Everybody Got They Struggles
The line at St. Ben’s meal program is long tonight, so one of the staff members has me ‘jump the line.’ I don’t like doing this, because I’m inserting myself ahead of lots of cold, hungry people who probably don’t appreciate it. The people wait, wearing every layer they’ve got against the winter cold outside, some carrying bags and bundles, or backpacks. Many don’t their take hats or coats off, even as they sit at the tables. I feel conspicuous in my sweater, without a hat, clearly not homeless.
Just like I do every time I eat at St. Ben’s, I join Samuel in his usual spot near the television. He’s become my regular companion, and a friend. Lately, he’s the only other person I eat a meal with all week long. Samuel smiles when he sees me, reaches across the table and removes his coat from the chair. “I was saving you a place.”
Samuel is articulate, intelligent, with powerful arms from factory work. He’s got a felony record, so regular jobs are hard to come by. He’s also often quick to point out that being a black man with a felony makes things even harder. But he doesn’t complain. He states facts, finds personal solutions, knows how to get help. He points toward the television mounted high on the wall. “Can you believe those fools?”
I turn to watch a repeating film of a car swerving off the road and up onto the sidewalk, hitting a pedestrian. “What happened?” I ask.
“The driver lost control during a police chase. The woman is in the hospital.”
Murmurs up and down the table. The men around us keep their voices down, but I catch enough to know they’re sharing opinions as to whether police chases are exciting to watch or causing trouble. Samuel just shakes his head, makes no comment, so I don’t know who he thinks are ‘fools.’
I’m just biting into some potatoes au gratin with huge chunks of ham when a fellow towers over the chair beside me. “Anybody usin’ this seat?” he asks me.
“You are,” I tell him. “Sit down.” I smile, and go on eating while he settles in. This takes some time. He has to shove a couple of overstuffed grocery bags under the table, and wrangle himself out of a ripped up coat, at least two sizes too big for his wiry frame.
Once this is all taken care of, I notice he’s sitting very still, his hands cradling the sides of the tray, considering the food mounded there. His mouth curves into an expression of bliss. Glancing around the crowded room, filled with tables of people eating, he sighs. “This is real nice.” He turns to me, eyes kind as he extends a hand. “I’m Kenneth.”
I shake hands. “I’m Jonnie.”
“Jonnie?” A puzzled expression I’m used to seeing crosses his face. People usually think they’ve misheard me when I introduce myself.
“Kind of like Johnny Cash. Jonnie.”
“I ain’t never heard of a woman named Jonnie, but that’s awright.” Freckles dot his light brown skin. There are scars around his eyes, tiny white marks. I figure it’s from needles, but what do I know?
“Man, I’m glad I saw y’all linin’ up outside tonight. I didn’t know where I was gonna get to eat. I saw that line, and I knew that was where the food would be.” He asks Samuel, “You been comin’ here long?”
Samuel nods.
“They got food here every night?”
“Every night.” Samuel says.
“But they just announced that they won’t be here on the Friday after Thanksgiving,” I add.
Samuel gives me a sage look. “Somebody will be here, passing out food outside.”
Kenneth starts eating. “I heard you can get breakfast here, too.”
“That’s a different program,” Samuel says. He launches into an explanation of which group serves and when. Even mentions some other free meal sites. I admire his knowledge of how to survive on the streets, and his willingness to help others do the same.
Kenneth says, “I like this place. I’ma start comin’ here.” He takes another bite. “I’m so glad I saw y’all. They just let me out at five o’clock.” He points to the west; the Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility is across the street in that direction. By all accounts of people who’ve been inside, it’s a notoriously harsh county jail, overcrowded and overpopulated by black men.
“They sent you out without any resources?” I ask.
Kenneth digs around inside a rip in the lining of his coat, a deliberate ragged tear that forms a hidden pocket, his hand burrowing deep along the hem, and produces a bus voucher. “They give me this. I gotta come back in the mornin’ for a hearing. Man, I’m lookin’ at ten years. I’m fifty-seven years old. I can’t do no ten years.” He unfolds a sheet of paper with a colored letterhead across the top. “These people say they gonna help me.” He passes it to Samuel.
