Becoming Faithful to a Narrative

Narrative fidelity is harder to come by than narrative probability. All probability requires is that the storyteller gets the events between the beginning and end more or less in a coherent line. Fidelity, however, requires the narrative to fit into the prior experiences of the audience. In a way, narrative fidelity demands that the story coheres with not only its events, but also all the rest of the stories the person knows and lives.

Fortunately, a flexible storyteller can tailor the tale to be faithful to the ones the audience already knows. By playing to prior experiences, the narrator builds on what the listener thinks is real, good, beautiful, and true. Alter the story a little, and one can make it more acceptable, more faithful to the world of the listener.

What is the recourse, however, if the storyteller is unwilling to change the tale?

In the context of this retreat, consider the two following narrative dilemmas.

There is a story about homelessness I want to believe. It is about ordinary people, committing themselves to making real change, both small and large. Reaching out, forging bonds, overcoming adversity, and changing nothing less than the landscape of society. I want to believe in real change, but I feel foolish doing so.

There are also stories about homelessness I want to understand. Stories about the trials homeless face. The realities of the shelter system, difficulties with police, and trouble getting food. I know these stories, but for some reason, I can’t quite understand them.

Both dilemmas are caused by a lack of narrative fidelity. I can’t believe the hopeful narrative of change because it just doesn’t seem, well, believable. It doesn’t measure up with my previous experience of homeless outreach, which is so often fraught with failure or disappointment. I don’t understand the narratives of urban homeless reality because they are so distant from my own experiences they hardly seem real.

Now, a flexible storyteller would change the narratives. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to violate the optimistic narrative, because I believe it worth trying to live up to. And I don’t want to change the painful realities of homelessness, because doing so would make invisible the suffering of actual people.

If the story must match my life to truly sink in,
And I am unwilling to change the story,
Then I must change my life.

Here beats the narrative heart of this weekend. The stories the youth told were not radically different than what one might expect. The forward thinking optimism and storying of the future were not unlike other planning sessions. Sometimes, it isn’t the stories that need changing. Sometimes it’s the listeners. Narrative fidelity suggests you only accept stories that resonate with prior experiences. If there are stories you want to believe, be strategic about the experiences you have in order to more fully believe them.

When I first conceived this retreat, I thought we would construct a narrative for the future of Stand Up For Kids Community Outreach. I discovered, however, that we already knew the story. The retreat fleshed out some details, true. More importantly, it readied our bodies, minds, and hearts to more honestly understand the trials of today, and more earnestly undertake the triumph of tomorrow.

Returning Home

A quintessential step to the journey of a hero is the return home. Exhausted, taken to the limits of our souls and bodies, we adventurers turn our feet back down the path that had taken us to the edge of the world.

I am happy to return home. I cannot express how much I look forward to seeing my wife. I foolishly don't think I need a nap. My shower feels less like hygiene and more like a rebirth. I emerge with preternaturally smooth skin and I smell strange to myself.

The homeward journey is the only sensible ending to a heroes tale. The world of the ordinary, from which the hero was drawn in the beginning, is often the underlying drive for the myth in the first place. If the hero fails, home will be destroyed. While the return home isn't always positive (sometimes home is destroyed or the hero can't really fit in), the home is still the end of the story. It is the beginning, the end, and the ever-present counterpoint to the craziness of the supernatural world. Tolkein had it right: There and back again.

But I have just spent the weekend homeless getting to know homeless people I consider heroes. Because of this, I think the centrality of the home in the hero myth is a bit problematic.

Consider: how many heroes in stories have no home? Sure, some are wanderers, but even wanderers are often displaced from their rightful homes and become heroes when they take the fight to their oppressors and recover their home. Eternal wanderers are rarely more than colorful events in the travels of other heroes.

Perhaps our use of home as a necessary element of the hero myth is misguided. Think I'm over reading this? What in a myth has no homes? Beasts. Who has no respect for the belongings in homes? Scoundrels. Who destroys homes? Villains. It is through negation of home that characters have wildness, unpredictability, and evilness ascribed. When I think of ways society renders the homeless, beast, scoundrel, and villain are not too far off.

We must break ourselves of rendering the hero as essentially homed. We need to tell stories where the comfortable life is not the same as the good life. We need heroes who derive their morality from a place other than the home.

