Comfort Zone
Beyond the initial group scene of veterans tossing Frisbees to each other on the sun-soaked Ventura College football field, is another picture: one of individual pain.
“I’m going into alcohol recovery . . . on Wednesday,” said Don Younger, 57, of Santa Barbara. “It’s an absolute necessity.
“If I don’t, I’ll kill myself.”
Younger, who was a mechanic in the Air Force from 1958 to 1962, was among the nearly 150 homeless veterans who Friday attended the start of Ventura County’s fifth annual Stand Down, a military term for taking people out of combat zones to safety.
About 50 more were expected to join their ranks by Friday evening as buses continued to pick up homeless veterans in need of aid at 16 sites in Ventura, Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo counties throughout the day.
The first Stand Down was held in San Diego in 1988. Now, 90 Stand Downs--seven in California--are held annually across the nation, according to event organizers.
The number of participating veterans keeps growing as thousands of soldiers are relieved of duty each year, said Steve Davis, California’s homeless veteran chairman for the Veterans of Foreign Wars.
Davis said there are about 74,000 military veterans in Ventura County, of whom nearly 3,000 are homeless. About 100 of those homeless are women, he said.
Coordinators agreed the three-day event, which began at 8 a.m. Friday and ends Sunday about sundown, is a mixed bag of social fun and personal heartache.
“We talk all the time about whether we are just putting on a fun event, like a reunion for the veterans, or whether they are getting more out of it,” said Sharon Dwyer, co-chair of Stand Down, which attracted more than 400 volunteers. “Whatever they get out of it is OK.”
Indeed, the Stand Down plays host to a variety of activities. Cups of popcorn are handed out from a Salvation Army truck, loud speakers play funk and rock tunes, circles of old-timers and those attending for the first time enjoy each other’s company and reminisce over lunches of tuna sandwiches and Hostess Twinkies. But if you listen closely, you will hear the nation’s former guardians talk about being without jobs, homes or hope.
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For many, Stand Down is one weekend out of the year that takes them away from the uncertainty. For some, it’s a helping hand to getting back on their feet.
Angela Roberts--one of the few women veterans to attend Stand Down--said the program helps her forget her problems and gives her a chance to be with comrades.
“I come here just to kick back and meet other vets,” she said.
Citing depression and nightmares, Roberts, 34, said she can’t hold down a job and so she comes to the Stand Down to meet others like herself, hoping to make new friends, perhaps with a couch she can crash on. Roberts said she served as an evaluations officer in the infantry in Panama in the early 1980s.
Aside from networking, a number of veterans come to Stand Down--sometimes hopping from one event to the next--for the free services provided, according to event officials.
Several Army tents offer veterans, who must verify their military service, free treatment by physicians, dentists, podiatrists and eye doctors.
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Barbers snip and cut in the college’s gym, where down-and-out veterans can trade in their long, scraggly looks for a neater appearance. Donated underwear, shoes, sweaters and pants are stacked neatly on tables to be handed out to those who need them.
During the three days, organizers set up tents where veterans also may receive counseling, detox information and free photo I.D. cards, which are necessary for cashing government checks.
Perhaps the least frequented tent is the one operated by the state-run Employment Development Department. Spokesman Joseph Hearn said finding a job is often a low priority for a veteran concerned about kicking alcoholism or clearing up legal matters.
“Most homeless aren’t job-ready yet,” he said.
But Hearn said he has an employment opportunity for every interested veteran at Stand Down, though only about one-third of the homeless veterans come to his tent looking for work. Available jobs range from temporary day laborer positions to professional careers, such as the director of personnel for a company that pays $50,000 a year, Hearn said.
A more popular stop during Stand Down is the makeshift Municipal Court, held in one of the college classrooms and presided over by Judge John E. Dobroth.
On Friday, Dobroth was settling misdemeanor violations, like sleeping in illegal areas or drinking in public. The sentences involved cleaning up the Ventura campus, such as painting bleachers by the football field or washing the tennis courts--all to be completed during Stand Down.
During his first case of the day, Dobroth handed down a relatively light sentence. In a matter of minutes, Dobroth gave a defendant, who pleaded no contest to drinking in public, five hours of community service.
As the man left the bench--in this case a schoolteacher’s desk--Dobroth saluted him and said: “As you were.”
