So This is Christmas
On Tuesdays, Linda, a social worker, holds self-help meetings for the guests at St. Ben’s. This week about forty people sit at the tables, one woman, and the rest are all men. The meeting is well underway by the time I arrive, so I stand to the side and listen, leaning against a freezer.
I spot Samuel seated among the guests with his back to me, do rag tight to his head, listening intently. He scans the room in a subtle manner, alert and sharp and I suddenly see how it must have been for him in prison. Reading the room is a strong skill, one that no doubt increases your chances behind bars, or when you’re living on the street. Soon his eyes meet mine and we acknowledge each other.
“So, you don’t have to be feeling bad if you aren’t getting any presents this year,” Linda is saying, and my ears perk up, because I’m not expecting any. “Some of you don’t have any family-”
“Or your family don’t want nothin’ to do with you,” a man calls out. I find myself nodding along with many people in the group. I know what he means. In fact, I know exactly how this feels. I am estranged from my own children, divorced, both parents deceased, no siblings. Like so many of the homeless people I meet, I have no family surrounding me. Holidays can be painful, knowing the people who used to be my family are gathering without me.
Linda turns to the man. “That’s true. There are plenty of people who will be alone on Christmas. That’s why you need to be thinking outside of yourself right now. Instead of dwelling on how you’re not getting any gifts – because that’s a put down, you’re putting yourself down- what else can you do?”
“Do something good for somebody else,” a man slumped in a chair near me says softly. Linda doesn’t hear this. She’s responding to other suggestions, so I say to him, “That’s a good idea.” His hoodie hides his face until he looks my way and gives me a shy smile.
I encourage him to tell Linda. He lowers his eyes, clasps his hands on the table. I notice Linda glancing around the group until her eyes land on me. I gesture at the man and tell her, “This gentleman has something to say.”
“Yes, sir?” Linda says to him.
He raises his voice slightly. “Do something good for somebody else.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Thank you.” Linda is good with the people. She maintains a sensitivity to the harshness of their lives, acknowledges it even, while steering them toward self-reflection.
I hope I haven’t put the fellow near me on the spot. I step closer and tell him, “Sorry, that’s the teacher in me. Once a teacher, always a teacher.” He laughs full out.
Linda is still addressing the group, and I tune back in. “The best way to pull yourself up out of feeling sad and lonely, or from feeling isolated and left out, is to think of others, to do something for someone else, even in a small way.”
“Always somebody worse off than you,” someone says, and tears sting my eyes. With all my might, I will them to stay put as I listen to the group agreeing with this statement. A hum of amens, true thats and mmmhmms ripples through the group, through me. Most of these people are homeless, and still they believe there are others whose struggles are harsher.
“You need to remember that Christmas is just one day.” Linda concludes. “You can find a positive strategy and use it to make it through that day.” Which is pretty much what my therapist just said to me.
While I am taking this in for all it’s worth, Linda announces that they’re running late and it’s time for the raffle. Tickets come out of pockets and an air of friendly competition stirs among the people.
By default, the only woman wins the first backpack. I figure they must have different bags for men and women. Then numbers are called. I’m pleased that the man who laughed at my once a teacher, always a teacher comment wins. Linda hands him a blue nylon backpack, stuffed until it stretches tight. The next name called is “Sargent Gray,” Samuel’s street name. He accepts the prize. Linda raffles off perhaps ten backpacks. I don’t count. I watch the lucky winners peer inside and rummage through the contents. One man holds out a tube of toothpaste. “Anybody need this? They gave me some at the shelter.” The tube is slipped into someone else’s pocket.
A signal from the back of the room indicates dinner is ready, and a respectful silence fills the room as the brief prayer is said. Then, the scraping of chairs and the scurrying of people as everyone from the meeting takes advantage of the chance to be at the front of the food line, ahead of the people standing in the cold outside. Samuel once told me that people come early on Tuesdays just to get out of the heat or the cold. He feels that since they’re inside, they need to take advantage of the discussions. To talk through the issues they face with Linda, who knows her stuff, in his opinion. And in my opinion, too.
Samuel doesn’t waste any time getting to the front, so it takes a while for me to catch up with him at our usual spot. He looks gaunt, tired. Night shifts, plus a long commute on the agency bus might be taking a toll. He pays full price for his rent - $475- heat not included, plus $8 a day for transit. Even with the pay differential for working nights, I’m guessing he’s stretched pretty thin.
When I check his tray, my concern deepens. Instead of the usual smorgasbord, he has only salad, jello and some bread. No dessert. “Are you feeling all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, I just don’t feel like eating much.”
