Julia P

It's 10:30 am, two Saturdays before Christmas 2007 and Portland is bustling, busting at the seams under a leaden sky that shows promises of clearing; steel blue clouds hiding the sun. There is a trumpet player dressed as Santa, playing Christmas carols on the street corner for change. A work crew busies itself setting up a large shelter for an orchestra in the middle of Pioneer Square. A group of high-school aged girls flits past. An unkempt young man sits on his stone throne on the wall that surrounds the square, reading a paintball magazine. Beautiful people are everywhere, the trumpeter providing the music for an unscripted but beautifully synchronized holiday waltz.

I was again looking for homeless kids to interview in a place where I had much success previously. I did one lap around Pioneer Square, then a second, then a third. No one even looked close to homeless except a couple young drug dealers who were just leaving and the paintball magazine kid. But homeless kids generally don’t read paintball magazines and drug dealers usually don't talk -they're just too hardened, caught up in a lifestyle that demands their complete selves.

As I was scanning the crowd, I saw a young lady sit down across the street against the brick backdrop of Nordstrom’s. She was dressed in many layers of clothing, she had heavy eye makeup and a hairstyle that could be the latest rage or last night’s remnant of one. I approached her.

“My name is Eric,” I said politely, “may I ask you a few questions?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “I guess so,” she said.

I told her that I interviewed homeless youth and that I was looking for someone…

She interrupted me. “I’m not homeless,” she said.

“Oops. I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. I still had my doubts, however. Call it the power of a first impression.

“I was just waiting for a bus to take me to school…”

I jumped on that. “You go to school on a Saturday?” I had her.

“Yeah, Portland Community College?” she said, annoyed.

“OK…I’ll just go and not offend you anymore,” and walked away quickly, shaking my head, laughing inwardly at the awkwardness of the situation. This “breaking the ice” process happens in some form every time. Finding the first homeless person to talk to when I’m interviewing is always a chore. I’m nervous and shy and make goofy mistakes like that. After that, it seems I can spot them better, my intuition reborn.

I did another lap around Pioneer Square, but the girl I had just embarrassed myself with was still there; I couldn’t bear to pass her again. So I turned the other way and approached a young security officer.

“Aren’t there usually a bunch of homeless kids around here?” He eyed me suspiciously until I explained what I was doing. Then he just looked at me like I was crazy - an improvement.

“I haven’t seen any homeless kids around here for a while. You might try the waterfront.” I looked down the street towards the Columbia River that runs through the city. I didn’t realize it was so close.

“Thanks,” I said, and started walking.

I passed a young man sleeping in a doorway in a building across the street from the river, but didn’t see much sense in waking him. I hit the waterfront. It was turning out to be a nice day, the blue sky now commanding the sky, and about 45 degrees.

A young black man rode by on a bike. He smiled, eyes twinkling and said, “good morning” and kept riding. Something told me that he was out-of-doors. I turned and looked at him and saw that he was looking back at me. He turned around and came riding back.

His name was Bob, he said, and he was indeed homeless. He had been that way for several years. When I asked, he said he was 30 years old. My sixth sense must have been in full swing by then because although his eyes were clear and kind, I knew something was amiss. I wasn't getting the full story. I had the feeling that if I asked him for a baggie of heroin he'd have it on him.

That aside, we finished a short but pleasant conversation and he rode off in the same direction I was walking towards a group of people seated on some benches about 100 yards ahead. As I approached, I saw that this was indeed a group of homeless young people. Bob had parked his bike and was talking to another man, but now there was no smile in his eyes as he glared back at me. That look was an invitation to remain silent about any conversation or supposed connection that he and I had. I knew that any intimation that we had spoken would be met with coolness to say the least. I obliged him and approached another young man with tattoo fingers running up out of his shirt towards his left ear. I was just asking him if I could talk to him about his life when he saw some more people approaching.

“I’m working,” he said impatiently and walked off.

It was then that I realized that I was a rather privileged looking character in the middle of a drug store. I mean a real drug store. Bob continued to glare and whisper to an associate, and now the large, burly guy around whom many of the group was gathered was also looking in my direction.

I moseyed off, certain that I was not going to get an interview now, if not beginning to fear for my safety.