We need homeless heroes.

Origin Stories

We all came to Stand Up through different means. Our origin stories are each unique.



Jackie came through a service learning course.
John came to honor his late grandfather.
Sam came to move DK in as the caretaker.
Michael came through his friendship with me.
Melissa came to do fieldwork.
Gabe came to get out of the heat.
Matt came to clean the house.

We each have our own entry point into the streaming narrative of the now. Even when humans closely share experiences, as we have this weekend, lived moments are differentiated by the stories that lead up to them. In that stories have an arc, a trajectory, our histories upend, propel, and cajole us into the present in varied manners.

It is important, though, that the present is not always compelled by the past. It is in the lived moment that the past is re-membered. And in a community as close as the one we share on Sunday morning, while we each have our disparate pasts, they slowly begin to converge. They become, each one, a narrative thread in the fabric of the whole. We listen intently because we know that each story reveals part of our collective history.

Shared space, time, and touch make narrative demands. Our bodies serve as breathing, sweating frames. It is through the enmeshed confluence of our veins that we co-instantiate the stories that lead to this moment of breath.

Walking with Matt

Matt is our youngest retreatant. As such, his take on the difficulties of being homeless are different that others. The physical aspect isn't his chief concern. His main worry:

Boredom.

He generally finds the waiting for things to happen maddening and suggests that it is the lack of stimulation that would get to him first. He also cites unreliable access to food and uncertainty about sleeping arrangements as hard to deal with.



The lesson here? There are various types of fitness, and as such, the trials of deprivation play out differently. Matt crafts his particular story about homelessness because of his embodied immunity to particular discomforts. At his age, his body is made out of rubber bands shot full of adrenaline. The down side of his metabolic fervor is an increased need for lots of food and an impatience that makes him more susceptible to parts of the mental game.

Point is, we all wear down differently. There isn't a universal story to homelessness. There isn't a single way it sucks. Some of us are harder to wear, some are harder to tear, but it gets to everyone eventually.

Teambuilding

One of the major goals of the retreat was to create Community Outreach Groups, two- or three-person teams who will brainstorm, initiate, and coordinate relationships with other organizations.

This is a hard task. Cold calling is hard. Networking is hard. Giving presentations is hard. While better organizational skills and a better understanding of homeless issues will help, I figured we needed every resource at our disposal.

Another key ingredient: trust.

Trust between people is powerful. Speaking apprehension research finds that it is rare to have a person who is always nervous about public address. Also, few people are never nervous about speaking. Rather, there are particular situations that cause anxiety. While some speaking coaches try to address the trait of speaking anxiety, another angle is to try to alter situations to control anxiety.

So, for instance, many people would be uncomfortable going out to ask for money on their own, but if you send them in a small group, things get easier. Send them out in a small group of people they deeply trust, and things get even better.

In my experience, the best way to foster trust is through activities and games. Not sure what it is, really. Maybe it's because people like to win games and creating scenarios where they have to work together to succeed invites them to take "trust risks." Maybe it is because games and activities reveal personality, and we trust more because we understand better. Or maybe it's the bodily component. Games facilitate positive physical touch, which often leads to mutual liking, increased disclosure, and more trust.

Also, games are micro-myths. Consider. You are sitting there ordinarily, when suddenly you are called into an adventure (purpose of the game). There are obstacles (created by restrictive rules), but you are also granted special powers (created by enabling rules). While using your special powers, you often fail to overcome the obstacles until you gain revelation (figure out a strategy). Through revelation, you transform into a hero (because you figured it out), save the world (win the game), and return to the ordinary world (the world before the game). It is almost as though it never happened, but you are forever transformed and continue to carry your special knowledge. (For a lot more about heroes and the structure of their adventures consider reading Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces: classic.)

When the narrative of the game gets enacted, it becomes a living story, a literal chronotope, an embodiment of meaning through time and space.

As we move, we entangle the tale in sinew, draw it out of its diembodied rules, and craft it into the present.

Whatever the reason, it works. Get a group together, play some games, do a few activities, and after a day and a half, they start trusting each other. It isn't a given, as participants set on not getting along won't. I've seen leaders mess it up, too. But generally, it works.

