I see them more and more—under scaffolds, in the Metro, in the small parks around town—some with a cardboard sign scratched with the words, Sans Domicile. Homeless. They are often young men, able and strong, but cast out by a quirk of fate, now lonely ghosts of the street, inspiring fear and disgust. Unwanted reminders of the flaws in the system. They are me.
There's a part of me still out there, still cold, still hungry, and like an old addiction, managed but never cured, I have an undeniable physical reaction when I see others toughing it out on the cold pavement. I feel what they do, as sharply as they do. “Courage,” I say as I pass. Courage, I tell myself. Stay strong.
I talk a lot about my days on the street; even romanticize it. And sure, I had some wild times as a kid. It’s all roses when you look back. You forget the unforgiving ground; the knife fights over a scrap of gutter; the pain of starvation. The pain of rejection. You forget how it was to be cut off from love—and how that made you want to lash out. It all comes back when I see them.
Courage.
There are a lot of new faces on the street these days. They're the ones with signs like apologies: Willing to Work; Just Evicted; Not on Drugs. They want you to know it's just a bad patch, that they are like you. I met one guy in Rue Rambuteau who told me he lost his apartment when the landlord wanted it for a relative. Because he didn't have a steady job, no one would rent to him—et, voilà, he was on the street. I asked him why he'd want to sit in the middle of the bustling Les Halles district with a sign, wasn't it humilating? "So they know we're here," he said resolutely. "So they know how bad it is."
I know how bad it is.
Why would someone turn to the street? Because you want something—self-flagellation, a cry for help, to lose yourself, because it's less of a hell than the alternative. Sane or not, conscious or subconscious, it's a choice. For me, the street was a big “screw you” to the orphanage; freedom and autonomy, a means of control over my universe. The street gives you whatever you want—but like a good whore, makes you pay for it. Hell, she still has her hooks in me.
If you think those on the street are weak or deficient in some way, think again. It takes resolve, commitment. Courage. Next time you see someone homeless, think of me. Keep your pity; give up your respect.
