By Kristen Brunelli
It was almost time to lock up, near ten p.m, when there was a knock on 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 that someone comes to the door at night. It is rare that unexpected guests come to the door at all. Thirty-five years old, the Denver Catholic Worker has earned its respect, and most know that usually we are 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. But for others this sudden drop in temperature—not much higher than zero—has made life much more difficult, if survivable, for those without shelter.
‘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 own fate (it is an ever present challenge not to do so). From down the hall, I saw the back of only my friend, Trent’s head bow forward—I couldn’t see who stood before him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Trent said, and asked 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, but a voice of confusion, of fear. He’d just come from the hospital, and 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 said and smiled.
Hubert was from New Jersey, like me, and came to Denver to be near his cousin, who’d promised he could share his housing with Hubert. But this cousin, who wound up unable to fulfill that promise, also 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—perhaps he was in his seventies—I’d assume 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 acquiring a cold shell, there was a softness about him, something naïve and gentle. But 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, which only offered him the same we’d offered Hubert: ‘Sorry, we’re full.’ Hubert answered my question, eyes big, gratefully holding the hot cup of tea close 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 carefully took the tea bag from the mug and placed it into his bag to reuse at another time. ‘Do you want some more tea bags?’ I said, 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, 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 said, 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 gaining control—and only with the support of some kind of case manager would that be possible—of his SSI, and having someone help him maintain it, would be the only way he 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 the 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 be 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, and 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 and greeted the officer at the door. ‘Okay, show me some I.D,’ 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 it fell out of one of the bags. 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 up at Hubert. I supposed Hubert, unable to locate his ID promptly, gave the officer his name. ‘So, unless you can find your I.D you’re out of luck.’
Finally, bent over searching frantically, Hubert stood up with his I.D. ‘Okay,’ the policeman said, ‘Let’s get you to a warm bed.’
It was almost time to lock up, near ten p.m, when there was a knock on 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 that someone comes to the door at night. It is rare that unexpected guests come to the door at all. Thirty-five years old, the Denver Catholic Worker has earned its respect, and most know that usually we are 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. But for others this sudden drop in temperature—not much higher than zero—has made life much more difficult, if survivable, for those without shelter.
‘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 own fate (it is an ever present challenge not to do so). From down the hall, I saw the back of only my friend, Trent’s head bow forward—I couldn’t see who stood before him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Trent said, and asked 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, but a voice of confusion, of fear. He’d just come from the hospital, and 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 said and smiled.
Hubert was from New Jersey, like me, and came to Denver to be near his cousin, who’d promised he could share his housing with Hubert. But this cousin, who wound up unable to fulfill that promise, also 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—perhaps he was in his seventies—I’d assume 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 acquiring a cold shell, there was a softness about him, something naïve and gentle. But 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, which only offered him the same we’d offered Hubert: ‘Sorry, we’re full.’ Hubert answered my question, eyes big, gratefully holding the hot cup of tea close 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 carefully took the tea bag from the mug and placed it into his bag to reuse at another time. ‘Do you want some more tea bags?’ I said, 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, 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 said, 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 gaining control—and only with the support of some kind of case manager would that be possible—of his SSI, and having someone help him maintain it, would be the only way he 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 the 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 be 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, and 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 and greeted the officer at the door. ‘Okay, show me some I.D,’ 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 it fell out of one of the bags. 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 up at Hubert. I supposed Hubert, unable to locate his ID promptly, gave the officer his name. ‘So, unless you can find your I.D you’re out of luck.’
Finally, bent over searching frantically, Hubert stood up with his I.D. ‘Okay,’ the policeman said, ‘Let’s get you to a warm bed.’
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