AUSTIN ADVOCATE

New "Signs" at the ARCH
By Richard Troxell

An Open Letter to the Homeless Citizens of Austin:

“It is a CLASS B misdemeanor to obstruct a sidewalk, alley, or street or to disregard a lawful request to move. Violators will be prosecuted. Penal code section 4203.” This “sign” is now displayed at the ARCH above the west sidewalk. If this is true, then why did the Austin City Council also pass a similar ordinance that makes “sitting or lying down”a Class C misdemeanor? And the ordinance only allows for a ticket to be issued...if “after having been notified by a law enforcement officer the conduct violates...” the ordinance. Is anyone really sitting down on the ARCH sidewalk or lying down there and looking up at a 6’2” Austin Police Officer with a gun on his hip and refusing to move? Not on your life! So why are tickets being written and who exactly is violating the law if these police officers are not giving warnings before they write their tickets…as required in both laws?!

Then there is the issue of the offense itself. The ordinance cites that a violation has occurred if the action
1) hinders passage of a person, 2) causes evasive action to avoid contact, 3) blocks someone from entering or leaving a building, 4) causes evasive action to enter or leave a building to avoid physical contact.

At the same time the Penal Code says a person commits an offense if a person…intentionally “obstructs” a sidewalk. The Code states that “obstructs” means to render impassable or to render passage unreasonably inconvenient or hazardous. The sidewalk on the posted side of the ARCH is 18’2” wide! We laid 3 people head-to-toe across the sidewalk and people still had enough room to pass unobstructed and unimpeded. It is humanly impossible for a person to intentionally or unintentionally obstruct that sidewalk!

So why are the signs there? Apparently, they are meant to intimidate people with a threat of arrest for an offense that they cannot humanly commit. The effect is simply harassment; thus causing people to make repeated trips to the court only to find the judge throwing out these bogus tickets over and over again.

That ARCH is bordered by the Salvation Army, Caritas, and two parking lots. The walks go nowhere. The ARCH is supposed to be our sanctuary. To be anywhere else in the city just results in being issued inappropriate “No Camping” tickets. We are being treated worse than cattle.

These signs are outward acts of intimidation against people who have lost everything and now wait in hopes of winning a lottery to get a bed for the night or in hopes of securing a job that pays living wages, so we can work ourselves off the streets of Austin. On Thursday Jan. 27thmembers of House the Homeless left the ARCH as a group. We went to City Council; we asked for the signs to be removed, and for benches to be installed in their place. We are asking for nothing more than simple dignity and fairness.

Let that be the new sign at the ARCH: Dignity and Fairness.

Victory

I received a phone call from Assistant City Manager Rudy Garza. He stated “The signs are down. You were right the signs never should have been put up.” Mr. Garza was referring to the signs on the west wall of the arch that said it was a class B misdemeanor to obstruct the sidewalk. In a written communication to Mr. Garza we had told him that it was humanly impossible to obstruct the 18”2”wide sidewalk .We had also pointed out that no one was looking up at a 6’2” Austin Police Officer and refusing to move.

The signs have been taken down and you as automatic members of House the Homeless should be very proud. We saw that this was unfair and wrong, we stated that it was wrong, we prepared to march to City Council and demand that the signs come down. Even before we marched they knew we were right and responded to our demand. They took the signs down!!! We seek dignity and fairness. Mr. Garza did the right thing. Good Job!!!

In Unity There is Strength,

Richard Troxell
President
House the Homeless

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An Unlikely Angel
By Cinnamon Meeker

Sick, ochre light glares over the playground as the children begin to gather.

They find comfort in the shadows of the evening, a dark blanket of safety, away from the scorn of the day. Smiles begin to light the faces that wore many expressions earlier. A guitar is unzipped, its owner strumming in his dim spotlight. The children sway to the beat.

The “playground” is an open-air market, concrete slabs between two buildings in the middle of the city. By day, it is a busy place, with vendors spread out under the six trees which grow beneath the cement, their roots restricted and weighted down. At night, it becomes the playground of the “lost children.”
The kids are in their teens and early twenties. They belong to virtually no one, children of the streets. I know many of them; some “adopt” their family as my own. We don’t have much to offer, just a kind, listening ear and words of encouragement or advise; but for some of the kids, this is enough to make them feel like someone cares.

My husband and I understand their world better than most. Acceptance of the streets as your home brings about a comradely that few will ever know, like soldiers in a battle for survival. My husband and I have beliefs that are quite different than those of the children; but in watching us, some of them will learn that life is about more than burying the pain of whatever brought them to the streets.