Samuel reads the letter. It doesn’t take long. His clear brown eyes bore into me, then he looks away, lips drawn into a thin line, shaking his head. When he shares his thoughts, sometimes I learn that he feels angry, or disgusted by the same old same old, because the system is rigged, but other times, he’s thinking another black man has done some fool thing. How he can tell the difference is beyond me. He reads people like I read the newspaper. He’s been locked up in that same Safety Building himself. He knows the score. We both know that an impoverished man with a criminal charge can wait a long time for any legal resources. And while he waits, his life gets more messed up.
I never ask why someone’s been locked up. I don’t think I need to know. Half the time, the guests at St. Ben’s tell me flat out, like I’m the corner bartender, lending a friendly ear. Half the time they tell me it’s trumped up charges, and sometimes I believe them. Statistics bear them out. It doesn’t take much to violate probation.
I ask Kenneth, “Where are you staying tonight?” I don’t know what I would be able to suggest at this point, but I’m concerned. He doesn’t seem to know the system.
Kenneth asks for coffee as a server passes by. “Thank you. Thank you kindly,” he says to the woman who fills his cup. “I’ma stay with my sister up by 34th and Vliet. She okay with me stayin’ there for a few days. You know any places to get a shelter?” I watch as he carefully stuffs the voucher deep into the lining of his coat. He folds the official looking paper and presses it safely down as well.
Samuel says, “Trevor can tell you.” He scans the room, spots Trevor. “See that guy over there in the brown plaid shirt? He’ll give you a booklet with all the places you need to know about.”
The three of us talk a while. I am no longer surprised by how quickly the conversation turns to big issues of the day. Sometimes politics, or global warming, or gentrification, but this time it was another familiar topic.
Kenneth says, “Man, you see where that woman got three and a half years for killin’ a little baby? Can you believe that? Three and a half years. For murder? She black, too.” He points his plastic fork at Samuel to emphasize the fact. “And here I am, lookin’ at ten. I ain’t murdered nobody.”
I haven’t mentioned yet that this entire time, ever since he sat elbow to elbow with me, Kenneth has been smiling. A rueful smile, bittersweet, as though life just doesn’t make a lick of sense. But a grateful smile, too, as though life, for the moment, is better.
As we polish off our meals, Kenneth says, “I’ma go talk to that guy about that book you tol’ me about.”
“I’ll stay here. I’ll watch your stuff for you,” I tell him.
“Thank you. Don’t let nobody touch it.” He leaves it all with me. Everything. His bags, his coat, his voucher, his papers.
“It’ll be right here,” I say, but he’s already walking away.
Kenneth lopes off in Trevor’s direction. I look at Samuel, feeling a little like a parent when the kid leaves the room.
“He’ll be all right,” Samuel assures me. “He’s got Legal Aid. They’ll help him.”
Samuel and I are the same age, almost to the month. He just turned sixty-two, which means he can start collecting Social Security. This, plus his full time work in a temp agency and his sheer will power is what has gotten him off the street and into an apartment on the south side. His social worker found him a bed, pots and pans, kitchen stuff. I gave him a good blanket and some towels. He doesn’t have a stove yet, but he’s got a microwave. He passed on the fridge they offered him, telling me, “I didn’t need such a big fridge. Let a family use that one. I can use my back balcony to keep stuff cold until a smaller one comes along.”
I swallow water from my little red plastic tumbler. I grab the pitcher, fill my cup again. “He wouldn’t get out until he’s sixty-seven. That’s a hard life.”
Samuel seems sure Kenneth won’t do much time. I don’t ask how he knows this.
When Kenneth returns, he checks under the table for his stuff, smiles. Sitting again in his chair, he waves the little bound book the Capuchins have put together at us. “They got all kind of information up in here.”
“Best thing you can do is call 211 and get your name on a list. Get yourself a social worker,” Samuel advises. “You got a phone?”
Kenneth shakes his head.
“You go over to that table there and sign up for a government phone,” Samuel says. “Cost you twenty-five dollars.”
“I’ll do that.” Smile brighter than before, Kenneth asks me, “You come here a lot?”
“I come to St. Ben’s at least once a week. I like to eat with my friend Samuel here, and to meet people like you.”
“Sometimes she disappears for a while, though.” Samuel pulls a stern face. “She got her own stuff, just like anybody.”
I’m taken aback by this. I haven’t told Samuel about my reasons for being at St. Ben’s, or why I disappeared for a couple months – not the real ones, not yet. There have been at least a dozen times when I’ve started to, but the conversation doesn’t need to be about me. I decide that when the time seems right, I’ll buy him lunch somewhere and tell him my story. The whole truth.
