I was on trash duty wandering the parking lot carrying a 50
gallon black trash bag and picking up litter off the ground. Trash duty is cool
because it gives you the opportunity to wander about casually watching
everyone. Generally speaking, homeless folks get pretty suspicious when someone
is watching them. My guess is that they’re more comfortable with being ignored
than being watched.
I was watching because I needed to offer to take trash when folks
were finished with their plate and utensils. It might seem irresponsible to
most of us, but when you’re constantly hauling everything you own in a
backpack, cart, or box the last thing you want to do is carry around trash you
don’t need. Hence, a lot of our homeless folks simply drop their trash to the
ground and keep moving.
It’s all about movement. When you live on the streets, constant
daytime movement is the key to staying out of trouble. Sit stationery and
people begin to notice you. Then they begin to suspiciously resent your
presence. And, eventually, they complain that you’re a public nuisance. No one
wants to see the homeless. Hence, when being watched homeless folks get
twitchy.
It was Easter Sunday and I was downtown with my family at
the ANC (Austin New Church) cookout. It was my first year to attend. My wife
was working the food line doling out chips to go with the burgers. My daughter
was standing at the prep table squirting ketchup on people’s hamburger buns as
they came by. For whatever strange reason, this felt like EXACTLY how my family
should be spending Easter together. We’re weird like that.
One of my closest friends, Brandon Hatmaker (Vice President
of our MC), was lead pastor of ANC. He
was wandering around chatting with people in line that day. Another friend,
Tray Pruet (Treasurer of our MC), was working his way in and out of the crowd
keeping an eye on the large “machine” that is an ANC Cookout. Dozens of our
wives and kids are mixed into the crowd serving, laughing, chatting, and humbly
offering a bit of friendliness to a bunch of folks lined up in the parking lot
across from the Austin Resource Center for the Homeless.
I learned that food we serve at the cookouts isn’t all that
important. Food is not hard to come by for the homeless in Austin. This cookout
is about providing an opportunity for us to embrace our humanity. These are
people deserving of dignity and care just like the rest of us. They are deserving
because they are us and we are them.
At the core, we’re all in this together. If we intend to do
more than PRETEND our social structure doesn’t need repair, we have to realize
that US versus THEM doesn’t work. It’s got to be WE. That’s what I’ve learned
the cookouts are about. It’s about understanding how to look at people
diversely different and say, “You are not the enemy. WE are in this together.”
So, I was on trash duty.
I’d been cruising the parking lot for over an hour when I
looked up to see a homeless guy standing about 50 yards away. I recognize this
guy. Without hesitation, I began to walk directly at this person stepping
around a few people in the process. As I come to within 10 yards, the guy
notices me coming his way with a purpose. He’s reading my body language and
uncertain of my intent. I see the guy shift his stance and set his pivot foot
as I’m within 5 yards, so I stopped. I looked the guy straight in the eye and
said, “Ricky, it’s me, Bonar.” He blinks twice and looks at me really hard
before saying, “Bonar Lee Crump, what the hell are you doing here?”
Ricky is my first cousin on my dad’s side of the family. My
earliest memories of Ricky were being pulled behind his dad’s boat on inner
tubes and later honing our waterskiing skills together. My later memories of
Ricky were of visitations in state juvenile facilities. Later still, years
would go by without seeing him at family reunions. He seemed to spend all of
his time in jail. Ricky never fit in. I don’t think anyone ever knew what to do
with him. I don’t think anyone ever knew how to coach him, parent him, mentor
him, or live with him. I refuse to pretend to understand the boy that he was—the
man that he became—or the man that was standing in front of me that day. To offer some form of explanation of his
life would do nothing more than strip the man of his dignity and suggest that he’d
failed somehow. I’ve been treated that way at times in my life, and I try not
to author any such prejudice on others if at all possible. In truth, we’d all failed HIM as much as
anything.
Once he recognized me, I stuck out my hand. When we shook, I
pulled him in for a half shake/hug. I was genuinely excited to see Rick. The
last time I’d laid eyes on him he was in a wheelchair. I seem to recall that
he’d been living under a bridge in Waxahachie when he was attacked by someone
with a tire iron. Ricky earned two broken ankles from that encounter.
I drew back from the hug and said, “you made it out of that
damn wheel chair, and I see you’ve got your pivot foot back.” He smirked and
admitted he was about to square up and strike at me before he realized who I
was.
I hung out with Ricky the rest of the afternoon. We talked a
little about family. I tentatively asked where he was staying and if he needed
any family members’ phone numbers. He asked about my family. I took him over
for an introduction to my wife and daughter. Then I asked Brandon to take a
photo of me and Rick. I’ll never forget the look on Brandon’s face when I
introduced him to my cousin, Ricky Belk. We had big smiles and parted ways with
a hug. I made sure he had my business card and cel number before leaving, but I
knew he’d never call.
One year later, at the ANC Cookout I ran into Ricky again.
Ever since then, I look for him whenever we go downtown. I’m always hoping to
see him so that I can relay his whereabouts and general sense of well-being to
other family members scattered across the state.
Ricky fits my limited understanding of what “chronically
homeless” means. The dangers that come with living on the streets are more
familiar to him than the “normalcy” most of us embrace. I would guess that he
considers the folks he “camps” with as closer family than those of us that
share his same DNA. Of course, I don’t know any of this for sure because when I
see Ricky all we do is swap info about family and talk about where we’ve been
fishing lately.
Ricky is a part of me. I am a part of Ricky. I do not pity
him. He doesn’t covet my life. We are two men from different walks of life that
can sit on the same curb and share a burger together. It really doesn’t have to
be any more complicated than that. Sometimes I can tell he’s high. Sometimes I
can smell the alcohol on his breath. Sometimes I can tell by his body language
that he’s answering one of my questions with uncertainty and telling me what he
thinks I want to hear. Sometimes I hand him whatever cash I have on me not
knowing what he’ll spend it on. When I get to see Ricky we always smile, hug,
talk, and walk over to my girls so that he can say hello and give them a hug.
I couldn’t wait to tell everyone we’d stumbled upon one
another. I hope people feel that way about me sometimes. I hope that other
people feel that way about Ricky from time to time. I hope that we can all stop
occasionally and have a burger with someone that’s different. I hope that we
can appreciate the diversity of our lives and experiences and GET the fact that
sharing the burger might be all that’s necessary. You don’t have to justify who
you are, and I don’t have to justify who I am. I think that’s the kind of thing
that breaks down our US versus THEM dilemma.
But what do I know? I’m just the guy that picks up trash…
