I'm a Republican

A stereotype would be that a person would go into a situation like this and just expect nothing and at the end be completely moved by what he/she saw that night. I went in with almost the same feeling. I expected little but got a little more. I wouldn't say I fit the stereotype exactly, but there was definitely something there that I didn't expect, humanity.



We all see on the news when a minority kills another person in the slums of a big city. They're rarely homeless but of course one would expect that as a person's situation worsens, so do his actions. This is where I was surprised.



These men were grateful. Sure, there were the ones who didn't give a damn what was going on, they were just getting a meal. They would probably go out and continue the negativity they were creating before they came in, but that's another stereotype.



We didn't know a single thing about these people's lives. We only know them in this setting. We probably saw them at the high point of their day. Every man had his story and almost every man became friendly with us. I couldn't help myself from feeling bad when a man asked me what year I was in college. He was sitting at his table, eating his bowl of God knows what, and asked with the biggest smile on his face, "What year are you in school?" I said I was a sophomore and he smiled even bigger. I have no clue as to why this would make him smile but I only have one guess. He was overcome with hope. He saw someone willing to come and help (I use the term willing loosely as none of us really did this out of pure choice) and spend a little time to make their lives a little easier. He probably thought if this guy can do it, I know I can do something too. Probably not college but at least something. The man was wearing a blur of a coat that had many colors and many layers and a Chicago Bears hat. A few minutes later, I came by to pick up his neighbors tray (another black man who was older and wore seemingly the same blurry coat) when the first man asked another question, "Are all of you from Miami?" His smile was just as big as the last time.

Aside from a few men who were a little pissed off the entire time, everyone was as friendly as this. They appreciated our help, no matter how menial it was. Surely, some of these men were completely responsible for the reason they were in this place. They screwed up somewhere and they screwed up bad. I'm not saying they don't deserve our help, but I think these men couldn't care less our tax money is wasted to help them out when they can't help themselves. As for the rest, as for the majority of them, I feel fine with spending my tax money and my free time trying to improve their lives. That is truly something a fiscal conservative like myself did not expect and will remember forever. Not all men are evil. Everyone deserves a meal, medicine and a second chance. God bless them.

Impressions

Green and yellow walls, meant to be cheerful and welcoming. Succeeding, but at the cost of looking a bit like a slightly outdated preschool. An image enhanced by the quilt hanging on the green wall—the kind where everyone creates his or her own square, the kind I made with Mrs. Futrell’s kindergarten class.

Plastic tables surrounded by an assortment of folding metal chairs. Food service counter, the kind where people stand behind it and scoop food from aluminum trays heated by steam from beneath. Where you can watch the food be scooped through the glass. Again, all together strikingly similar to a 1970’s public school cafeteria.

Coats. Every type, every color. Some torn, some looking relatively new. A blue trench coat. A few NFL fan jackets—Oakland Raiders, Dallas Cowboys. All still being warn, despite the overly-warm climate of the room.

Gnats. Not a lot, but enough to be annoying.

Smiles. Joking. Laughter.

Sullen stares. Despondant faces. Blank stares. Twitching.

Old men. Black. White. Guys my age.

Boston Red Sox hat.

Chocolate chip cookies. Oatmeal cookies. One per person. Until it was time for seconds, when people left with stacks of 5 or 6.

Altar Knights Jersey—my rival High School. Known for it’s stocked parking lot—where a new Jeep looks a little shabby.

Orderly food service. Grins and “thank-you’s” More smiles.

Lack of eye contact. Shame. Mumbled thank-you’s. or none at all.

The systematic nature of the whole process is impressive. The big, friendly man checking everyone off. Knowing all the residents by name. Sitting down, carefully placing their food on the table, clearing their tray. My cue that my services are needed. I take the tray, with a smile and a thank-you. Usually a return smile. Sometimes an impatient tray waves in the air. As if it is presence is inconvieniencing its owner. Or maybe the man is simply trying to be helpful.