If you are looking for games, here's a solid resource. I cut my teeth running Snowball retreats back in high school. My "go to" activities/games include: the Human Knot, Elbow Tag, and the Slap Game.

Meeting Basic Needs

Between the two of them, Sam and Gabe have been homeless for more than a decade. As such, they have a lot of experience trying to meet their basic needs.

A few tips if you find yourself homeless:
1.) Always bring water - two bottle minimum.
2.) Ask people who walk by about places to eat. Eventually someone will know.
3.) You can usually find clothing and hygiene in the same place. Don't stock up too much. Focus on season appropriate pants/shorts. Two to three extra shirts is nice, but extra socks and underwear are key.



Getting money is hard. Service organizations give out many resources, but sometimes you just need cash. There are very few ways to make money without breaking the law if you don't have a job. Donating plasma is a solid option. Some people also sell hand-rolled cigarettes, two for 25 cents, 10 for $1.00.

Past that, we get into grayer areas. There is day labor, such as sign spinning. Usually $50 for 10 hours under the table. One can also sell foodstamps. $200 worth of food stamps can get $100 in cash. One might get a better rate making deals in the grocery store. But this is often awkward, and you can get caught. Selling foodstamps is against the law.

The youth differentiate between begging, panhandling, and "spanging." Begging involves pleading for money. Panhandling involves some kind of deception or con (like having a story about needing to go someplace and collecting money for a bus ticket). Finally, spanging is asking for spare change (hence the name SPare chANGE).

Finally, one can acquire money through stealing and selling what was stolen to a fence, selling drugs, or selling one's body. These activities are highly illegal.

Hearing these stories being told illuminates the cultural aspect of homeless life. The youth usually agree on things like the cost of cigarettes, have similar accounts of prostitution, and have specialized vocabulary. Perhaps it is a point for Ernest Bormann and his idea of converging themes. According to Bormann, there are many ways of understanding the world, and those understandings that resonate with people the best have a way of spreading throughout a community. As I sit and listen to the accounts of struggles and successes, I hear common sense making laced throughout.

It is, of course, possible that it isn't the stories that move but the storytellers. Maybe Sam and Gabe are drawn together by their common stories, and other youth with other stories have clustered elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, the effect is somewhat surreal. Listening to them nonchalantly, objectively discussing the realities of street life is disorienting. They have localized knowledge, and traffic with ease in a common set of tales, symbols, and analogies with which I have little or no familiarity.

Before you scoff because someone doesn't know the basics about something, consider the fact that they may have mastery of a domain you don't even know exists.

Visiting the Youth House

Stand Up For Kids Phoenix has two houses we use as drop in centers. They are open on weekends, and they provide a place for youth to shower, wash their clothing, watch a movie, eat a hot meal, check their email, search for jobs, get food and clothing to take, and socialize in a non-institutional setting.

Saturday is our big day. We train volunteers, have meetings, discuss house matters, and are open from breakfast to dinner. Today is no different. We are a little thin staffed since some of our mainstays are on the retreat, but we have it covered.

The youth and volunteers call it Our House, so named to represent its inclusiveness. We try to include the youth in the major decisions, the creation of rules, and day-to-day operations. Today the youth have cooked for us.



Things are status quo at the youth house. Someone is rooting around in the clothing room. An intense game of Uno is underway. A few people are discussing which movie to watch. But for us, Our House has never been like this. Previous to this Saturday, the youth house was always a setting in a narrative of charity; it was a place we went to help others.

But today, the house is part of a different narrative. It is a sanctuary. Today we have been wandering in the desert, and Our House is a promise of peace. Will we always think of it differently? That remains to be seen. But today, our embodied story more closely matches the youth, and we understand and appreciate the role it plays far more than ever before.

Energy, Or Lack Thereof

Energy is key.

A good retreat leader has an eye for energy levels. It isn't that high energy is better or worse, it depends on the context. Some activities lend themselves to higher energy, while others are better suited for calmer moods. The savvy retreat leader is one who can get their group to each activity with the right amount of energy.

Generally, if you need to take a group down a few energy levels, writing, drawing, or other reflective activities will serve you well. For ratcheting people up, there are activities called energizers. At their core, energizers amplify moods. They usually accomplish this by absurdity. As such, I have a talent for energizers. I can usually manage to calm a group (with the help of candles and Enya), but turning the volume up is far more natural for me. While I have many years of retreat leading experiences, being absurd is far more practiced.

