and went upstairs.
“Have you stayed at any shelters recently?” I asked Hubert. “The Mission. But I don’t like it there. It’s dangerous! People are real mean. They pick on me.” “What about trying to retrieve your disability income?” I knew that gaining control of his SSI (which would only be possible with the support of some kind of case manager) and having someone help him maintain it would be the only way Hubert could ever afford to sleep indoors. “What about St. Francis Center? Have you been there?” He shook his head, remembering. “I can’t go there for two more days,” he said, “but that’s only two days.” He looked hopeful and tried to eat another spoonful of food. “I had to use the bathroom real bad, see? And the line was so long, like an hour, and I didn’t want to have an accident in my pants, and so I left and went outside and found a private spot behind a house. Apparently, a lady at St. Francis saw me.” I couldn’t imagine how the answer to a man’s desperation for a toilet would be to make toilets and similar resources even more inaccessible. “Make him work for it” seems to be the sentiment, even in regards to someone almost entirely helpless. “Make him pay for his mistake.” But in this case, I couldn’t figure out what the “mistake” was. Urinating is not something we can control or repress because it is “bad.” It is a basic need of the human body – when the need is ignored, this can affect already ill health. I wondered why our reaction is so cold-hearted – when we see an old man in need, why are we so concerned with protecting ourselves or our organization from him? I pressed on. “Is there any way you could see a social worker to regain access to your disability income?” He shook his head and repeated his telling of the St. Francis incident. He was confused and tired and stuck in a time and place that no longer was. I wanted to shake him, tell him, “Even if we find you a place tonight, you probably won’t have anywhere to go tomorrow!” But I knew that would have been fruitless.
After exploring all shelter options, Trent called the non-emergency number for the Denver Police Station and explained our new friend’s desperate situation. About thirty minutes later, a policeman arrived to take Hubert to a motel. We gave him an extra coat, scarf, and gloves, some sandwiches, and plenty of teabags before greeting the officer at the door. “Okay, show me some ID,” he said to Hubert, without taking a moment to look at the old man’s exhausted, scared face. Hubert put his bags on the ground and began to rifle through them. His hat fell off. The plastic forks and bananas we’d piled into one of his bags fell out. I ran to get some more things, and when I returned, the officer was walking back from his car. “Well, the system says you don’t exist,” he barked at Hubert. I suppose Hubert, unable to locate his ID promptly, gave the officer his name. “So, unless you can find your ID, you’re out of luck.”
Finally, bent over and searching frantically, Hubert found his ID. “Okay,” the policeman said, “Let’s get you to a warm bed.”
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