I taste the heavy scoop of multicolored rice something-or-other on my tray, only to discover that it’s a spicy shrimp gumbo. Samuel barely touches his food. I say a silent prayer is that he’s not sick, or using any drugs that might destroy his appetite. He just got into his new apartment last month. I chalk it up to worries about getting by.
I discover that he still doesn’t have a stove or a fridge, and I don’t ask about a bed. I turn the conversation to Linda’s group. “I wish I could come more often on Tuesdays,” I tell him. “She’s really good.”
Samuel gives me eye contact, a satisfied expression. He’s invited me to come on Tuesdays for the group several times. He keeps one eye on the news coming from the big screen mounted high on the wall behind me. In terms of local news, he knows more than I do. I tell him about the podcasts I listen to on NPR.
We’re talking about a podcast I just heard on the history of slavery and indentured servants when a man sits beside me. I say hello. He gives me a nearly toothless smile. Before long is becomes clear that he is eavesdropping on us – or earbuzzing, as some of the guests say - because he sets his fork down with determination. Leaning back, he launches into a soliloquy. I can think of no other word for it, since he goes on at length with a certainty that is generally reserved for prophets and Shakespearean characters.
“Now you all know what this here is? This here is beautiful. I’m lookin’ at you two, listening to you, and I can see how it is. You two are a match made in heaven, that’s what I see. You both all calm and smart. It’s peaceful sittin’ here beside you. I’m getting a good vibe off a you! Oh, yes. You all gonna get married soon, and life will be perfect for you.” He points to Samuel and me in turn. “When she’s your wife and he’s your husband, won’t nothin’ go wrong because God has his hand in this. You are beautiful together. Beautiful. I see how it is between you, full of peace and contentment. You all gonna get married in 2019, and you’ll be happy together for forty years. A long and happy life. 2019 is your year.”
Samuel and I take our eyes off the man and look at each other. His eyes are clear and deep brown. I am trying not to laugh, but Samuel stays solidly on serious ground.
And for a brief moment, there is the strangest sense that all things are possible dangling between us.
Samuel is good looking, tall and athletic, in excellent condition at sixty-one, high cheekbones and skin a lovely brown. From what I can tell, he’s intelligent and kind, and under other circumstances, he might be a catch. He turns to the man and says, “Thank you.” I can’t read his expression for the life of me.
“We’ll be a hundred, Samuel,” I smile and say, shaking myself out of this.
He holds his gaze level on me. I wonder if he’s just had that same moment, reflected across the table between us. “Uh huh,” he says.
I realize that this year I’m feeling better about the holidays, not so lonely. That is the gift I have received from the most unlikely people.
I spot Samuel seated among the guests with his back to me, do rag tight to his head, listening intently. He scans the room in a subtle manner, alert and sharp and I suddenly see how it must have been for him in prison. Reading the room is a strong skill, one that no doubt increases your chances behind bars, or when you’re living on the street. Soon his eyes meet mine and we acknowledge each other.
“So, you don’t have to be feeling bad if you aren’t getting any presents this year,” Linda is saying, and my ears perk up, because I’m not expecting any. “Some of you don’t have any family-”
“Or your family don’t want nothin’ to do with you,” a man calls out. I find myself nodding along with many people in the group. I know what he means. In fact, I know exactly how this feels. I am estranged from my own children, divorced, both parents deceased, no siblings. Like so many of the homeless people I meet, I have no family surrounding me. Holidays can be painful, knowing the people who used to be my family are gathering without me.
Linda turns to the man. “That’s true. There are plenty of people who will be alone on Christmas. That’s why you need to be thinking outside of yourself right now. Instead of dwelling on how you’re not getting any gifts – because that’s a put down, you’re putting yourself down- what else can you do?”
“Do something good for somebody else,” a man slumped in a chair near me says softly. Linda doesn’t hear this. She’s responding to other suggestions, so I say to him, “That’s a good idea.” His hoodie hides his face until he looks my way and gives me a shy smile.
I encourage him to tell Linda. He lowers his eyes, clasps his hands on the table. I notice Linda glancing around the group until her eyes land on me. I gesture at the man and tell her, “This gentleman has something to say.”
“Yes, sir?” Linda says to him.
He raises his voice slightly. “Do something good for somebody else.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Thank you.” Linda is good with the people. She maintains a sensitivity to the harshness of their lives, acknowledges it even, while steering them toward self-reflection.
I hope I haven’t put the fellow near me on the spot. I step closer and tell him, “Sorry, that’s the teacher in me. Once a teacher, always a teacher.” He laughs full out.
Linda is still addressing the group, and I tune back in. “The best way to pull yourself up out of feeling sad and lonely, or from feeling isolated and left out, is to think of others, to do something for someone else, even in a small way.”
