Of Sloppy Joes and the DNC
It’s sloppy joe night at St. Ben’s. I get a few kids settled in with their families, lifting tired but perky little ones into high chairs, tickling the babies, telling their mothers how cute they are, silently noting their matted hair, or the purple bags from lack of sleep under their eyes. For the moment, the children are content. A baby girl waves a cucumber slice in my direction, offering me a bite. I pretend to gobble it, and she giggles.
I’ll admit, I am not a fan of sloppy joes, but I eat what’s offered, just like everyone else. When there’s a break in the line, I stand behind a tall fellow I’ve seen many times. A distinctive face, almost chiseled, with a long nose, high cheek bones, and bright, mischievous eyes. Long hair pulled back into a ponytail, his dark goatee and eyebrows are streaked with gray in a devilishly handsome sort of way. Picture the face of the actors who play valiant knights in swashbucklers. Or maybe a dashing rogue. That’s him. Just a little more worn down.
He’s loud, laughing, jarring the nervous volunteers. Churches send different members when it’s their turn to serve. Some are real pros, experienced and confident, but others may have never been up this close and personal to a homeless person, much less a few hundred of them. Their confusion and jitters are clear to me as I go through the line.
“Hey! I don’t want any sloppy joes, now,” Swashbuckler announces in a hearty voice, eyes twinkling. He holds out his tray as one woman arranges an open hamburger bun just so, as requested. He inches in a tad closer to the next server as she begins to spoon the saucy mixture over the bread. “Careful with that,” he tells her. “I don’t want anything dripping over the edges. Keep it neat.” He winks at me.
The woman does as she’s told, gently ladling small amounts until the meat reaches the edge of the bun, and no further. I’m wondering what’s going on in her mind. Maybe she’s been told about unpredictable volatility, about exercising caution and a respectful demeanor. Or perhaps she can’t yet see that, like anyone, the people in the line at the St. Ben’s meal program can be in a good mood sometimes without being high or mentally ill.
I burst out laughing, and Swashbuckler joins me. “Make mine a neat joe, too,” I tease. “I don’t want a sloppy joe either.”
Swashbuckler elbows me, tilts his head toward the next stop on the food line. “Oh no! Cheese! You know how sloppy that can be.”
I lean toward the fellow in charge of sprinkling shredded cheddar over the entrée. “Take your time with that, sir. My friend is very particular about his food being neat.”
This sends Swashbuckler into a fit of manly chuckling. He sizes me up, nods. Leaning over the table, he addresses the servers up and down the line. “Thank you all for being here tonight. I sincerely thank you. And I hope you know I was just having fun.” When we get to the end of the line, he lurches off on his long legs, calls out a greeting to friends, and settles in at the only empty spot at a nearby table, so I wander, seeking my own place.
I join a group of men I’ve met before. One is the fellow who looks like a Chicago blues musician, dark shades, fedora, and broad lapels. He carries an ebony walking stick, intricately carved with African designs that he calls his “sticker and licker.” Even his limp has morphed into the cool, hip stride of a black man with talent. Across the table sits a light skinned man who spends his days reading at Central Library. And on my left, in shiny yellow-green shades that hide his eyes, a fellow with most of his lower teeth missing.
As I settle in, I gesture toward the hip dude. “I like to talk to him. I think he looks like a Chicago blues musician.” The men smile and one says, “You do got that vibe, man.”
Mr. Chicago Blues glances over at me and asks, “You a teacher?”
I’m amazed by how often I get asked this question. I nod. “Retired. How did you know that? Everybody here seems to know that when they see me. Do I have the word teacher tattooed across my forehead?” I trace a finger over the area.
“I can just tell,” he says. “You got that way about you. I was a good student in school, got real good grades and all. I like teachers, not like some of those fools.”
I dig into my sloppy joe. Nope. Still not a fan. “What was your favorite subject?”
“History and math,” he says. “I love history. And I love math.”
I make a face to show I’m impressed. “What do you do now?”
“Nothin’.”
We all break into laughter. I say, “I did that for a while – nothing. It was nice until I ran out of money. Then I had to go back to work.”
“I read a lot of history,” the light skinned man says. “You got to know your history, or you’re ignorant. Too many people are ignorant.”
