Helping Homeless Vets Reclaim American Dream

Among the coins jingling in the pocket of William Merriweather’s bluejeans is one stamped with a prayer.

He’s long since memorized the phrases, yet he checks the pocket regularly to make sure the coin is there. Without much urging, he’ll read aloud: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Merriweather is 52, a veteran of Vietnam and of a military system that fosters toughness. Perhaps he shouldn’t need a brass coin or a prayer to feel secure. But he does.

Merriweather is facing things he cannot change. Trained to kill, he turned 21 in a dank foxhole in Vietnam and watched as much of what made sense to him perished.

He’s facing things he can change. Like his dependence on alcohol, an addiction that ripped his life apart and left him alone on the streets of Indianapolis.

And he’s learning to tell the difference, holding tight to the coin --and a chance for a new life. For about four months, Merriweather has been part of a program aimed at helping homeless veterans stay off the streets and away from alcohol and drugs.

An Indianapolis foundation, Far From Home, gathers those veterans who have taken initial steps toward recovery. They live in transitional housing, hold jobs and receive counseling, all to encourage the former soldiers to help themselves.

“We help each other out,” Merriweather says, “because we understand each other. Been there, done that.”

Over the decades, Merriweather has deteriorated from proud soldier to homeless alcoholic. Too often, comrades nationwide mirror this unraveling: The Department of Veterans Affairs in Washington, D.C., estimates 250,000 veterans are homeless each night.

“That’s equal to about 17 divisions,” says Jim Powers, Indiana’s state adjutant for Disabled American Veterans. “We used only about five divisions to invade Normandy.”

For many soldiers, the battlefront shifted to the home front, and a struggle to fit in the country they once served.

When Merriweather was 19, he enlisted in the Army and received 12 weeks of training at Ft. Bragg in North Carolina and Ft. Dix in New Jersey. Within three weeks, he found himself in South Vietnam with the 1st Infantry Division in Lai Khe. He adopted his unit’s slogan, “No One Dare Touch Me,” as his own.

After one year, he returned to a country that didn’t understand him and that he didn’t understand. “It was like you had to learn to live all over again,” Merriweather recalls.

Fits of rage, cold sweats, isolation overwhelmed him, and he turned to alcohol. He bounced from job to job, embarrassed to admit he’d been a soldier.

Merriweather and his wife were living with his adult daughter when his drinking and erratic behavior overwhelmed the family too. They kicked him out, warning him not to come back until he got help.

For two weeks, Merriweather ate at homeless shelters and slept under bridges. Then he did something he hadn’t done since returning from the war: He admitted he needed help. “It felt like nothing I did was right,” he says. “Since ‘Nam, nothing I did was right.”

Communities across the country are becoming more aware of veterans like Merriweather, and more prepared to help. With treatment, thousands return to productive lives, says Pete Dougherty, head of the DVA’s homeless veterans program. They are, he says, “coming back and sort of living the American dream again.”

Psychologically, many have never really returned, so programs must make them feel welcome. “Every veteran has a home,” says Dougherty. “It’s called America.”

When Merriweather sought help at the VA hospital in Indianapolis, he entered a program for recovering alcoholics--where he was given the coin he now treasures--and claimed a bed in a nearby shelter. As his commitment became clear, he was invited into a house run by Far From Home.

The foundation that funds this effort was started in California in 1991 by Stephen Peck, a Vietnam veteran and son of actor Gregory Peck. Although the program did not succeed nationally, it blossomed in Indianapolis, a city full of war monuments in a county full of nearly 80,000 veterans.

The foundation’s executive director, Don Moreau, sees the need: He hopes to build an apartment complex next year to double the capacity of the foundation’s four houses.

Since Merriweather joined the program, his life has regained some of the structure the military once provided. He rises at 4:30 a.m., tucks his sheets neatly around the thin single mattress that takes up most of his room, and gets dressed. To focus, he reads the serenity prayer before heading out to work.

By 7 a.m. Merriweather is on the job, folding surgical scrubs at the hospital. He’s surrounded by other veterans facing similar problems. “Here,” he says, “I feel like I fit in better than working someplace outside, like in a factory.”

Survival skills honed in the jungles of Vietnam help. But rather than being wary of land mines or scorpions, Merriweather must watch out for temptation and take the careful steps necessary to resolve his anger and frustration.

He can stay at Far From Home for up to two years or leave earlier if he wants. “But I’m not ready to leave yet,” he says.

Eventually Merriweather hopes to rejoin his family, pursue a high school equivalency diploma and find a good job. For now, he’s learning about himself and relearning what the military taught him long ago: self-respect.

A black cap, with “Vietnam Veteran” stitched in yellow, hangs in his tiny bedroom. “I wouldn’t wear it for a while because I was ashamed of being in Vietnam,” he admits.

Now Merriweather wears it whenever he wants.

And when the Veterans Day parade rolls through Indianapolis, he intends to be there to watch, coins in his pocket, hat on his head and hope taking root in his heart.