Miss Pixie is a shining example of one of our children who has found her way in the “real world,” a world that encompasses the “street world” and the conventional world.

At fifteen, she ran away, not from her family, but from a town, which refused to accept her right to be who she was. Pixie was emotionally shredded when she hit the streets, a little wisp of a girl, hiding under the church stairs; sometimes huddled in her “next,” the free box behind the church.

I remember her bone thin, dirty hand extending from under the stairs; another homeless teen handing her a bagel scored from an alley dumpster. Pity bombarded my soul, such a fragile, beautiful child. . . so many other children. . . what brought them all here?

It was 1992, or thereabout, when the surge of youth began, teenagers replacing the faces of the homeless alcoholics, in the area known as “the drag.” It came as a shock to my husband, Dan, and I, returning to our winter vending spot and finding that many of the “old homebums” had moved south, away from the turmoil that the children had created.

The children were angry about lives that had given them so little and taken so much. Their rage seeped into their actions. Local merchants addressed the problem without heart, ordering the kids away from their establishments, knowing the kids had no place to go. The result was an atmosphere teeming with hate and contempt, from both sides.

It is directly into that war Pixie stepped, without a clue as to the many changes she would experience that year. Gradually, she emerged from her hiding spaces; finding that as different as she was in her tiny hometown, she was almost “normal” among the street kids.

There were so many kids back then; gutter punk kids, hippie kids kids who only came on weekends. “Oogles” was the street term devised for the weekenders; kids who had decent families, homes, lives. “Our kids,” as Dan and I came to think of the homeless youth, could never understand why the “oogles” seemed to be enchanted with homelessness. The “oogles” would never know the horrors of true hunger, numbing cold, and searing heat; the hopelessness of holidays without a home. Our kids knew these things all too well.

Pixie’s first year on the streets was rough. She watched kids in her “street family” turn to heroin as an escape from the misery. She saw her best friend die from an overdose, screaming at the dealer who only cared about getting busted. The dealer dumped little butterfly’s body on the street; Pixie’s cries for an ambulance ignored, tossed out like unwanted trash; Pixie’s faithful companion, gone forever.

I couldn’t stand to hear about the death, the overdoses that happened once or twice a week. Dan already had his hands full, first mediating a “respect treaty’ between the kids and the local merchants; later, fighting to stop a bitter race/power war between the kids and gang members, who wanted control of the area’s drug business, a junkie’s easiest form of income.

Pixie was “adopted” into our family, after Butterfly died. She was offered a place to sleep on our shuttles though she rarely took us up on it. We made sure that she never went hungry, but most of the time she found food on her own. Above all, we made sure that Pixie knew she was loved and cared about; it was what she needed about the most.

I griped about her drinking , as any parent would; but you cannot punish an adolescent who has been punished by life and circumstance. Lectures were centered around her safety rather than the legality of underage drinking, rules mean nothing to a youth who has fallen through the cracks of society,. Often, I would joke that drinking would be less enjoyable once she reached drinking age, the thrill of breaking the law removed. Happily enough, she rarely drinks now that shs is above 21.

Pixie helped Dan and I to help other kids. New runaways were brought to “Mom and Dad.” Dan and I would talk to the kids, find out how they landed on the streets and not offer advice accordingly.

A lot of kids went home, especially once the rainy cold of a Texas winter set in. Many made it home before developing a heroin addiction, largely due to Pixie’s intervention.

“Don’t be doin’ that shit in front of me,” Pixie would bitch. “Junk will kill you. . . ain’t no high worth shoving a needle in yer vain.”
Unfortunately, a lot of the kids who didn’t go home were already hooked, some before Butterfly’s death, some after. Pixie worked hard to see that the more naïve didn’t fall into the heroin trap. She studied herbs and helped addicted kids get clean, even it was only temporary for some.

I remember the first time Pixie landed a formal job. She had panhandled for survival before I taught her to macramé, then necklaces, bracelets and hairwraps paid her way. The formal job gave Pixie credibility, in not only her eyes, but in the eyes of her first landlord. She was thrilled with the microscopic room in the ratty rooming house. Sure, she had to share the bathroom with the occupant of the next room, she had to post a sign on her door, telling could-be knockers that unlike the other residents, she didn’t sell, use or allow drugs in her home; but it was all hers, a real home. It was then that I knew she’d grown up.

Pixie has blossomed into a strong, self-sufficient woman with a heart of gold. It’s been 11 years since I first met her. She still tries to look after our street family, offering floor space in the studio apartment she now rents, nursing the ill, whether they have bronchitis or are dope sick; Pixie is the angel on Guadalupe Street.

