Let him that would move the world, first move himself.

- Socrates

Vista

Vista is part of me. I served for a year in Chicago during my early twenties. I worked in a day program that dealt with people who had been hospitalized for problems with mental illness and now were out -- shakey, not together enough to get a job, but together enough to be out.

I learned a lot during that year. I was just a kid, but I was eager to learn and eager to be responsible. I was a counselor to about 10 to 15 people, I was a work crew leader and I was also in charge of some social groups in the evenings.

I had always been on the sensitive side, but now I learned about people who were even more sensitive than I. I met kids who were my age or younger that heard voices and harmed themselves. One teenage girl ironed her leg with a hot iron; said she did it because she couldn't get in touch with me the evening before. I remember pleading more than one time with that same girl, not to jump off the railing of the third floor stair case (while the staff assured me she wasn't serious). Another resident, a guy I did not like, often sat on the front steps of the old brownstone building that housed our program, making caustic remarks about the world to anyone who would listen. I found him hard to listen to and hideous to look at; he had poured gasoline over himself, lit it and lived to tell about it; lived to tell about a failed relationship. Another soft spoken high schooler gave away all of his possessions and shot his brains out in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa. That is when I learned about the signs of suicide that we all had failed to pick up on. Another boy, Zavi, a Jewish teenager, who seemed so together, started peeing in his wastebasket after he moved out of his home into an apartment. All of this I absorbed and even more. This was the norm.

How I dealt with all of this, I am not entirely sure. I do remember slowly learning about "dark humor" from the staff and I found laughter lessened the pain. At night, I would take my experiences home to my roommates, fellow VISTAS, who too were struggling to understand their new world. Some of the stories we told were unimaginable in our past lives.

In the mornings, when my ride dropped me off at work, I would never want to get out of the car -- I would have to be pushed out. I don't think I ever cried at those times, but I remember the dread. The dread of going up those steps, to face another day, to face life, to learn more.

Because of that year and some of the other rough times I've had in my life, I find that there is not much a person can say to me any more that will ruffle my exterior; the face I show the world. When I interview people I know life can be bad, I'm willing to talk about it and I often try to help them make sense of it. But there have been a few times that I have actually been stopped in my tracks, times when people talked about childhood experiences of being threatened with a gun by a drunken parent, and in one instance, of a sibling standing right next to the person I was interviewing, was murdered by that drunken parent. That I had no words for.

And sometimes when I write for this project, I wonder about the distance my words have put between me and the people I am writing about. I worry that I have become too intellectual, too cold hearted. But I know when I look at my drawings, that even though I may say or write impersonally at times, my drawings hide little, if any, of my emotions. And perhaps that is the way is has to be.

A Box of Books

When I told my parents that I was going to write a book on homeless people, there was not much reaction. I think my mother said, "Oh, how nice". And my father said, "You know Edie, we still have a large box of books under the steps in the bathroom." And that was it -- the end of our conversation.

My father was referring to the box of books my grandfather had left my parents after his death. The box was filled with hundreds of copies of a book he had written -- a book filled with poems and sermons. A book my grandfather ended up paying to have published. A book that he had never found enough buyers or homes for.

Was that to be my fate as well? My father never did speak those words -- but they have become as much a part of this project as any of the essays I have written, the drawings I have done or the interviews I have had.

Stretching

How much more growing and stretching can I stand? I am use to being so careful at picking the roads I find comfortable. This book is forcing me to learn skills I never wanted to learn; writing, writing grants, audio and video technology, public speaking and so on.

It has also taken me down a tunnel into myself -- where will it end?

The Knock on the Door

Once every year, for the past three years, a simply dressed black woman has parked her car in front of my house, hopped out, walked up to my front door and knocked -- asking me for money. (She never goes to my neighbor's door, just mine.) If I remember correctly, she usually asks for money to buy her children milk.

Today she stopped by and wanted money for diapers or pampers: the type she wanted costs $9 and did I have that? She had tried everywhere else and her paycheck wasn't coming 'til tomorrow -- would I please give her the money, she would pay me back that very next day -- I was her last hope!

In years past, I always gave her what she asked. Afterwards I would think of all these questions that I wished I had asked her. Was she homeless like I thought she was? How did she find out about me? Would she like to be in my project? Do her children really exist, or was she just trying to get money for drugs?

Well, here she was at my door again -- the perfect opportunity to finally ask her all of these questions. This time I asked her: where do you live? (on Lancaster Street); why me? (I just happened upon you); do you have a addiction problem? (no).

My courage has just about run out after those questions, but I decide this year I am only going to give her $5. (This year I didn't believe her at all and $5 was all that I was willing to contribute to drugs). She whined that that was not enough to buy pampers for her children plus a little bit of formula. Wouldn't I please give her more for her children? And then, to make matters worse, I didn't have $5 in cash -- I would have to write out a check to her. This made her even madder. She told me that no bank would cash it for her because she didn't have an ID and would I drive with her to the bank to cash it? At that point my inner voice was coming through loud and clear -- "No way Edie! Don't do it!" So I gave her the choice of a $5 check or no money; she went off in a huff, check in hand.

*

I wonder now about how I've grown or changed over those 3 years. I wondered if I could see changes in myself, just by looking at how I related to her.

The first year I thought about helping her out with her babies; in more ways than just giving her $10 to $20. What if she left the children with me while she job hunted? Would I be good for the kids?

The second year I thought it all was a bit suspicious, but hell, give her the money and forget it.

This year I was a lot more savvy, a lot more cynical. I knew she was lying up and down. Her words didn't match her actions, her body language. Her muscles were tense, like a caged animal. She spoke memorized lines that would perhaps bring her freedom or in this instance, the fix or hit she wanted.

I wonder what I will say next year when she appears on my front steps. Will I hassle her about drug treatment? And for that matter, what will I be like a year from now when I answer the front door?

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to all the people who believed in me and to all the people who did not.

I could not have written this book without any of you.

The power within

The journey that I have taken with this book project has in someways became a journey into myself. The journey has led me to the source of power within me. It has brought me to the realization that my ideas, thoughts and skills as a person and an artist are a very powerful combination.

No one else could have told me that.

How will it end?

To finish off this project, I would like to get in touch with some of the people I interviewed to see how they are doing (it's been four years since I have talked to many). I know for a fact that there are some real success stories out there, but I also want to interview some of the chronic homeless -- the people who continue to use the shelter as their base.

 I foresee a complex mixture of stories coming my way and I anticipate ending the book on a positive note -- because that is how I want the world to be. Or maybe I'll end it on an off note, as I realize how many unasked questions remain.

No, I don't know the ending.