I went a few hundred yards off towards Couch Street, adjacent to the infamous Burnside Bridge. A young girl was approaching. She had a backpack and a torn plastic bag around her shoulders. As she neared I could see that her skin was clear, that which was not covered with open sores. Dried blood came from her ear. Her hair was matted. Although her appearance was just this side of shocking, she looked to me to be much younger than she actually turned out to be.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

Another suspicious look (it goes with the territory). I told her what I wanted and she agreed as long as we walked as we talked. She was going to go meet some friends.

Thus began one of the most heartbreaking tales I have ever heard. As you read along, you, like me as I was listening, may begin to tire of the regular excuses. “I can’t find a place to live because they won’t take my cat, too” and “if the rich people spent more on the homeless…” I’ve heard these before many times. But as I listened to Julia’s story, I was touched deeply by the situation into which she had been born and I once again resolved to do something to help people who truly want to get off the streets, off the streets.

I am breaking convention here a little on this interview in three instances. Towards the end, in order to give you a fuller picture of the final interaction between Julia and me, I switched to a narrative rather than a strict transcription. This is something I have not done in the past, but the conversation and what happened is exactly as I describe and I want you to be "there" as much as possible. I doubt I can convey the power of the communication as it hit me, but I'll try. Secondly, instead of only this prologue, I will have comments at the end of the interview as well. Finally, I am publishing this interview only a week or so after the last one instead of waiting a month or so between publishing. I am doing this simply because I feel I should. The few facts she offers at the end, when viewed with an empathetic and thoughtful heart, are compelling - and this is a good time of year to be compelled!

Here is the interview.

What’s your name?
Julia P.

And how old are you, Julia?
I’m 25.

How long have you been on the street?
4 years.

Where are you from?
Originally I’m from Hawaii.

What part of Hawaii?
The big island.

What brought you to the mainland?
My grandmother lived over here. She passed away.

She passed away. I’m sorry to hear that. Was she here in Portland?
Yeah.

Is that where you were staying?
No, she was in a home and my aunt took her to her home and I basically came to help take care of her.

So you came here from Hawaii to take care of your grandmother. And when did she pass away?
About 2 ½ years ago.

And then where did you go?
Friends houses on and off, until I ran out of those. Family’s not an option, I don’t like the shelters…plus I have a cat and they won’t let me stay in the shelters with him so I sleep out on the sidewalk usually.

Where is your cat now?
My boyfriend has him. I’m going to meet him now.

I see. What’s the biggest problem you face right now?
Well, I have no current ID, so that makes it real hard to get a job or food stamps or anything. I need my birth certificate, proof of address which I don’t have…the biggest problem trying to get off the streets is trying to come up with the deposits, the money…and then not only that but I got a “no-cause” eviction on the eleventh month of a twelve month lease (laughs) and, uh, yeah it doesn’t look too great. I had to have a cosigner to get that studio apartment. Usually when I get jobs they’re minimum wage. They don’t cover three times the rent which is what most places take for a deposit, and so basically even if I had the money I have to pay $20 application fees over and over and over again until I’m broke (chuckles). That’s happened a few times, you know what I mean?

Hmm.
Not only that, most of the time they want you to match the rent with a deposit or pay first and last month’s rent…you try to come up with $1000 sleeping on the streets (chuckles), especially if you don’t have any friends or family to help you out.

Why isn’t family an option for you?
Uh…my aunt just doesn’t want anything to do with me. We don’t get along. My parents have been deceased for years.

Both of them passed away?
My grandmother was really the only family that I had.

How did your parents pass away?
They died when I was really young. I basically grew up in foster homes in Hawaii. My dad died when I was 5 and my mom passed away giving birth. She died from that.

That’s tragic. I’m sorry to hear that.
That’s ok. It was a long time ago.

Yeah, sure.
Lots of counseling (chuckles).

Lots of counseling. Has that helped you?
Kind of.

Do you feel like society can help you in some way?
Well, yeah, of course. There are people who are living way beyond their needs…if those select few people got together with more select few people like them, I’m sure they could solve the homeless problem. Not only that we’re spending too much money on that war. That, I mean, if they only spent a third of that money where they need to spend it, which is in the United States (chuckles), there wouldn’t be a homeless problem, know what I mean?

You’ve been homeless for several years, right?
Right.