Salt packets. Pepper packets. Empty. Full. Sprinkled everywhere. Floors. Tables. Again—reminding me of little kids.

“How old are you?” as I grab a tray

“21”

“You married?”

“Not yet.” With a smile…the best response I can come up with.

“Not yet? Well I still got time then. I still got time!” With a laugh. With a few laughs—the table, me, another tray-clearer.


Guy on a cell phone as he ate the spaghetti. A cell phone? But not a home?

As we went to leave, I noticed a man had a garbage bag filled with Timberland boots, and was pairing them up on the floor. To sell? To share? To show off? I’m not sure. Interesting

Expectations

We walked into a large room with the dining area ahead and a large television in the corner to the left.

There was a doctor's office at the far end of the room and a few people were trying to visit the doctor. A few tried to ask me about the clinic, but I regretfully could not help them because I had just arrived.

I washed off their trays and washed down the tables so I was not the one serving them food, but I believe they had a bowl of chili, a piece of bread, plus one more thing. I remember thinking that it would not have been enough to fill me up, but it was all that these grown men had to eat.

The men seemed to be a lot more friendly than the women.

At one point, an argument broke out between two men and I worried that it was going to become physical, but everyone there continued on with their meal like it was an ordinary event.

My visit to the drop-in was not unlike everyone else’s. I was not surprised to see men standing on the street and the sight of a large group of homeless people did not overwhelm me. I had an idea of what to expect because of the feedback taken from previous groups. If I remember anything from visiting the homeless shelter, it was the man who talked to me the longest near the end of our visit. He asked me what my name was and he remembered it because he brought it up continuously throughout the conversation. This was impressive to me because most people don’t initially remember that sort of thing or even care. His name sounded similar to Derrick, but when I asked him to repeat it, I was still not sure and so as not to be rude, I did not ask him a third time. He did most of the talking, telling me that a few bad decisions and this is what could happen. He told me that with the state the economy is in, homelessness could happen to anyone, even to me. He was sure that everything happens for a reason and if it was God’s will for him to be in this state, at this time, then he was going to be content. He seemed intrigued when I told him my major was creative writing and said that he thought writing was probably the most influential type of art form. He mentioned he had a family and I wondered where they were. Before he left, he tucked two gold colored necklaces he was wearing into his shirt and zipped up his coat for fear of being jumped. He was very polite, more so than a lot of men of greater means and when he left, he said that it had been nice sharing a conversation with me. I felt like my interaction with him was the most significant because he was someone who possessed a very positive outlook on life, despite his circumstances.

Stereotypes

As a Miami Student I attend a school that is home to an assortment of stereotypes

These stereotypes range from

“Selfish Bitches”

To

“Cocky Fraternity Boys”

 

Stereotypes define a person or place from an “outsiders” point of view

These stereotypes usually disappear once a situation is better understood.

But does anyone try to understand?

 

I have stereotypes

We all have them

Even if we try to ignore them

they are there.

How?

Family

Friends

Books

Media

 

The only way to erase stereotypes is to overcome them through

experience.

 

 

You walk by fraternity house and flashes of

Vineyard vine shorts

Polos

Sperrys

Alcohol

Consume your thoughts

 

You walk by a homeless shelter and flashes of

Tattered Wrangler jeans

Moth-eaten plaid shirts

Alcohol

Consume your thoughts

 

See they already have something in common.

 

You walk into a fraternity house and you witness

Brotherhood

Huge dinner table of boys grubbing down

Fights over sports and girls

 

You walk into a homeless shelter and you witness

Brotherhood

Huge dinner table of men grubbing down

Fights over sports and girls

 

Now there is a lot in common.

 

Yet definite differences remain.