“Always somebody worse off than you,” someone says, and tears sting my eyes. With all my might, I will them to stay put as I listen to the group agreeing with this statement. A hum of amens, true thats and mmmhmms ripples through the group, through me. Most of these people are homeless, and still they believe there are others whose struggles are harsher.
“You need to remember that Christmas is just one day.” Linda concludes. “You can find a positive strategy and use it to make it through that day.” Which is pretty much what my therapist just said to me.
While I am taking this in for all it’s worth, Linda announces that they’re running late and it’s time for the raffle. Tickets come out of pockets and an air of friendly competition stirs among the people.
By default, the only woman wins the first backpack. I figure they must have different bags for men and women. Then numbers are called. I’m pleased that the man who laughed at my once a teacher, always a teacher comment wins. Linda hands him a blue nylon backpack, stuffed until it stretches tight. The next name called is “Sargent Gray,” Samuel’s street name. He accepts the prize. Linda raffles off perhaps ten backpacks. I don’t count. I watch the lucky winners peer inside and rummage through the contents. One man holds out a tube of toothpaste. “Anybody need this? They gave me some at the shelter.” The tube is slipped into someone else’s pocket.
A signal from the back of the room indicates dinner is ready, and a respectful silence fills the room as the brief prayer is said. Then, the scraping of chairs and the scurrying of people as everyone from the meeting takes advantage of the chance to be at the front of the food line, ahead of the people standing in the cold outside. Samuel once told me that people come early on Tuesdays just to get out of the heat or the cold. He feels that since they’re inside, they need to take advantage of the discussions. To talk through the issues they face with Linda, who knows her stuff, in his opinion. And in my opinion, too.
Samuel doesn’t waste any time getting to the front, so it takes a while for me to catch up with him at our usual spot. He looks gaunt, tired. Night shifts, plus a long commute on the agency bus might be taking a toll. He pays full price for his rent - $475- heat not included, plus $8 a day for transit. Even with the pay differential for working nights, I’m guessing he’s stretched pretty thin.
When I check his tray, my concern deepens. Instead of the usual smorgasbord, he has only salad, jello and some bread. No dessert. “Are you feeling all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, I just don’t feel like eating much.”
I taste the heavy scoop of multicolored rice something-or-other on my tray, only to discover that it’s a spicy shrimp gumbo. Samuel barely touches his food. I say a silent prayer is that he’s not sick, or using any drugs that might destroy his appetite. He just got into his new apartment last month. I chalk it up to worries about getting by.
I discover that he still doesn’t have a stove or a fridge, and I don’t ask about a bed. I turn the conversation to Linda’s group. “I wish I could come more often on Tuesdays,” I tell him. “She’s really good.”
Samuel gives me eye contact, a satisfied expression. He’s invited me to come on Tuesdays for the group several times. He keeps one eye on the news coming from the big screen mounted high on the wall behind me. In terms of local news, he knows more than I do. I tell him about the podcasts I listen to on NPR.
We’re talking about a podcast I just heard on the history of slavery and indentured servants when a man sits beside me. I say hello. He gives me a nearly toothless smile. Before long is becomes clear that he is eavesdropping on us – or earbuzzing, as some of the guests say - because he sets his fork down with determination. Leaning back, he launches into a soliloquy. I can think of no other word for it, since he goes on at length with a certainty that is generally reserved for prophets and Shakespearean characters.
“Now you all know what this here is? This here is beautiful. I’m lookin’ at you two, listening to you, and I can see how it is. You two are a match made in heaven, that’s what I see. You both all calm and smart. It’s peaceful sittin’ here beside you. I’m getting a good vibe off a you! Oh, yes. You all gonna get married soon, and life will be perfect for you.” He points to Samuel and me in turn. “When she’s your wife and he’s your husband, won’t nothin’ go wrong because God has his hand in this. You are beautiful together. Beautiful. I see how it is between you, full of peace and contentment. You all gonna get married in 2019, and you’ll be happy together for forty years. A long and happy life. 2019 is your year.”
Samuel and I take our eyes off the man and look at each other. His eyes are clear and deep brown. I am trying not to laugh, but Samuel stays solidly on serious ground.
And for a brief moment, there is the strangest sense that all things are possible dangling between us.
Samuel is good looking, tall and athletic, in excellent condition at sixty-one, high cheekbones and skin a lovely brown. From what I can tell, he’s intelligent and kind, and under other circumstances, he might be a catch. He turns to the man and says, “Thank you.” I can’t read his expression for the life of me.
“We’ll be a hundred, Samuel,” I smile and say, shaking myself out of this.
He holds his gaze level on me. I wonder if he’s just had that same moment, reflected across the table between us. “Uh huh,” he says.
I realize that this year I’m feeling better about the holidays, not so lonely. That is the gift I have received from the most unlikely people.