This particular retreat, however, posed an interesting challenge. Usually, a moderate or flagging group needs one or two solid energizers to get the buzz going. This time, we run a high energy activity (called Smaug's Jewels, tons of fun), and everyone crashed (see next post).

Sometimes energy levels are related to mood, and as such can be altered through engagement. Other times, energy levels are related to the physical conditions of the body. While retreat goers often operate with little sleep, our retreat also had limited water and food in addition to the risks of exposure.

I don't often think about it this way, but mood has caloric, nutritional, and chemical components. The take away for retreat leaders is that well-fed participants are easier to get worked up than poorly fed ones. The more general take away is this:
how we feel is more than a reaction of what happens to us, it is also action within us. Be hesitant to judge the attitudes of those who live on diets and in conditions harsher than your own.

How we feel is not always rational, but it is always connected to rations.

Community Reality

The central question of this retreat and project at large: What is community?

There are various angles to take. Take, for instance, the government reporting document "The Current State of Homelessness," which is published every year. It frames “community” as critical to homeless care. Phrases like “community partners,” “community-sponsored,” “community-based service providers,” and “community resources” imply compassion, philanthropy, and service. Not only do important labor and resources come from the “community,” but “community” is also the place where homelessness ends. The goal of all homeless organizations it to reintegrate homeless people into the “community.”

Unfortunately, what “community” signifies is highly selective. For instance, it does not include the community homeless have among themselves. “Community” is not used to describe the collective life of those on the streets, despite the obvious communal nature of their lives. In fact, being homeless means a person is on the outside of the “community.” This is demonstrated by the common use of the term “community re-entry.” The work of homeless service is to bring homeless back into the “community.”

The following statement illustrates the separation between homeless and the community. “Pressures placed on runaway and homeless youth by law enforcement, merchant associations, and hospitality ambassadors cause them to become more invisible and drives them further into the fringes of the city” (p. 29, Arizona Homeless Coordination Office, 2009, emphasis added). Apparently, making the community feel welcome means making the homeless unwelcome. Research by Harter et al. suggests that homeless “invisibility” is a common phenomenon created through social structures (2005). Part of creating a sense of community is excluding those who threaten its predictability.

“Community” is the place where volunteers come. It can be developed through programs. Most importantly, the “community” is where people live. It may be low income, but in the end, “community” is composed of housed individuals. It is not a totally closed boundary, as some organizations provide permanent, subsidized housing, but living in a house is a precondition for participation. Unfortunately, the document excludes homeless from the community, and instead focuses on ways to end homelessness by bringing homeless back into the “community.”

So with this divisive model of community in mind, we set about trying to reconceive community in a more inclusive fashion. What better way than drawing? We drew to the prompt: "Draw community."


So we have a home, but a sign making it explicit it is open to everyone. There is also a gathering at table.

Again a home, but this time the home is encircled by a handholding collective.

This time the hand holding is central, and there are no houses at all.

Again with the hands. Common themes? Circles, people focus, hand holding, sharing, and inclusive housing. Following the community drawing, we drew to a different prompt: "What have you seen so far on the retreat?"


Again, we have some very common threads. Separation, wealth, power, and negative interaction. Clearly the world that we are traveling through is not living up to our notion of community.

Staying Safe

Of the three talks concerning homeless issues (staying safe, staying sane, and meeting basic needs), we thought starting with how to stay safe was a good idea.

Presented by Dustin and Sam, it outlined ten basic things to keep in mind when trying to stay safe. Many of the points were backed up with stories.

Tips included:
1.) Stay prepared
2.) Stay sober
3.) Have a weapon or come in numbers
4.) Carry some form of light
5.) Keep something warm
6.) Keep a phone nearby
7.) Change sleeping spots
8.) Sleep somewhere quiet
9.) Keep yourself fed
10.) Darkness can be friend or foe; it's all in how you use it



Following reflections on staying safe, all three of our homeless youth began telling stories. While I don't feel quite right publishing them here, they included foster care abuse, tragically lost love, corrupted shelter bureaucracy, and facing down harsh elemental conditions. Laced through the tales of darkness and struggle were glimmering threads of camaraderie, fortitude, hope, and humorous antics.

