(MSCC) John Mudd, September 25, 2016 — My approach is hesitant. I almost continue down the block to my apartment, past the homeless who are encamped on the north side of 38th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues. If I use my MetroCard an average of three times a day, and they’ve been there since the beginning of July, it would be more than a hundred times that I’ve walked past them.

I’m disturbed by the growing inequality of today. The city’s homeless, filthy subways, crumbling sidewalks, loitering kiosk-users, and more, have been heavy on my mind. I’ve decided none of it is acceptable.

I’ve been wanting a more comprehensive understanding from the homeless perspective…who are they? What are their needs? And why do they prefer to brave living in the harsh outdoors? (I know this to be the case through a homeless outreach organizer I’ve been in touch with, Lisa Lombardi from Urban Pathways, who explained to me that they were offered available shelter and services but declined).

I knew the answers would only come from asking, and listening to their stories…

Most of the homeless in the group confirm that a social worker came by offering to help them, but only after initially denying it. Two people stand firm that no one came by—perhaps they are newer members to the group. And two others confirm two visits from a homeless outreach organization that had offered shelter and other available services. ‘Available services,’ something else for me to be educated about.

Yet, they remain on the streets.

From my conversations, I find out that the alternative to sleeping on the streets is worse in their minds.

I can’t imagine having a bout with bronchitis, pneumonia, flu, or even a cold for that matter, and not being able to nurse myself to health by lying on my memory foam mattress, snuggled in a blanket, heating pad on my chest, slurping chicken soup, and drinking cups of tea with honey, ginger, and lemon. Much less can I imagine myself sitting outside on a broken chair, munching cheap pizza, or deli food, and braving the variant weather conditions—the dog days of summer, pouring rain, and wind beating down on me.

One fellow in the group, Donald Cook, explains through an alcoholic fog, “It’s full of bullshit [the shelters]. They trying to direct you to destruction. They never recommend, advise the best place, the good-est places…some places fucked up. That’s why they’re out here to direct you to places ain’t nobody else gonna go.”

Another fellow, I’ll call Mr. X, added through an even thicker fog, “See what I am doing? I could do this all night long…why am I going into a shelter and sleep in a chair all night long?”

Mr. Cook agrees that the places that are available have no beds and lack privacy. I, too, have heard this from social workers and members of the police department, that some of the homeless would rather stay on the streets than in a shelter.

I get it. They prefer their freedom and privacy. Don’t we all?

Depression often plays a big part in their situation. The slightest obstacle may render them helpless, and at times, alcohol and drugs help ease the pain. I suspect their best days may be spent in a boozy fog, and their worst, soberly trying to navigate through the world.

I interrupt a great many discussions amongst the eight or nine that are there, one trying to speak over the other. I bet each of them confer, advise, argue their way to the head of the group’s round table. I wonder if the elder of the bunch is more esteemed. Mr. X, is likely the eldest of the tribe, and he tries to educate me in the routines of the off-the-street-vacation-package that the homeless outreach services offer.

“You go there, you get between four or five days to detox,” he says. “They got do a physical to make sure that you stay…they make…diagnosis according to the doctor. After you see a regular doctor, you gotta see a psych doctor…primary caretaker which is the facility that you in…send you… Bellevue. Why would I want to go there? Bellevue ain’t doing nothing for me. You know what it is, it’s [inadequate temporary] housing…”

“What do you need to progress to a better situation?” I ask.

“Someone who cares,” he says, in a rare moment of vulnerability. It’s as if a plea from within tried to poke through his crusty hardened shell of hopelessness.

Donald Cook struggles over several voices to be heard, “Listen, listen…I’m going to give you benefit of the doubt…social security…disability…help me get a Section 8…help me get a studio apartment. I’m asking you now. Help me get a studio apartment.” He goes on to tell me that his mother is in the service, and he had also been in the service. He is from Hampton, Virginia, and he has a regular income.

One of the more coherent of the group, who I’ll call Mr. Y, chimes in, “I’m on parole. Friday I go back to Long Island. I’m not from this over-priced slum village.”

He is just hanging with his brothers in arms and he has no interest in this decaying city. He fires off several of his certifications, and stops at “VMware” to explain to me that it’s “virtualization…cloud network.” “You know the cloud?” he asks. “I understand the backbone of technology, not just how to navigate my files, no, I understand the backbone, the files, the actual bits, down to the bit level. Zeros and ones…binary…like, I understand that. So I’m an IT engineer. I’m also finance,” he continues. “Financial advisor. Funding analyst, mortgage broker. I was making 20 to 30k a month, you understand, before the mortgage crisis.”

“What brings you here?” I ask.

“Drugs and alcohol,” he says.

I suggest an on camera interview, and most seem trepidatious, but interested. But then, one muscular, seemingly sober man jumps in with a definitive, “No.” He is not having it for himself or for the others. I’m unable to disarm him or quell his rising hostility, so I think it best to move on, as he was directing me to do.

I have so many more questions to ask. I am sure the social workers have asked many of them already. I think the answers are there, if we care to hear them.