At a glance, most would not see this. She wears tattered gypsy-style clothing, carries the same backpack that once held everything she owned. Her blonde and blue dreadlocks draw many a curious eye . . . but her bright smile beckons others to smile back.

And you’ll still see her, on the “drag,” in the “square,” the playground of the homeless kids. Maybe its more of a living room, a place to converse and be with family.

Just look for the fairie girl, tossing glitter, dancing happy and free her brothers and sisters gathered around her,.

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Homeless
By David Weems

Homelessness is a much misunderstood and heavily stereotyped state of being. Many people are conditioned to the image of a street beggar with a hand-painted sign at a major intersection saying "Will Work for Food". This, to them, is a "homeless person".

The truth is that there are thousands of different stories and reasons for being homeless. It is not a quality of life that anyone would desire, and on -one chooses it lazily.

In the year 2000, I was forced to resign a job as an x-ray technician in a clinic at which I'd worked for 23 years. Health problems had me hospitalized twice in four months, and I missed six days of work. New management declared this "unacceptable" and I was made to sign a paper stating that one more absence would result in "voluntary dismissal". Within weeks, I was hospitalized again, and lost my job and career. Medical care was the only thing I knew how to do; I took time off to deal with my parents, who both had Alzheimer's. Trying to keep them out of nursing homes, I spent my life savings and IRAs. In the process, I had lost my certification in radiology because I couldn't afford continuing education classes. I submitted job applications everywhere and applied at the Texas Workforce commission. I never received any replies.

For 16 months, I stayed with various friends, whose beneficence was astounding. Eventually though, my "grace period" ran out. In 2002, I sold my last and only possession, my piano. The funds from this enabled me to stay at a skid-row motel for three months where crack and violence were rampant. This was a totally alien environment to me; perhaps my previous life of "privilege" had blinded me to reality. I had descended into Hell. I was mugged, robbed and lived in the presence of fear and danger on a daily basis. I was depressed and suicidal. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this, and I couldn't understand what was happening. My last $1000 was stolen by the boyfriend of the motel's manager and I wound up at the Salvation Army. Here, in fact, my story begins.

Staying at the Salvation Army ("Sally's") for three months was like a college education. Here I learned that there is no such thing as a "typical" homeless person. My time there did lead me to realize that there are three general classes of homeless people, at least as far as Sally’s is concerned:

1) People who have done well, even been prosperous, but have had drastic upheavals in their lives, due to health problems, family crisis, economic downturns, unexpected reversals and the inevitable downward path to depression, alcoholism or drugs.

2) People who should right fully be under the state's care for mental illness or other psychoses because they are demonstrably unwell or otherwise unable to fend for themselves, but have been shut out of the available facilities because of government cutbacks.

3) The hustlers, liars and scum buckets who have learned to "work the system" and sponge, steal and laze with sociopathic disregard. Lest anyone think this is the exclusive province of the homeless, I'd ask you to delve into the biographies of those who made last year's "Fortune 500".

My point is, homelessness is not a choice but a circumstance. Many people handle it with Amazing Grace. Few people accept it as their final lot in life.

When you are in that sometimes wretched state, it may be impossible to foresee that life can be better. I was lucky. I have a friend who is a teacher who had himself been homeless who has given constant inspiration on rebuilding my life out of my shattered past. Such angels walk amongst us, we just have to keep our minds open.

Oscar Wilde once said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us can look up and see the stars".

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Invisible
By Penney Hunt

I am an invisible person. I am not man-made or a ghost in a Charles Dickens novel or one of those extraterrestrials in a movie. I am a real-life, breathing, blood-bones and skin covered human being like the rest of the world.

But most of the world chooses not to acknowledge me at all, somewhat like the character in The Invisible Man, simply because they do not want to really see me. When most people approach me, they see only what they want to and what is around them; they are afraid of what they don't know, and their imaginations run away with them. They see what they what to - everything but me.

Even when I approach them, they avert eye contact or start locking doors in their cars and rolling up their windows as if I were going to attack them. I don't understand this. These reactions are not kind; they can hurt and anger a person. Sometimes it is okay not to be seen, and I do not want to sound as if I were complaining. I am merely stating facts of real life and how I feel about being treated by society as not human or even invisible.

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: was He not homeless? Was He not poor? Also, our country was founded by people who traveled here and camped outside in canyons, mountains, etc. Then, it was okay to live outside. But in today's world, it's no longer alright to be homeless.

Jesus chose this way of life to help minister to and save people.