“Everybody got they struggles,” Kenneth agrees. He reaches out to shake my hand, “I’m Kenneth,” he says again. “Glad I met you.”
“And I’m Jonnie,” I remind him.
“Jonnie, yeah. I’m gon’ remember you.”
Just like I do every time I eat at St. Ben’s, I join Samuel in his usual spot near the television. He’s become my regular companion, and a friend. Lately, he’s the only other person I eat a meal with all week long. Samuel smiles when he sees me, reaches across the table and removes his coat from the chair. “I was saving you a place.”
Samuel is articulate, intelligent, with powerful arms from factory work. He’s got a felony record, so regular jobs are hard to come by. He’s also often quick to point out that being a black man with a felony makes things even harder. But he doesn’t complain. He states facts, finds personal solutions, knows how to get help. He points toward the television mounted high on the wall. “Can you believe those fools?”
I turn to watch a repeating film of a car swerving off the road and up onto the sidewalk, hitting a pedestrian. “What happened?” I ask.
“The driver lost control during a police chase. The woman is in the hospital.”
Murmurs up and down the table. The men around us keep their voices down, but I catch enough to know they’re sharing opinions as to whether police chases are exciting to watch or causing trouble. Samuel just shakes his head, makes no comment, so I don’t know who he thinks are ‘fools.’
I’m just biting into some potatoes au gratin with huge chunks of ham when a fellow towers over the chair beside me. “Anybody usin’ this seat?” he asks me.
“You are,” I tell him. “Sit down.” I smile, and go on eating while he settles in. This takes some time. He has to shove a couple of overstuffed grocery bags under the table, and wrangle himself out of a ripped up coat, at least two sizes too big for his wiry frame.
Once this is all taken care of, I notice he’s sitting very still, his hands cradling the sides of the tray, considering the food mounded there. His mouth curves into an expression of bliss. Glancing around the crowded room, filled with tables of people eating, he sighs. “This is real nice.” He turns to me, eyes kind as he extends a hand. “I’m Kenneth.”
I shake hands. “I’m Jonnie.”
“Jonnie?” A puzzled expression I’m used to seeing crosses his face. People usually think they’ve misheard me when I introduce myself.
“Kind of like Johnny Cash. Jonnie.”
“I ain’t never heard of a woman named Jonnie, but that’s awright.” Freckles dot his light brown skin. There are scars around his eyes, tiny white marks. I figure it’s from needles, but what do I know?
“Man, I’m glad I saw y’all linin’ up outside tonight. I didn’t know where I was gonna get to eat. I saw that line, and I knew that was where the food would be.” He asks Samuel, “You been comin’ here long?”
Samuel nods.
“They got food here every night?”
“Every night.” Samuel says.
“But they just announced that they won’t be here on the Friday after Thanksgiving,” I add.
Samuel gives me a sage look. “Somebody will be here, passing out food outside.”
Kenneth starts eating. “I heard you can get breakfast here, too.”
“That’s a different program,” Samuel says. He launches into an explanation of which group serves and when. Even mentions some other free meal sites. I admire his knowledge of how to survive on the streets, and his willingness to help others do the same.
Kenneth says, “I like this place. I’ma start comin’ here.” He takes another bite. “I’m so glad I saw y’all. They just let me out at five o’clock.” He points to the west; the Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility is across the street in that direction. By all accounts of people who’ve been inside, it’s a notoriously harsh county jail, overcrowded and overpopulated by black men.
“They sent you out without any resources?” I ask.
Kenneth digs around inside a rip in the lining of his coat, a deliberate ragged tear that forms a hidden pocket, his hand burrowing deep along the hem, and produces a bus voucher. “They give me this. I gotta come back in the mornin’ for a hearing. Man, I’m lookin’ at ten years. I’m fifty-seven years old. I can’t do no ten years.” He unfolds a sheet of paper with a colored letterhead across the top. “These people say they gonna help me.” He passes it to Samuel.
Samuel reads the letter. It doesn’t take long. His clear brown eyes bore into me, then he looks away, lips drawn into a thin line, shaking his head. When he shares his thoughts, sometimes I learn that he feels angry, or disgusted by the same old same old, because the system is rigged, but other times, he’s thinking another black man has done some fool thing. How he can tell the difference is beyond me. He reads people like I read the newspaper. He’s been locked up in that same Safety Building himself. He knows the score. We both know that an impoverished man with a criminal charge can wait a long time for any legal resources. And while he waits, his life gets more messed up.