Mr. Chicago Blues doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. You can glean his meaning by the way he hums. He makes his opinion known without losing an ounce of cool.
The man in the yellow-green shades goes into a rambling trail of ideas. I struggle to follow. I can’t make sense of the first couple of threads – details about the cosmos and chemistry, the relationship between astrological signs and whether or not buses arrive on schedule. That sort of thing. Finally he lands on something I can track, sort of.
“I have three names: Stephen Beauchamp Foster.” He traces three lines with his index finger on the table as he says each name, like he’s pointing to a document. “All three slave names. I come from slavery. I can’t get away from it. Sometimes I make words out of my name, take the letters and make up words. It’s the only thing I can do.”
“Hmmmm.” Mr. Chicago Blues agrees, as if this makes perfect sense. I’m thinking: Stephen Foster?
The light skinned man, says, apropos of nothing, “What’s gonna happen when all the Democrats show up? You think Milwaukee can handle that?”
A clamor arises up and down both sides of the table. Suddenly, more voices join conversation, offering a point of view I haven’t heard around town. All the news sources are reporting that hosting the Democratic National Convention will be a wonderful thing for the city, bringing in major revenue, and a shot of well-deserved attention to a Midwestern city that has more to offer than many people from other states think. But these men around me have a different take.
A man further down the table leans in to address me. “You know where I stay? Right up in Cathedral Square. They gonna leave us alone up there?” That particular park is just under a mile away from the site where the convention will be held, and very near some of the more upscale hotels.
“Me,” the light skinned man across from me says, “I stay up under the freeway sometimes. They ain’t gonna want none of that with all them tourists.”
A clatter of ideas pop, and voices chime in.
“And Hillary Clinton!”
“Barack Obama, dude.”
A burst of high fiving goes around, smiles and nods. The mood is suddenly bright.
“Bernie Sanders, what about him? He’s a socialist.”
Mr. Chicago Blues hums in the affirmative after each name.
The man in the yellow-green sunglasses says, “There’s a black guy runnin’. What’s his name?”
“Corey Booker,” I reply.
“And there’s a black woman, too.” A man snaps his fingers a few times, tries to come up with her name.” A different man supplies it: Kamala Harris.
A chorus of loud comments follows that. A guy down the table wags his head and declares, “You know this country ain’t ready for no black woman president!”
“Look here, look here,” a man a few seats away says with authority, getting back to the subject. “The police won’t tolerate none of us sleeping nowhere. Not by the courthouse, not by the library, not in the bus stops. Don’t matter what color the candidates are.” He slaps the table.
And then I realize they are all focused on me, as if I have an answer. The white lady who looks like a social worker. Or a teacher.
I don’t know what to say. I feel a little stupid for not thinking of this on my own – the effect of a national convention on the homeless. Like most of my fellow citizens, I’ve been caught up in the excitement, in the possibilities, in what Wisconsin suddenly means on the political landscape.
I cast about for some answer that would make sense to these men, even as I’m inwardly making a note to talk to Brother Rob about the issue. Where will the homeless people be hidden as the city makes a good impression on the world? What will we do about the ever-expanding tent city under the freeway?
“A few years ago,” I begin, “I was at a retreat in Chicago on the weekend of St. Patrick’s Day. I walked the whole length of downtown on Michigan from the north end south to Wacker, and only saw two homeless people on the street. You know how there’s usually so many people all along the street asking for money?”
Humming from Mr. Chicago Blues indicates he knows what I’m talking about.
I go on. “Finally, I came upon a man standing on a corner selling newspapers – he looked like he was living on the streets himself. I asked him where all the homeless people were. He told me that the police cleared them all out for the weekend because they have a big parade downtown-”
Someone interrupted. “Yeah, they dye the river green.”
“Aw, snap! That’s some weird shit right there.” The man glances at me. “Excuse my French.” People aren’t supposed to swear at the meal program. I wave a hand to let him know it didn’t bother me.
Mr. Chicago Blues says, “People gonna do what people gonna do. Even if it makes no sense.”
The man with few teeth peers at me through his yellow-green shades. I can’t see his eyes. “Where they all go?”