 

Greek letters mounted on a stone outside the fraternity house

Versus

“No Loitering” sign mounted on crumbling paint outside the homeless shelter

 

Credit cards with charges that get billed to parents

Versus

Bills that will never be paid

 

BMWs, Lexus, Mercedes parked out front

Versus

Shopping carts full of month old newspaper

 

The material possession of these two groups of men may divide them but

Human passion

Love

And

Brotherhood

Exist not only in fraternity brothers and sorority sisters but exist in

Homeless men and women

 

 

In no way are my observations stated in a manner to mitigate the incredible pain and hardship that is associated with homelessness.  Rather, I hoped to convey the important message that the only thing that separates a guy in a fraternity house and a guy in a homeless shelter, are green pieces of paper with the faces of presidents.  This seemingly small but incredibly significant difference should never instill superiority or foster stereotypes between two men who are someone’s brothers, husbands, fathers, or boyfriends.

 

 

The Place Was Clean, Though.

After a flutter of emotions as we first approached the building—anxiety, apprehension, curiosity—my interest was peaked when a man, not much older than myself, shouted a partly indiscernible profanity directed at us.

“adlkjf…bitch!”  A strange, unexpected slander that prompted an equally strange curiosity in me.   Due to the rate at which the man was able to notice our approach, and then subsequently lash out at us, the insult was thoughtless and of no significant offense.  Instead, the significance lies in its unabashed nature—the way in which the man seemed so detached from consequence that he was shameless and uncaring.  Seeing as we ignored his affronts, the man faced no repercussions for his poor manners.  To my wonder, an unmistakable envy swept over me; I resented his ability to channel his emotions into words without the obstruction of ill ramifications.  To be in a position of such unadulterated liberty, free from the binds of courtesy, is a quality I would covet, if I had the courage to seize it.  Envy was not an emotion I had expected to feel before the onset of our trip.

After entering and serving dinner to the residents, I was struck by several things.  I would be lying to you if I did not recognize my utter inability to understand nearly anything anyone said.  Many of the residents were timorous and quiet, but those who spoke were difficult to understand.  I often found myself nodding and smiling at I know not what, but this gave me the added advantage of paying particularly close attention to their disposition.  I did not know exactly what I was expecting, but I just presumed that the residents would have a somber, unhappy personalities.  I mean, after all, many of them are poor, homeless drug addicts.  Instead, the talkative ones spoke with jovial cadences that complemented their amiable faces.  Only once did anyone show any dissatisfaction or unfriendliness towards me, and the one that did only seemed disappointed in that night’s food.  I was shocked to see so many in such upbeat moods.

In all honesty, I had a strong aversion to the whole trip.  By trying to “study”, document, and “experience” them, we are ignoring their humanity. I saw very little differences separating myself from any of those who frequent the Drop Inn.  Their lives and upbringing may differ from mine, but they are still subject to the things that make us human: a conscience, human emotion, the plights of life.  I felt creeped out and uneasy about putting such a separation between them and myself.  It’s not about talking with them or mingling amongst their tables—that’s not what I mean; it’s about our motives when we went to visit them.  We did not visit them simply to help them.  Instead, our goal was more complicated.  We intended to study and use them in order to fulfill our needs, which in this case, is a writing assignment.  This agitation makes me apprehensive to return.  I did not feel bad for them—I played no part in their current state and refuse to feel guilt. 

We call him Picasso

I stepped into the noisy atmosphere at the Drop Inn, feeling as though I was obviously sticking out. Yet, after about ten seconds of taking it all in, I realized that nobody was even paying attention to what I was doing, which was standing nervously with my hands in my pockets gazing around the room. I had to make myself obvious, walking over to what I took to be the reception counter, if you could term it that, and wait for either of the two Drop Inn volunteers, sitting behind it and chatting with one another, to notice that I was clearly at a loss for what to do. “We're from Miami” somebody said behind me. “Thank you to that person,” I'm thinking.