I never ask why someone’s been locked up. I don’t think I need to know. Half the time, the guests at St. Ben’s tell me flat out, like I’m the corner bartender, lending a friendly ear. Half the time they tell me it’s trumped up charges, and sometimes I believe them. Statistics bear them out. It doesn’t take much to violate probation.
I ask Kenneth, “Where are you staying tonight?” I don’t know what I would be able to suggest at this point, but I’m concerned. He doesn’t seem to know the system.
Kenneth asks for coffee as a server passes by. “Thank you. Thank you kindly,” he says to the woman who fills his cup. “I’ma stay with my sister up by 34th and Vliet. She okay with me stayin’ there for a few days. You know any places to get a shelter?” I watch as he carefully stuffs the voucher deep into the lining of his coat. He folds the official looking paper and presses it safely down as well.
Samuel says, “Trevor can tell you.” He scans the room, spots Trevor. “See that guy over there in the brown plaid shirt? He’ll give you a booklet with all the places you need to know about.”
The three of us talk a while. I am no longer surprised by how quickly the conversation turns to big issues of the day. Sometimes politics, or global warming, or gentrification, but this time it was another familiar topic.
Kenneth says, “Man, you see where that woman got three and a half years for killin’ a little baby? Can you believe that? Three and a half years. For murder? She black, too.” He points his plastic fork at Samuel to emphasize the fact. “And here I am, lookin’ at ten. I ain’t murdered nobody.”
I haven’t mentioned yet that this entire time, ever since he sat elbow to elbow with me, Kenneth has been smiling. A rueful smile, bittersweet, as though life just doesn’t make a lick of sense. But a grateful smile, too, as though life, for the moment, is better.
As we polish off our meals, Kenneth says, “I’ma go talk to that guy about that book you tol’ me about.”
“I’ll stay here. I’ll watch your stuff for you,” I tell him.
“Thank you. Don’t let nobody touch it.” He leaves it all with me. Everything. His bags, his coat, his voucher, his papers.
“It’ll be right here,” I say, but he’s already walking away.
Kenneth lopes off in Trevor’s direction. I look at Samuel, feeling a little like a parent when the kid leaves the room.
“He’ll be all right,” Samuel assures me. “He’s got Legal Aid. They’ll help him.”
Samuel and I are the same age, almost to the month. He just turned sixty-two, which means he can start collecting Social Security. This, plus his full time work in a temp agency and his sheer will power is what has gotten him off the street and into an apartment on the south side. His social worker found him a bed, pots and pans, kitchen stuff. I gave him a good blanket and some towels. He doesn’t have a stove yet, but he’s got a microwave. He passed on the fridge they offered him, telling me, “I didn’t need such a big fridge. Let a family use that one. I can use my back balcony to keep stuff cold until a smaller one comes along.”
I swallow water from my little red plastic tumbler. I grab the pitcher, fill my cup again. “He wouldn’t get out until he’s sixty-seven. That’s a hard life.”
Samuel seems sure Kenneth won’t do much time. I don’t ask how he knows this.
When Kenneth returns, he checks under the table for his stuff, smiles. Sitting again in his chair, he waves the little bound book the Capuchins have put together at us. “They got all kind of information up in here.”
“Best thing you can do is call 211 and get your name on a list. Get yourself a social worker,” Samuel advises. “You got a phone?”
Kenneth shakes his head.
“You go over to that table there and sign up for a government phone,” Samuel says. “Cost you twenty-five dollars.”
“I’ll do that.” Smile brighter than before, Kenneth asks me, “You come here a lot?”
“I come to St. Ben’s at least once a week. I like to eat with my friend Samuel here, and to meet people like you.”
“Sometimes she disappears for a while, though.” Samuel pulls a stern face. “She got her own stuff, just like anybody.”
I’m taken aback by this. I haven’t told Samuel about my reasons for being at St. Ben’s, or why I disappeared for a couple months – not the real ones, not yet. There have been at least a dozen times when I’ve started to, but the conversation doesn’t need to be about me. I decide that when the time seems right, I’ll buy him lunch somewhere and tell him my story. The whole truth.
“Everybody got they struggles,” Kenneth agrees. He reaches out to shake my hand, “I’m Kenneth,” he says again. “Glad I met you.”
“And I’m Jonnie,” I remind him.
“Jonnie, yeah. I’m gon’ remember you.”
