The Company I Keep — Part Two: The Experience —The Outsider
“God is watching, and if you do good deeds for all those around you first, he will always be on your side.”- Raffaela Esposto
When I first began my research on that cold November day I felt a bit nervous. I didn’t know what to expect or how I’d be perceived — especially since I’d be carrying a notebook and an audio recorder wherever I went.
Most men and women were reluctant to give their names but willing to share their stories. Telling people around me I wanted to research and write about the homeless invited many quips about the things I’d find.
“Watch out for the crack heads.”
“Make sure you don’t stare too much.”
“Why are you going to talk to those degenerate bums for?”
“What have they ever done for you?”
My friends laughed, smiled and gave me sarcastic votes of confidence. They figured their pre-conceived notions were right – these people were ungrateful, unintelligible and unworthy of acceptance and attention. On the outside, it’s easier to make assumptions than it is to make a difference. Many of the people who criticized me have never been to a homeless shelter and think that those who call it home are just low-lives or good-for- nothings.
“Everybody has their own reasons for being homeless,” Victor says. “They’re not crazy. The outsider shouldn’t think that all people here are bad. There are a lot of very nice people.”
Places of refuge and compassion like Wesley are focal points for helping these individuals get back on their feet and get their lives on track.
“We all go through rough times and need a safety net, that’s for sure, and that’s what this place does for people like me,” Chris says. “It’s hard to get a full house without five cards.”
From a son to a daughter, to a father or a cousin, these people are not alone. They are loved, cared for and cherished by their family, but sometimes life gets hard and Wesley is there to help pull them back up.
I stand outside the lobby and blow cigarette smoke into the air. Two men sit on a bench. A man introduces himself and extends his hand. The other shakes his hand. Over cigarettes they build a bond.
The depression, the mental illness, the homelessness and the feeling of being shunned by the rest of society can often take its toll on the soul of a person. But as I sat and observed in the dining hall one Sunday afternoon, I spoke with a man who put those negative stereotypes to rest.
“Under the makeup there are a lot of very nice people here. It’s the drugs and stuff that turn these people upside down. You have to look beyond the boundaries of that.” He introduces himself as Don. I extend my hand over the table.
“Hi, I’m David,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, David. Nice to meet you, too,” Don says. “I understand what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it.”
I ask him to sign a consent form. He refuses, but gives verbal consent.
“I try and put a light at the end of the tunnel by going to the food banks, the shelters, food trucks. I’ve been looking towards the light, not the dark room,” he says.
Don wears black wire-rimmed glasses. I smell the leather from his jacket as I sit across from him and write as he talks. Every couple of minutes I pause and ask him to slow down. He agrees and waits for me to finish writing the sentence.
“I always try to think positive because I want to help people get better. They can change themselves, all they have to do is follow their path, work hard at it and I know it takes time, but if they’re willing to at least go half way, then maybe they can follow that and change their own perspectives about life,” Don says.
My pencil scratches the edge of the paper and marks the table. Don folds his hands in front of him. A woman spoons turkey and beef soup from a Styrofoam cup into her mouth.
“Wow, you got really small writing,” the woman says. A man sits across from her. His khaki-colored hat is dirty. His facial hair is unkempt and he has patches all over his face.
“It’s so small, I can’t even read that,” he says.
“Hey, what’s up, man? I’m David. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh hey, man. Nice to meet you. My name’s Jack.”
Over soup and scribbles in my notebook, Jack and I talk about video games — from Golden Eye to Mercenaries 3 and Call of Duty 4. He tells me about his love for gaming and technology, while others around us finish their soup and crackers.
“Yeah man, I loved that game,” Jack talks about Golden Eye for Nintendo 64. “My friends and I used to get together back in high school and have Golden Eye/N-64 parties. It was pretty cool.”
“What about you? Do you play any games? Computer or other?”
“Well kind of, but mostly it’s just sports games.”
“Oh, that’s cool. I guess you could consider me a computer geek. I love taking them apart and putting them back together. I’m a bit of nut like that,” Jack drinks from his Styrofoam cup.
