Commentary : Who Are the Homeless, Really? Teacher Has Met One, and It Was Her

As the late night closes its black curtain, and the cold winds pour in around me, I stand at the bus stop and shudder to remember. Two winters ago, on nights such as these, I was one of them--one of the hazy faces you look at, but try not to see; I was homeless.

But this cannot be: the homeless are drug addicts, alcoholics, the mentally slow, or those allergic to work, people say. Saying this builds a protective wall that cuts off most normal feelings and keeps one from thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I,” or from making a donation to a shelter.

However, like other homeless, I was none of the above. I have a Mensa IQ, I have never drunk a drop of alcohol, nor smoked or used drugs, I have not suffered from mental illness, and I enjoy working. So how does the impossible happen? More important than the reasons is the fact that it can happen easier than might be expected. For some, ill health, for others, a landlord who sells a house one is renting when there is no money for first and last month’s rent and the deposit needed to rent another. Others lose their jobs or experience a family emergency. More often, it is a combination of many personal disasters at once.

I had what many homeless don’t--a car. But where do you park it to sleep, especially if you are a woman alone? I would park in a restaurant parking lot and try to sleep a little. First my legs cramped, then my back was distorted. Once in a while, sleep would win. Then the fear of where I was would wake me with a start. Was it against the law to sleep in one’s car? Would I be arrested? What if someone broke the window to harm me? Then I would go inside the restaurant. There I was warm and safe. But one can only spend so long sipping tea. I would go back to the car and try again to sleep. When finally the sky was pink, I felt better. There was less danger of robbery or arrest.

Then it was time for work. I was in a new job, in training for a saleswoman of English classes to groups at factories, but on commission only. I stayed with it because the supervisors promised sales with fantastic commissions. With a large sum at once, I would have the down payment for an apartment. So, I held on, each day thinking tomorrow would be the day. Others had a working spouse, savings, or stocks and bonds; I had none of these. I could not afford the wait.

On the side I was also jumping through the hoops needed for an emergency teacher’s substitute certificate. Money from substitute work would be much less and slower; they take weeks to pay, but eventually, it would be worth it.

Meanwhile, it was cold outside, even in a car. There must be help somewhere. Churches are famous for helping, right? The next Sunday, I went to a restroom and washed as much as possible, as I did each morning before work, and dressed the best I could without an iron. I was confident of my religion.

There was an inspiring talk and afterward the tea and juice conversations. Then the minister asked everyone to listen for a minute and let me make my announcement. I explained a little of the reasons why I temporarily had nowhere to live and asked if anyone would let me sleep on their couch. I would be glad to help with housework or baby-sitting in the evenings. No one made a sound. The silence cut like a knife. The minister broke the silence. I could sleep on the floor of the religious education center. I sighed with relief. That would be warm and there would be running water and a restroom, and even books to read.

That night I bought the Sunday Times. First, of course, the want ads, in case the sales work became a dead end. The problem was they would ask for a phone number and address. I had neither.

Then, all of a sudden, it was no longer quiet. In the next room I heard people arriving, playing music, talking. Then the words were clear. They were using the church as a place to shoot up drugs. As quietly as possible, I gathered my few things and ran out the other door to my car, praying my motor would start. I was back to driving around, but I was alive.

Driving and thinking, I reasoned. Part of why I was in this position was that I had given money to save a life. A student of mine from Iran said that Khomeini’s troops were going to kill his brother for being of the minority religion. I gave my friend all the money I had to pay for his brother’s escape to Pakistan, not knowing other problems were going to hit me simultaneously.

Well, since I had helped that religion, perhaps they could help me. I found the address of a home where they meet and started attending. I listened to their history and teachings. For that point in my life, it seemed the religious home I needed. I joined, vowing to be an active member. And they did find me a home. I lived with a widow as a companion, dishwasher, and English teacher. Coming from worlds apart, we formed a bond.

Finally, my teacher’s certificate came through. It was extremely lucky that I had a home, for my car died a natural death. Every morning I woke at 5 a.m. to take three buses to go calm a group of unknown first-graders. Eventually, I had the money to leave her generosity, but it was not to be forgotten. She cared.

Now I again have a home and the peace that goes with it.