Hunting for the Homeless

And so it came to pass that the Reverend Dr Cory Sparks and myself met for beers at Cosimo's Bar in The French Quarter. I'd first encountered Cory at his Church, St Mark's United Methodist, towards the edge of the Quarter. On my first Sunday here my father and I been on the prowl for a happy clappy choir service. He was visiting for the weekend and we both shared an affinity for a good old fashioned gospel choir and a hearty fire and brimstone sermon. Neither of us profess to being great Christians, preferring instead to believe in the more nebulous concept of spirituality and peace and love unto your fellow human. A bit like hippies but with a little less acid. On whim, we wandered into St Mark's and realised we were in for a very different service altogether.

St Mark's is quite unlike any church I'd ever been to. Inside were persons of every race, gender, orientation, fortune and creed. This tradition of diversity goes back a long way. In 1973 the church was the only place in the city to hold a memorial service for twenty-five people that died during a fire at a gay bar in the French Quarter. They also throw their doors open to the homeless and provide free meals to them on Sunday. It filled my heart with joy seeing gay and lesbian couples with children at a place of Christian worship, especially in the Deep South. The gathering felt like a perfectly expressed microcosm of the city and America as a whole, minus all the Trump voting rednecks.

After the service I spoke to Cory and we agreed to meet for a beer at one of the church's local bars the following week. Cory, befitting of the unorthodox ministry he leads, did not have a straightforward calling to the church. As it happened, his moment of calling occured while he was standing on top of an abandoned porno theater in Matamoros, Mexico. It was being turned into a medical clinic and church and he was part of the team renovating it. Cory left Mexico with a sense that ministries should bring healing to the whole person—body and soul and eventually found himself as the head of St Mark's.

He didn't carry himself in the same manner as other minister's I'd met in the past. Originally from Fort Smith Aarkansaas, he spoke out of the side of his mouth in low, dense drawl, with a voice that sounded like warm molasses being bubbled through gravel. He was the sort of Reverend where you could accidently use 'Jesus Christ' and 'Oh my God' in conversation and not feel like you were being quietly condemned to eternal damnation. Under the warm glow of Cosimo's wood panelled walls, we talked about our respective journeys to a life in NOLA and probably had a few too many beers in the process. Realising that we were now late for our orientation meeting, we quickly lined our stomachs with some $2 tacos and staggered out into the night.

This evening also happened to be during the annual 'Point in Time' homelessness survey in America. Every year, volunteers from around the country take to the streets and give $5 McDonald's gift cards to the homeless in exchange for answers to a comprehensive survey about their living situation (or lack thereof). Cory had mentioned that he was doing the survey with an social services organisation called Unity and I gladly said I'd lend a hand.

The orientation session gave both of us an opportunity to sober up a little before getting our surveying hats on. The twenty-four question survey was explained to us by a portly lady called Peggy, who was presided over by a man called Ken. Ken did very little except endlessly nodding in mute agreement to just about everything Peggy said.

One of the questions on the survey was to do with their coronary health which seemed a little more than ironic given that we were handing out vouchers to McDonald's as a reward for completing it. But hey, I love Miccy D's as much as the next guy and, as they say, beggars can't be choosers.

Once orientation was complete, we were herded into the back of a van and drove out into the chilly (by NOLA standard at least) January night. We were on the graveyard shift starting at 8pm and finished around 2am, so we were in for a long one. Our team leader was Clarence, a mild mannered black man in his 50s. He had worked in the Psychiatric ward at Charity Hospital before the storm hit. Having met several people who worked on such wards, I can testify that this is some of the most physically and mentally challenging jobs imaginable. In spite of this, Clarence radiated an aura of pure goodness and light and one couldn’t help but feeling relaxed in his presence.

The Art Deco structure of Charity Hospital still stood as a vast, dilapidated totem in the center of town. All of the equipment had just been left behind and the effort to clear it out had only just begun. I had cycled by it the other day and can testify to a strong feeling of unease in the building's presence. You only have to look at photos below to see why. Just another victim of a disaster that seems to have left no end of derelict monoliths around the city.

