Visit from Joe

Often, retreats are run on private property, away from the public eye. This offers a controlled environment, where retreatants can adjust lighting, volume, and general flow of activities.

In the park by the library, we had no such luxury. The constant din of traffic sounded from the Central Avenue bridge. Lights were as provided by the city. But we were also in public, which meant we were observed by passerbys. We also had visitors.

Our first visitor came around 9 p.m. He heralded us from the bridge, shouting inquiry as to what we were doing. We responded, shouting up back that we were on a retreat to get a better understanding of homelessness. So he heads down the stairs to meet us. As he lumbers toward us, I can tell he is probably drunk. Not a reason for outright fear, but reason enough to be wary. Besides, rule number eight is stay aware. My friend Michael and I give each other a look, and I ask him with a head tilt to come with me. He does.

We meet him midway up the stairs. Our visitor introduces himself as Joe. I shake his large hand, introduce myself and try to engage him on the stairs, but he doesn't stop. He says, "I'm not gonna cause any problems. Just wanna talk to you guys." He continues down the stairs. Michael and I shrug at each other and follow.

Joe strikes up a conversation with the group. At first, it isn't clear what he is talking about. After about 30 seconds, however, his point becomes clear. We can't get an understanding of homelessness like this. If we want to really know what it is like, we need to empty our pockets, give away our cell phones, leave our group, and live for a month. Then, only then, would we start to have an idea. It isn't until we have nothing that we will understand.

As he is teaching us, my anxiety lowers. This is a valuable experience, I think. But his insistence starts sounding more indignant and commanding. "You go that way, you go that way." I'm not sure if he is reiterating or telling us what to do. I'm not sure how long we talked to him. Ten minutes, maybe. He starts his point over from the beginning. My anxiety starts mounting again. I don't think he is dangerous. But he is pretty large, and I haven't been able to place the substance he is on. He is somewhat slurred but is either an energetic drunk or on something else. By now his point is well taken, but I am uncomfortable.

One of our homeless youth and one of the volunteers engage him in a smaller conversation, stepping away from the larger group. This works a bit. Eventually a few of us thank him. Reluctantly, he leaves. As he climbs back up the stairs, he shouts, "You go that way, you go that way, you go that way. Alone. No phone." "Thanks!" we reply. Then, with no transition, at the top of his lungs, Joe yells "Anybody want to get high?!? I got pot, acid, whatever you want!" "No thanks," someone hollers back. "Just joking," he cries.

I have no idea whether he is joking or not.

The people on our retreat had varied responses to this visit. Some of us read him as "some crazy homeless guy," while others were more influenced by his overall point. As our retreat went on, however, more volunteers started vocalizing how what Joe had said had really been impactful. I found it a important reminder: we are playing at homelessness. While staying out on the streets for a weekend seems radical to those who have always been homed, it offers similar insight as the blindfolded man gains about being blind. At any moment the cloth can be untied and the experiment is over. For us, we could get sick of our retreat, call our friends and family, and go home.

Getting that, really understanding that, was best facilitated by Joe. While there were times I wished I could turn the traffic volume down to set a different mood or turn the street lights up to get a better video, taking this retreat to some private place would have been an error. Being held in public allowed the community at large to participate and offer their wisdom.