I shrug. “Wherever they can. The man selling newspapers said if they don’t have transit fare, they have to walk out of downtown, or they get locked up. I don’t think there are any shelters outside of downtown Chicago.”
Things go quiet up and down the table now. The Democratic National Convention hits town in 2020.
I’ll admit, I am not a fan of sloppy joes, but I eat what’s offered, just like everyone else. When there’s a break in the line, I stand behind a tall fellow I’ve seen many times. A distinctive face, almost chiseled, with a long nose, high cheek bones, and bright, mischievous eyes. Long hair pulled back into a ponytail, his dark goatee and eyebrows are streaked with gray in a devilishly handsome sort of way. Picture the face of the actors who play valiant knights in swashbucklers. Or maybe a dashing rogue. That’s him. Just a little more worn down.
He’s loud, laughing, jarring the nervous volunteers. Churches send different members when it’s their turn to serve. Some are real pros, experienced and confident, but others may have never been up this close and personal to a homeless person, much less a few hundred of them. Their confusion and jitters are clear to me as I go through the line.
“Hey! I don’t want any sloppy joes, now,” Swashbuckler announces in a hearty voice, eyes twinkling. He holds out his tray as one woman arranges an open hamburger bun just so, as requested. He inches in a tad closer to the next server as she begins to spoon the saucy mixture over the bread. “Careful with that,” he tells her. “I don’t want anything dripping over the edges. Keep it neat.” He winks at me.
The woman does as she’s told, gently ladling small amounts until the meat reaches the edge of the bun, and no further. I’m wondering what’s going on in her mind. Maybe she’s been told about unpredictable volatility, about exercising caution and a respectful demeanor. Or perhaps she can’t yet see that, like anyone, the people in the line at the St. Ben’s meal program can be in a good mood sometimes without being high or mentally ill.
I burst out laughing, and Swashbuckler joins me. “Make mine a neat joe, too,” I tease. “I don’t want a sloppy joe either.”
Swashbuckler elbows me, tilts his head toward the next stop on the food line. “Oh no! Cheese! You know how sloppy that can be.”
I lean toward the fellow in charge of sprinkling shredded cheddar over the entrée. “Take your time with that, sir. My friend is very particular about his food being neat.”
This sends Swashbuckler into a fit of manly chuckling. He sizes me up, nods. Leaning over the table, he addresses the servers up and down the line. “Thank you all for being here tonight. I sincerely thank you. And I hope you know I was just having fun.” When we get to the end of the line, he lurches off on his long legs, calls out a greeting to friends, and settles in at the only empty spot at a nearby table, so I wander, seeking my own place.
I join a group of men I’ve met before. One is the fellow who looks like a Chicago blues musician, dark shades, fedora, and broad lapels. He carries an ebony walking stick, intricately carved with African designs that he calls his “sticker and licker.” Even his limp has morphed into the cool, hip stride of a black man with talent. Across the table sits a light skinned man who spends his days reading at Central Library. And on my left, in shiny yellow-green shades that hide his eyes, a fellow with most of his lower teeth missing.
As I settle in, I gesture toward the hip dude. “I like to talk to him. I think he looks like a Chicago blues musician.” The men smile and one says, “You do got that vibe, man.”
Mr. Chicago Blues glances over at me and asks, “You a teacher?”
I’m amazed by how often I get asked this question. I nod. “Retired. How did you know that? Everybody here seems to know that when they see me. Do I have the word teacher tattooed across my forehead?” I trace a finger over the area.
“I can just tell,” he says. “You got that way about you. I was a good student in school, got real good grades and all. I like teachers, not like some of those fools.”
I dig into my sloppy joe. Nope. Still not a fan. “What was your favorite subject?”
“History and math,” he says. “I love history. And I love math.”
I make a face to show I’m impressed. “What do you do now?”
“Nothin’.”
We all break into laughter. I say, “I did that for a while – nothing. It was nice until I ran out of money. Then I had to go back to work.”
“I read a lot of history,” the light skinned man says. “You got to know your history, or you’re ignorant. Too many people are ignorant.”
Mr. Chicago Blues doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. You can glean his meaning by the way he hums. He makes his opinion known without losing an ounce of cool.
