Alvin's Poem

Last night I proofread a dozen or so pages of Street Sense, DC's street newspaper that comes out every other Wednesday. Street newspapers cover poverty and homelessness issues, and homeless people can make money by selling them on the street. About 20 U.S. cities publish them--the North American Street Newspaper Association (yeah--who knew?) has more info about them and links to all of the papers. 

I started volunteering with Street Sense four or five years ago. I now proofread half or more of each issue, but for a time I worked four hours in the office every week. That was a super experience because I got to meet all of the vendors who come there to pick up their papers. 

I was inspired to post this blog because I just came across a piece I wrote before I worked for Street Sense or knew anyone who was homeless. Here's my 2005 perspective:

Alvin’s Poem

Yesterday I bought the latest issue of Street Sense, the newspaper about homeless people and related issues in the DC area. It features articles written by homeless people, and I think they do the production work, too. I know they do the selling on the street.

            As I handed over my $1 (“suggested donation”) to the man hawking Street Sense on a corner near Eastern Market, he said “It’s got a poem I wrote.”

            “It does?”

            He opened the paper to page 11 and pointed to “Portable Home.” I wanted to let him know I was impressed. Noting that Alvin was the first name of the poem's author, I said, “You’re Al?” I also wanted to show how friendly I was by using his nickname.

            “Alvin,” he corrected, pointing to the plastic badge that dangled on a cord around his neck.

            “Alvin," I said. "Well, that’s great about the poem!” I didn't know what else to say, so I walked off with my paper. I read his poem as I walked the next block. It covers what I imagine are just some of the downers of being homeless—frostbite, staying in alleys, sleeping on the ground. “When we gaze in the sky, we ask ourselves why/When will this bad trip ever end.”

            But following 21 lines of poetry describing the bleakness and loneliness of being homeless, the last line takes a wry twist: “And we never have to worry about the phone.”

            Not for the first time, I began musing about who “the homeless” are. Here’s Alvin, who has written a poem, of all things, describing his reflections about the state of living in a “portable home,” where “we sit in the dark all alone.” I hated myself for being surprised that he is literate and thoughtful.

            I wondered about how he came to write the poem. Did he use a tablet or just a scrap of paper? A ballpoint or a pencil? Was he alone on a park bench? Or maybe he was in a group at a shelter where they were all writing poems. What does Alvin know about poetry? Did he read poems as a kid, or in high school? Did he graduate from high school? I try to suppress these questions that reveal not only ignorance but arrogant stereotyping.

            I am uneasy about street people, as I call them. Every day—when I walk to the Metro or go to 7-11, they accost me. “Got change for a cup of coffee?”  “Any spare change?” Sometimes I give them the change in my pocket or a dollar. When I see one of them up ahead, I start thinking about what to do. Do I have any money readily available, or would I have to stop and get into my backpack? Do I have time for this? Sometimes I put some money in my pocket before I leave the house to make it easier. Sometimes I cross the street to avoid the whole situation.

            Street people give me a lot of conflicting feelings. I feel guilty because I have money and a house. I feel resentful because they haven’t found more productive ways to make money. I feel suspicious, wondering if they talk about the best lines to use—“I’m hungry,” “I’m a veteran,” or “I need bus money to get to the clinic.” Then I think how absurd I’m becoming. I roll my eyes and ask myself, do you think there’s some kind of seminar? Maybe “Pointers for Effective Panhandling” or “Never-Fail Ways to Maximize Your Hourly Intake.”

            I fantasize that they have feelings about me. After I give them money and they say “God bless,” I wonder if they are resentful that I didn’t give more. Some of them even say “God bless” when I shake my head and say “Sorry.” Then I really feel guilty.

            I want to talk to them, to find out what is really going on with them and show I care, but I am afraid. I’m even afraid of “our” street person—the tall, elderly man I think of as Mr. Ballcap. I see him nearly every day. A few times he has called me “doll face”—when I give him money or paused to exchange some comments about the weather. Our interchanges make me think maybe I could ask him about his life, but then I decide it would be imprudent to try to talk with him more.

            Street Sense is supposed to be a good alternative to panhandling. I understand homeless people earn money for selling the newspapers. So after I came home with Alvin’s poem, I looked through the paper to find out more about the Street Sense staff. Do they invite homeless people into the newspaper office to write? Do they post flyers at shelters? Is the paper actually run by street people? I’m a writer, after all. Maybe I can get involved and find out more about these people who seem so unapproachable. Maybe it would be a way to stop being afraid.

            “Volunteers needed,” it says. “Come to the next Street Sense meeting.” I’m going. Maybe Alvin will be there.

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I did go, and I'm so glad. Alvin wasn't at the meeting, but I met him later when he came to buy his papers. I've learned a lot about the homeless and a lot about Street Sense. I still often feel uneasy when I approach panhandlers, but now I know to look them in the eye and not try to pretend they're not there. That's still hard for me, especially if I do not give them any money. 

But I'm not uneasy about Street Sense vendors, and if I see one I go out of my way to buy a paper.