OK. Four stations. One, two, three, four, count them. Bread, water, potato salad, and whatever is in the soup vat; it looks like beans and meat. And since everyone now decides to use the bathroom right at this crucial moment when I can have my pick at which station is the most desirable I'll abdicate that right for now and just people watch.

At the back of the room there's a bunch of people watching a flat screen television, of all things, but I can't tell what program it's showing. And there's a guy just to the right of the screen with an iPod just breaking it down. I mean breaking it down. With nobody in particular paying attention to him, except myself, of course, this guy looks like he's attempting some sort of a dance routine on America's Got Talent.

Enough people watching, as it's now time to start serving the first wave of hungry people. Under the cooks instructions I had filled up about five or six little dishes of potato salad so I didn't manage to back up the serving line, but every time somebody came through my station they always wanted the scoop that I was currently dolloping into the newest dish.

I thought, “Um, I just dished those other five out about thirty seconds ago, and I didn't poison them, you sure you don't want any of those?” But they would come through, look directly into my eyes as I dished it, then look directly at the salad. Eyes. Salad. Eyes. Salad. It was like some ninja mind game from Karate Kid I was clearly losing.

One scraggly looking old guy was very appreciative of my efforts. He cruised right through the line, over to me. “Potato salad! It ain't gonna smell too good in here tonight, HAHAHA!” I don't know why I found that so funny, maybe it was because I wasn't sitting at his table; I am so easily amused.

After the line finished up the famed portrait drawer with colored pencils showed up with his tribute to Amanda – I'm not sure if she was more flattered that he thought so much of her or creeped out that he had been watching her the whole evening while she was unaware. He lay the drawing down to put the meticulous finishing touches on the work, grabbing the attention of a few others who had finished eating. “We call him Picasso,” said one guy I hadn't noticed was there. It was a really nice picture of Amanda's face. The guy with the iPod had now moved over the entrance, still breaking it down as we left.

It came as no surprise that each of the women with me had been hit on at some point during the evening, but as we walked past a crowd loitering outside the Inn somebody yelled “Hey, guy!” at me. I'd been asked earlier why I hadn't cracked a smile all night. Unfortunately, the answer came about fifteen minutes later, as we left, at which time I'm pretty sure the guy with the iPod was still inside, still breaking it down.

A drop in impression

Visiting the Drop Inn reminded me that the U.S is structured in such a way that white middle and upper class people do not have to witness or have knowledge of those less fortunate than them. The federally funded housing projects of the 40s ensured that people like myself would only have to look upon their neatly manicured lawn. Driving into the poorer area of the city everyone seems to cringe. Perhaps subconsciously we feel we aren't meant to see this. The feeling of not belonging persisted as we volunteered. I noticed other volunteers or workers (especially the women) making a point of avoiding us or pretending we weren't there. I don't understand why space has become defined by class. Why is it when I go into a convenience store in my local ghetto the cashier asks me cynically if I'm lost? I hate thinking that my socioeconomic status makes me belong somewhere.

One of the things I was most surprised about was the openness and honesty of some of the program members. They were happy to offer information about how drugs had affected their lives and what their progress was like. One man went into detail about how you have to have a group to support you if you want to recover. In a big way the Drop Inn isn't a roof over your head, its a community. This leads me to homeless culture. Is there such a thing and does it revolve around being homeless? I can't say that we spent enough time to find out.

Another thing I thought about was the role of appreciation. Some people were angry about the type of food being served or food that ran out. Are they aware that it is free? Do they know that in Latin America they would have chicken feet soup instead of beans of chili? Many shamelessly sought seconds before everyone else had eaten. As someone who obviously lacks the means to provide for themselves how can they be ignorant of the plight of others? While I am aware that mental illness accounts for some of the rudeness and bad attitudes, I still found some of it to be agitating.

As someone who has done a lot of volunteering and cultural immersion I didn't find the trip to be that eye opening. Rather it brought about the same questions that continually emerge in my mind.