The man in the yellow-green shades goes into a rambling trail of ideas. I struggle to follow. I can’t make sense of the first couple of threads – details about the cosmos and chemistry, the relationship between astrological signs and whether or not buses arrive on schedule. That sort of thing. Finally he lands on something I can track, sort of.
“I have three names: Stephen Beauchamp Foster.” He traces three lines with his index finger on the table as he says each name, like he’s pointing to a document. “All three slave names. I come from slavery. I can’t get away from it. Sometimes I make words out of my name, take the letters and make up words. It’s the only thing I can do.”
“Hmmmm.” Mr. Chicago Blues agrees, as if this makes perfect sense. I’m thinking: Stephen Foster?
The light skinned man, says, apropos of nothing, “What’s gonna happen when all the Democrats show up? You think Milwaukee can handle that?”
A clamor arises up and down both sides of the table. Suddenly, more voices join conversation, offering a point of view I haven’t heard around town. All the news sources are reporting that hosting the Democratic National Convention will be a wonderful thing for the city, bringing in major revenue, and a shot of well-deserved attention to a Midwestern city that has more to offer than many people from other states think. But these men around me have a different take.
A man further down the table leans in to address me. “You know where I stay? Right up in Cathedral Square. They gonna leave us alone up there?” That particular park is just under a mile away from the site where the convention will be held, and very near some of the more upscale hotels.
“Me,” the light skinned man across from me says, “I stay up under the freeway sometimes. They ain’t gonna want none of that with all them tourists.”
A clatter of ideas pop, and voices chime in.
“And Hillary Clinton!”
“Barack Obama, dude.”
A burst of high fiving goes around, smiles and nods. The mood is suddenly bright.
“Bernie Sanders, what about him? He’s a socialist.”
Mr. Chicago Blues hums in the affirmative after each name.
The man in the yellow-green sunglasses says, “There’s a black guy runnin’. What’s his name?”
“Corey Booker,” I reply.
“And there’s a black woman, too.” A man snaps his fingers a few times, tries to come up with her name.” A different man supplies it: Kamala Harris.
A chorus of loud comments follows that. A guy down the table wags his head and declares, “You know this country ain’t ready for no black woman president!”
“Look here, look here,” a man a few seats away says with authority, getting back to the subject. “The police won’t tolerate none of us sleeping nowhere. Not by the courthouse, not by the library, not in the bus stops. Don’t matter what color the candidates are.” He slaps the table.
And then I realize they are all focused on me, as if I have an answer. The white lady who looks like a social worker. Or a teacher.
I don’t know what to say. I feel a little stupid for not thinking of this on my own – the effect of a national convention on the homeless. Like most of my fellow citizens, I’ve been caught up in the excitement, in the possibilities, in what Wisconsin suddenly means on the political landscape.
I cast about for some answer that would make sense to these men, even as I’m inwardly making a note to talk to Brother Rob about the issue. Where will the homeless people be hidden as the city makes a good impression on the world? What will we do about the ever-expanding tent city under the freeway?
“A few years ago,” I begin, “I was at a retreat in Chicago on the weekend of St. Patrick’s Day. I walked the whole length of downtown on Michigan from the north end south to Wacker, and only saw two homeless people on the street. You know how there’s usually so many people all along the street asking for money?”
Humming from Mr. Chicago Blues indicates he knows what I’m talking about.
I go on. “Finally, I came upon a man standing on a corner selling newspapers – he looked like he was living on the streets himself. I asked him where all the homeless people were. He told me that the police cleared them all out for the weekend because they have a big parade downtown-”
Someone interrupted. “Yeah, they dye the river green.”
“Aw, snap! That’s some weird shit right there.” The man glances at me. “Excuse my French.” People aren’t supposed to swear at the meal program. I wave a hand to let him know it didn’t bother me.
Mr. Chicago Blues says, “People gonna do what people gonna do. Even if it makes no sense.”
The man with few teeth peers at me through his yellow-green shades. I can’t see his eyes. “Where they all go?”
I shrug. “Wherever they can. The man selling newspapers said if they don’t have transit fare, they have to walk out of downtown, or they get locked up. I don’t think there are any shelters outside of downtown Chicago.”
Things go quiet up and down the table now. The Democratic National Convention hits town in 2020.