I was struck by how smoothly their storytelling went. Generally, homeless youth are somewhat guarded with their pasts. While some have a talent drawing them out, most volunteers never get the full story. Yet here in the park by the library, the stories came.



Why do you suppose that is? Did we finally ask in the right way? Was it the activities? Was it the fact that we had shown a willingness to learn their world? Or was it our willingness to sleep out in the city? Was it the receptivity? Or the fact that the context allowed for one story after another to be told, each drawing another to follow? Or perhaps is it something more primal? Do humans just tell stories when out under the stars?

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.

How This Whole Beautiful Mess Started

Stand Up For Kids provides services to homeless youth. We go where they are, ask them what they need, and give them what we have. Sometimes they need food, water, clothing, and hygiene products. Other times they need job leads. Often they just want to talk. We also run a drop-in center, a place where the youth can shower, wash their clothing, use the internet, watch a movie, and eat a warm meal.

But all this requires money and other resources. As one might guess, the economic meltdown of recent years increased the number of homeless youth. On any given night in 2008, there were 87 youth on the streets of Phoenix. That number rose to 121 in 2009, and to 180 in 2010. Two years has seen a nearly doubling in the homeless youth population.

As one might also imagine, charitable donations go down when everyone starts losing money. While our need rises, our resources dwindle.

In a conversation with John, the Co-Executive Director, we decided we needed to redouble our fundraising efforts. We considered writing a script so people can go out to organizations and solicit donations. But something about that seemed too easy. A script doesn't attend to the idiosyncrasies of different organizations, and there is no guarantee it will be delivered with much authenticity.

Instead, we settled on the idea of Community Outreach Groups: two- or three-person teams who foster relationships with other organizations. I am in part influenced by my studies of philanthropy, which suggest that simply asking for money often fails. Donors usually give when they have some form of relationship with the organization.

Simultaneously, Stand Up For Kids could have a more developed social mission. Mostly it focuses on the day-to-day delivery of basic needs. But there is awareness to be raised. People need to see what happens to homeless youth.

By giving awareness-raising presentations we can disseminate important information and foster the sorts of relationships that could result in both monetary and in kind donations.

With that as the operational goal, the next step was to get people willing and able to do it. Or, as a priest I used to work for chants: Identify, Recruit, Educate, Train, and Form.

There are a lot of ways of preparing people for doing community outreach. I could train people one on one. We could have an hour and a half meeting. But I wanted something more. Somewhere along the line, I realized I wanted our usual volunteers as well as homeless or ex-homeless youth to be part of these teams. This was the beginning of the more radical model.

So take the following into consideration:
- I have been running retreats since I was a teen.
- I want to create a highly informed, highly motivated community.
- I've chosen to be homeless in the past.
- And I study altruism in organizing, with a particular interest in how people become radical altruists.

As such, I'm not even sure when I thought of the idea of running a street retreat. I had some money from an innovation grant that had to be spent on leadership development. I had a tangible goal. It seemed to be the thing to do.

There are, of course, pretty solid justifications for such an activity. There is a cultural angle. Just like baseball fans have a culture, and EMTs have a culture, there are often cultural differences between homeless and homed folk. Basically, there are different lessons to learn about getting by. As such, communication between and about homelessness is intercultural. One method of addressing intercultural issues is to create a third culture, a place mutually informed by the interests, values, and realities of both cultures. A participant-planned retreat sounded like a solid way of creating a third culture.

Another way of conceptualizing the retreat is from an oral narrative perspective. While we live in culture with lots of text, I believe that oral traditions serve a powerful role in organizing. There is still magic in the story told by a person standing in front of you. The telling, hearing, learning, and retelling of stories has often had a tranformative affect on those involved. Bringing people together for three days would not only give them a chance to tell their own stories, but such an event would also generate its own stories to be told and retold.

Finally, there is an embodied component to retreats. Retreats are invitations to physically become one of the characters in its narrative arc. The task of going out into the community to speak, network, and ask for money is going to require initiative, commitment, and courage. So I figure that becoming part of a living story, an embodied tale, will help foster those traits and put us on a well aimed trajectory.

To follow the retreat in chronological order, click the button "Newer Post" below the comments section.