“So what brings you to a place like this?” I ask.
“I’m poor, man,” he laughs. “Hey, do you think they would
care if I took some milk, there’s nobody in here.”
Jack pulls out an empty plastic orange juice bottle. He scans the room then pours the milk into the bottle.
“Hey man, nice talking to you but I’m going to get going,” he says. “Hopefully, I’ll see you around again and we can talk some more. Nice meeting you, take care.” Jack pulls his jacket on and walks out the dining hall.
On Sundays, I help Renata serve soup. For an hour, people come and go. Some are nice, others aren’t. Renata, who has been the cook at Wesley for 18 years enjoys the atmosphere and the people.
“Oh, I love it,” Renata says. “Never a dull moment and the people here are just so nice — well, most of them. They have their days.”
We serve two kinds of soup: beef and turkey, both made from donated ingredients — the potatoes in the beef soup were from lunch the previous Saturday.
“I’d recommend the turkey, it’s really good,” Renata says.
“C’mon guys eat it up. You need energy for the rest of the day.”
Clients are allowed two cups of soup and unlimited bread and crackers. Towards the end of lunch time, more and more people come up for seconds and I ladle the soup into their cups. I look at the clock and lunch is almost over.
“Does anyone want anymore soup before we close down?” Renata shouts. “Here Sarah, have some more soup!”
Sarah walks up. Her blonde hair with black streaks hangs from a ponytail. Mascara and eyeliner run down her face. She smiles and a gap appears between her two front teeth.
“Yeah, I might as well eat it up before I bitch about it later!” Sarah says. “There’s people starving in the world. I’m lucky to be eating this. Thanks very much, Renata. Great meal. I really appreciate it.” She walks away.
I sit in the corner near the window. A man walks into the dining hall and heads toward a table.
“Hey Mary, this is my daughter Lisa. I’d like to introduce her,” the man says. “I’m happy I get to see her. I have to introduce her to everybody.”
Father and daughter wait in line for lunch.
“Hey Diana, this is my daughter Lisa. I’m really happy she’s here with me today,” he says. “It’s been too long. I haven’t seen her in three or four years and for her to be here today with me makes me so happy.”
Father and daughter get their soup, bread and crackers. The man smiles and walks down the line and nods to friends. He sits across from his daughter and continues to smile and stare at her. Chris walks into the dining hall. He stops and sees me scribbling in my smaller notebook.
“So, you’ve been here for, what, three weeks? And you only
have five pages!” he says. “You know what you should really do… come in here without a notebook and just sit down and look. Get a glimpse of the true interaction between people, so you’re not always stuck with your head down writing.”
A man standing in the dining hall talks to Mary. I’ve seen him here before. In my three weeks of visiting, he has been here each day. I don’t know his name, he does not know mine.
“How’s the coffee taste?” I ask.
“Hey buddy, good, good,” he replies. “I don’t like it too sweet so I fill most of it with milk. Too much sugar tastes like shit.”
“How’s your job going?” he asks.
“Good man, slowly but surely. I’m just trying to prove people wrong because people like to think bad things.”
“Oh yeah, for sure. There’s all these stigmas attached to people here. Sure there are some bad apples, but even then, you don’t throw away the whole bushel. The people that steal are the ones that fuckin’ piss me off. Don’t steal from us. Were all in the same boat,” he sips from his cup.
“I need to make a phone call,” he says. “I’ll be back buddy. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I walk over to Mary who wipes down a table.
“So you’re just a kid who decided to come here?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’ve grown up in Hamilton all my life and I wanted to
make a difference.”
“That’s really cool. Most people from the outside don’t care
very much.”
“Yeah, I know. I hear slack from friends all the time about it. But it’s something I want to do.”
I grab a cloth and help her clean the rest of the tables. We collect empty coffee and Styrofoam cups. Mary hangs the cloth over the steel handle of the kitchen door and we walk out of the dining hall.