The settlers and the Indians of this country were homeless. Some of us are out here because we choose to be, not because we have to be. And not all of us are crazy, on drugs or drinking like most of society - and even those who call themselves Christians - thinks.

I am one of those homeless, "invisible" people that I am talking about. I am also a single, self-sufficient, educated woman who believes in God. I am not perfect. I choose to live my life this way, but that doesn't mean I don't have feeling or faith in God, or that I'm not intelligent. I'm also not invisible.

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TRAUMA
By Tumen Soliz

As sure as the Earth is constantly moving there will be earthquakes. Do not be afraid it is just the molten lava, at the center of the Earth, shifting, itself through the voids on the undersides of the continents. The fear mongers would preach lightning as punishment by God. Ozone depletion, Ocean pollution, overpopulation, Earth s wobbleation, maybe one, maybe none, maybe all of the above contributes to the problem, but don’t blame God. Our weaknesses demand we lay the responsibility of natural disasters on something more powerful then ourselves. The problem with blaming God is that we seek and desire Godliness. Hypocrisy blares from within every audacious so –called place of worship. Praising God through one side of the mouth and condemning non-believers through the other equates us with the psychopath who would praise his own lust yet condemn everyone else. Since we will never be exactly perfect, our weaknesses justify our sins.

Is natural phenomenon trauma greater than manmade trauma? The technology of advance disaster warning exists but only for the privileged. Clean water, sanitary conditions, and proper nutrition, are produced, fought and sold like baubles. Profitability (or lack of) prevents technological advances from reaching the poor. Oh, please, do not continue to rely on the benevolence of the working taxpayer. We pay with our blood sweat and tears; they (human gods) play with our blood sweat and tears. Physical desires overrule compassion and corrupt leaders (some business ethics) live luxuriously at the expense of the innocents. Speaking of mad dash for cash, was our government competing with the U .N. for most corrupt. Regarding the illegal Iraqi oil sale to Jordan just before the war in order to mute Jordan opposition to the war.

M-L-K`S dream of equality becomes a nightmare of schizophrenia when we rely on the blanket of economic security for peace. Physical needs determine the content of our character. The thought of sitting together at the table of abundance, is not shared by those in lust with themselves. Only by restructuring our survival priorities can we share the abundance of Mother Earth.

Present technology would better serve if not hoarded by the wealthy. Individuals who honestly deserve their material gains will not be vilified by the honestly. Why? Because the masses will be grateful for their technological security. Earthly Kings, petty human gods, and all who would be thug will be thugs will be relegated to the ashbins of history. Natural disasters will be anticipated and Earthly settlement will be met dealt with accordingly.

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Who Will Be The "Martin Luther King"
For The Homeless?
By Alfred and Patricia Mendiola
(the homeless couple in Pflugerville)

Who will stand up for us? Will it be Alfred, will it be Doc, or Patricia, or how about all of us Advocates (and homeless) standing up together for our rights and dignity!! Like Martin Luther King once said if you can fly, fly. If you can’t fly, then run, if you can’t run, then walk, but hold your heads up, my brothers & sisters that are homeless. Martin Lurther also said “united we stand,” “divided we fall,” “keep on truckin” my fellow homeless men and women. Don’t give up no matter what!!!! We are all fighting for food, shelter, respect, clean clothes, and the right to go into any place of business and inquire about work or a place to live . . . . And as for all you “society people” out there, we are not all bad people out here. A lot of us just need a little help, or a place to sleep without being harassed by the police in the middle of the night, and NOT being judged and looked down upon.

Why not give a lot of us a chance? You do from every other group that has stood up for their rights!!! Now what about us??? Hire a homeless person. You can claim it on your income tax form. Or how about getting to know some of us, you’ll find out that we are real people just like any other group of people. If you see a homeless person, or Advocate person out there, give them a dollar or two, he might really be telling the truth, and he’s really hungry. (Give us a chance).

There are several reasons why people are homeless. You should not judge a book by its cover. Please read the book first; please get to know the person first, before you make a judgement. Like I said were not all bad people..In every group of people, there’s good and bad… So please stop judging all the homeless. The people of Pflugerville have to know us, and they know that we’re real people, just trying out best to make it and get back on our feet again, and we thank each and every one of those people that have helped us, and stood by us, and have kept us in their prayers.

So keep your faith my brothers, and sisters, in the homeless world, out there, and don’t let anyone intimidate you, or put you down of violate you because you are homeless. We all do have rights, including our group, the homeless. Hold your heads up, look for work, sell your Advocates and don’t give up no matter what!! Keep the faith. See ya soon.

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Street Life
By Sol

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