Homelessness in America is one of the few statistics that actually seems to be improving in the country. The national rate of homelessness in 2015 fell to 17.7 homeless people per 10,000 people in the general population from 18.3 in 2014. In fact, the US only has a homelessness rate of 0.17% of the total population. While that's still only 20th on the world rankings, it's still less than the Netherlands (0.18%), UK (0.20%), France (0.21%), Sweden (0.36%) and Germany (0.47%). Unfortunately for the 565,000 odd Americans without homes, they are often a much more visible and persecuted group than their counterparts in other countries.

In the van, I asked a lady called Mary Lou whether the homeless situation had improved at all in the city. She'd been documenting homelessness in New Orleans for 23 years and I imagined she'd had a few things to say.

"It's really a story of constant migration and persecution. People settle in a makeshift camp somewhere. Then the police come along, trash it and confiscate all of their possessions."

"What do they confiscate?" I asked, slightly baffled.

"Everything! IDs, photos, clothes, blankets, tents. Anything to dehumanise and degrade them. Once they've settled somewhere else, they just do it again.... You know, in Florida you can be put in jail for feeding the homeless."

This all seemed abhorrent to me and I sat, quietly dismayed as we neared our first stop of the night. It was a makeshift corrugated shack under the Interstate 90. As we pulled up, several huddled figures sheepishly approached the car. The first to arrive was a toothless, scraggly woman in her 40s who staggered towards the window and began to shout.

"You want ME to do a survey for a FII DOLLA McDonald voucha. I ain't doing go goddam survey for no FII DOLLA voucha."

She then let out an ebullient cackle and it became clear that she was just joking around and the tension in the car quickly dissipated. I began talking to a man called Pedro. He was the same age as me and had been sent to prison at the age of 22 for petty unarmed robbery. It's worth remembering that this state has the highest incarceration rate in America. Given that America has the highest rate of incarcerated citizens in the world (even more than North Korea) then this makes Louisiana the most incarcerated region on the planet.

I tried my best to make the questionnaire seem more like a natural conversation. Orientation Peggy had said we needed to stick to the script 100% but as you can see below, it's an incredibly stilted and potentially offensive piece of writing, in spite of all its good intentions.

Surprisingly, Pedro actually had a job at Subway down the road. In fact, many of the people I met were also holding down part or even full-time jobs whilst also living on the streets.

"All I need is some socks and a house man. Dats it."

He was very measured, patient and calm throughout and bore no obvious psychological scars from his time in jail and the streets. I had been advised by Peggy that more chronic and vulverable cases of homelessness are more likely to help them get a call from Social Services offering temporary accommodation. I quietly passed this tidbit of information on to my new friend Pedro before beginning the survey.

"How long have you been on the streets Pedro?"

"Least six months."

"Sure it's six? Maybe it's over 12 months." I said while winking at him furiously

"Oh yea, of course, more like eighteen months maybe."

"Have you suffered any regular physical or psychological abuse on the streets?"

"Nah man, ain't nobody fucks with me."

I sighed and shot him another, pointed look.

"I mean, yea, like, all the time man. It's brutal out here."

After the questionnaire was done we exchanged numbers and I promised him some clean socks when I was next in the neighbourhood. Sadly there wasn't a great deal I could do about the house short of the pre-test tip offs, but I hoped at least it would give him a better chance at getting his life back on track.

I met more people during our clandestine homeless hunt in varying states of mind and demeanour. One man, curiously named Graun Bilbo spoke about his experiences of foster care and heroin addiction. What came out plain as day from my experiences through the night was how the vast majority of people living on the streets were simply the victims of unfortunate circumstances. Born to broken families and abusive parents and never given a real shot at life. The dice was often loaded against them from birth and all they really wanted and needed was a chance to get their lives back on track.

Sadly for many, that just isn’t an option. Any form of criminal record here is essentially a death sentence to any chance of success at life. All through the night I listened in stunned silence to Mary Lou's stories about her experiences of women with small children living in abandoned cars and the various traumas that people experience during their day to day lives.

By the time the shift was done, we were all pretty emotionally drained and Cory very kindly offered me a lift home. It had certainly been an interesting evening and one that will be hard to forget. There's an unrelenting feeling of hopelessness when you see the sheer number of people who live on the streets here. All you can hope for is that the statistics continue to improve and that the mindset amongst authorities shifts from persecution to rehabilitation.