TREASURES : For the Homeless, a Few Secial Effects

If you were allowed to keep only those items that would fit in one suitcase, what would you choose? For the homeless, that is a critical question. Just what keepsakes--if any--are tucked away in that Vons sack or under that garbage-bag canopy? Last spring, I decided to find out.

With my camera, I sought out the homeless along the Los Angeles River, by the Alameda Street railroad tracks, at L.A. freeway overpasses and shelters, on New York City streets, and I asked them what possessions they valued most. Their answers suggested past identities and entanglements that would have been impossible to guess: a cross, family photos, a bell, a toy car, underwear, lipstick, a figurine of the Virgin Mary, a college diploma, a dog, a doll.

But if our identities are shaped by what we possess, what happens to those who have nothing? The homeless who kept no links to a former life affected me most, because they had done away with sentiment: The need to survive had worn it down. “You can’t keep nothin’ of value out here on the streets,” said one man, pushing an empty cart, “because you won’t have it for long.”

Another man with a sign that read “Deaf Mute With AIDS--Please Help” flagged me down in a McDonald’s when he saw my camera. Pointing at himself, he raised an eyebrow as if to ask, “You want my picture?” I wrote a note on a scrap of paper, asking if he had anything in his duffel bag I could photograph. He indicated that it would cost me $3. I nodded and he began pulling clothes out of his bag. I tried to explain that I was looking for something he treasured, but he just pulled out more faded, balled-up clothes. I gave him $1. He shoved two fingers at me, his eyes at once menacing and pitiful. Still, I declined to take the picture. I turned to go and he spoke: “What do you want from me?” Everyone looked at him. He didn’t care that he’d given up his deaf charade; he had nothing to lose. I gave him two bucks. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word.