Tags
creative nonfiction, homeless, homelessness, mental health, mental illness, psychiatry, psychology, street, streets
For several years there was a man who stood on the busiest street in my neighborhood during the morning and evening commute. He would stand at the side of the road for a couple of hours, twice a day, and salute all the cars that drove by. After his self-imposed shift he would sit on a cement planter in front of an architecture office for most of the day.
My husband and I would always wave at him when we drove by while he was saluting.
When I started a job in the neighborhood, I walked by him several times a day. I would always say hi. One day I bought him a Starbucks card, and asked him his name. He said it was, Buddy.
I started to talk to him every week day. I asked him if there was anything he needed. He requested peanut butter (but not Trader Joe’s peanut butter because it needs to be refrigerated). I bought him peanut butter.
There were days when I would sit and talk to him for a while. On one occasion he told me, “I don’t know about you sitting here. The cops don’t mind one person, but when there are two, they come and throw you down on the street. They don’t like groups.” I told him I was sorry, and I walked home.
Most week days, I would ask him if there was anything he needed, and he would tell me when he was out of peanut butter. Once he asked for a pair of long johns. Once a week I would buy him a Starbucks card. I found out he would transfer the money from the card I gave him to another card and the woman at Starbucks told me he had over three hundred dollars on his main card. I guessed that other people also gave him Starbucks cards.
He told me that he went to Starbucks every morning for his coffee. The employees there knew him and several of them said he liked them, and one woman said, “I don’t know what it is. He won’t let me serve him. I can’t figure out what I did to him, but he doesn’t like me at all. He won’t even look at me.”
Buddy and I talked and I learned that his parents were dead, and that he didn’t like going to the soup kitchens or shelters, because the thought the people there were really rude. He also told me that there were two opinions on the street about eating cheese. One group thought it made you have to go to the bathroom, and the other group thought it helped keep you from having to go to the bathroom. Buddy refused to eat cheese.
One morning, when my husband and I both had the day off, we saw Buddy at Starbucks. Before we could say hi to him there was a commotion at the counter, and Buddy said a few words in a loud voice and slammed out. My husband and I followed him, and we both said, “Hey Buddy, are you okay?” He gave us a mean and hurt look, picked up all his bags off the street and tried to get away from us as quickly as possible.
I can’t remember what else my husband and I said to Buddy that day, but I know he acted hostile towards us and wanted nothing to do with us.
We tried stopping by the planter in front of the architecture office to talk to him but he became hostile and waved us away.
From that day on, I walked on the opposite side of the street. At first I would call out, “Hi Buddy!” and wave to him, but he would ignore me.
Something switched in his mind that day at Starbucks and my husband and I became a part of the problem in his life, a problem that kept him from treatment and sentenced him to life on the streets.
Buddy now spends his days sitting a few blocks away from the architecture office. He no longer salutes traffic and he doesn’t go to Starbucks. I haven’t bought him peanut butter in over two years.
That’s sad.
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Yes, it is very sad.
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There was a man in our city who sat on the bridge and greeted traffic during rush hours for years. He dressed in a white suit, played the trumpet and wore a Mickey Mouse hat while waving to the passing cars. When it was hot, when it rained, he still showed up. Then he disappeared. We learned a few days later that he had committed suicide. Despite the warmth of his outside persona, he was tormented by loneliness and mental illness, and none of us knew.
I try to reach out to the homeless in small ways–buy them food, talk to them, buy the street paper. What I wish I could give is a safe place to live and access to meaningful mental health treatment.
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Very sad. As individuals, I think one of the most important thing we can do for people living on the streets is to “see” them. I think it makes a big difference to look people in the eye, and say hello. I know it doesn’t sound like much but so many people refuse to look at them. By looking them in the eye, you recognize and validate their humanity. Of course, voting for people who think we should end homelessness is also important. 🙂
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Yes to both! Saying hello is a crucial part of acknowledging our shared humanity. The voting part is more discouraging because I’ve lived in my city now long enough to see people campaign on housing issues and then fail to make needed changes.
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Thank you for sharing this…by sharing a name…a favorite food…an experience…it gives depth to our understanding.
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You remind me of a similar event in my life. I had a similar friend called Sam who ended our friendship on a similar way. The love you gave meant a lot, even when Buddy’s distorted thoughts turned you against him. Xx
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It is hard to accept rejection from someone you care about and are trying to help. It sounds like many people here have had a similar experience.
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You make “them” us. Thank you.
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This breaks my heart. It describes something painful I also experienced with a friend I had mentioned before (you may not remember). He has schizophrenia. Over many years, I observed how he talked about other people he had cut out of his life. I didn’t think he would and his wife (my best friend) would cut me out too. I think over the years, his attitude had begun to shift with regard to me. Since he and my best friend lived in relative isolation, feeling discriminated against and defensive, she gradually came to adopt his paranoid way of thinking.
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It is painful, and sad.
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Thanks for sharing that, there are so many tragic stories. I have s friend with schizophrenia and while he has a few ‘transient’ friends, I am sure I am the only person who has truly stuck with him. You did good
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This is very sad but it needs to be addressed (as you’re doing) so the public are educated & the people/individuals affected might get the help they so desperately need. Thank you
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I agree!
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