How big of a problem are drugs on the street?
Drugs are…well, once you get I the cycle of being homeless you get depressed, bored…I mean, there’s nothing else to spend your money on, you’re not going to get into a place any time soon, you know what I mean? I know a lot of people that do a lot of heavy drugs because they don’t want to think about their lives. They pretty much self-medicate for that reason.

I see.
Currently I’ve been trying to stay off drugs. I just got out of jail. They put me in jail because I didn’t pay two Tri-Met tickets. (I was in jail) for a month. It’s a constant struggle for me, though (referring to the drugs).

It’s a constant struggle for you?
Yeah.

I’ve talked to a lot of homeless folks, and drugs are almost always an issue.
I was a meth addict for 5 years; that’s how I lost some of my teeth.

Do you feel like you’re off that?
Yeah. Yeah, I’m done with that.

At this point we were approaching her friends. I noted that they were the same group that I had just left; the drug dealers. She offered to walk back the way from which we had just come so we could finish the interview.

How did you kick your drug habit?
I don’t think anybody really kicks drugs – I think they have to want to quit. You can be put into hundreds of treatment programs, you can have everybody in your family begging you to quit, and if you don’t want to up here (points to her head), you won’t, plain and simple. People could be threatening to put you in jail for six months, and if you’re not ready to quit up here, you’re going to gonna out and do ‘em. That’s the way it is… unfortunately. I mean, if I could have quit every time I wanted to in the past, I would have quit a long time ago, you know what I mean? But I wasn’t ready up there for some reason. Even though I’d say I was, I just wasn’t.

OK. Thanks for your candor.
Sure.

Can we go back to something we already spoke about?
(Nods)

How old were you when your parents passed away?
Uh…my mom passed away when she was giving birth to me and my dad died when I was about five.

Your mom passed away giving birth to you?
Yeah.

And your dad died when you were about five?
Right.

What happened right after that? You went right into foster care in the state?
Yeah, in Hawaii. I was in state custody. I grew up in about fifty different foster homes. I was a blond haired, blue-eyed kid and (chuckles) in a school with five other white kids, you know what I mean? I was a minority. No one was going to adopt me; not only that I was a drug baby…my mom was addicted to heroin when she had me…I don’t know if that had anything to do with her dying…they couldn’t stop the bleeding. And…my dad killed himself five years later.

Was he a drug addict?
(She shrugged and shook her head as if to say she didn’t know). He wrote a suicide note. I got it when I was 18. He said he couldn’t bear to live without my mom. He said that every time he looked at me he saw her, so…

At this point, Julia looked back at me and saw that I had tears in my eyes.

“He hung on for a long time,” she said quietly, “before he just had to end it.”

“Yeah, he did,” was all I could manage, my voice choked.

“That’s ok,” she said as she looked into my eyes, her eyes now red as well, “sometimes I cry too.”

I gave her $5 for breakfast and walked away, emotionally overcome.


CONCLUSION
As I re-read this interview, I am amazed at how quickly tears sprung to Julia’s eyes. I suggest that those tears came because she saw that her story is indeed heartbreaking to someone other than herself – namely me this time. I hope that the fact that someone feels for her and cares for her helped her through her day. Unfortunately, knowing what I know about homeless people in general and from what I saw of Julia, I have my doubts that she was as drug-free as she claimed. The fact that her friends were the dangerous-looking bunch I had already encountered suggest that if she is not using, she may be again soon. It doesn’t necessarily mean she was lying about it, but it might easily be the case this time. The question I have to ask here is, “so what?” I know she was not lying about the most important part of her story, her childhood. Given the emotional weight that was placed on Julia at such a young age, can we blame her completely for making such terrible decisions in her life? That said, are there others in the world with similarly difficult situations that have not done what she has, that are not on drugs and sleeping on the street? Of course there are, and they are an inspiration. But before we judge Julia, let us remember that it’s easy to point fingers from our position. My suggestion is that each of us do as my good-natured brother-in-law does; go through our homes and gather extra blankets or coats and be prepared to give them to someone who looks cold or lonely or both, as nerve-wracking as it may be at first. Be safe while doing so, especially if you are female. The homeless can be a very dangerous bunch, make no mistake, as they labor to serve the master called “drugs”. That notwithstanding, it is my hope that beginning this Christmas season we will all celebrate by beginning or continuing to reach out to those who are less fortunate than us, just as Jesus did, who ministered to the poor and the outcast so effectively and with so much charity.

Your comments are welcome and encouraged.

Eric