This is the world of the homeless: Invisible, out of options, out of hope

I had always been curious about homeless people: who they are and what they’re about. Recently I ran out of options, admitted I was homeless and went to a homeless shelter in Seattle. My questions were answered.

After a brief interview with the intake counselor, I was assigned a bed. Like magic, I became part of the invisible class.

The shelter I was assigned to, run by the Downtown Emergency Services Center, sleeps 200; men and women have separate dorms. The beds are barracks-style, with a top and bottom bunk. Seventy to 80 percent of the clients there suffer from some form of mental illness. During the day, it becomes a drop-in center for those who sleep in the park or on the sidewalks of King County.

I must confess, I was in over my head. Fortunately I became friends with a couple of guys who took me under their wings to show me the ways of the homeless.

A typical day in the life of a homeless person at the shelter consists of waking up a 6 a.m., going into the large day room where most of the clients beg, barter and buy cigarettes, and drink coffee. There is a smoking room where the air is so thick you can literally see the nicotine on the windows. The smoking room is open 24 hours a day, and there are always people there, whether it is 5 a.m. or 5 p.m.

Most of the time, they do nothing but have animated conversations. Invariably, someone starts to scream about the devil or some perceived injustice.

Dinner is served at 5:30 p.m. and consists of mostly starches, heavy on the potatoes and rice, salads, some meat, and always lots of bread. The clients get their trays, sit down and wait for seconds. This happens like clockwork. Nothing ever changes.

One memorable day, my two friends and I were walking downtown. One of the guys wanted to use the bathroom at a coffee shop and was told no. The barista looked at us disdainfully and said, “You have to buy something in order to use the bathroom.”

I was outraged by her words, looks and actions. If I had been wearing a sport coat and slacks, there would have been no problem even had I not bought anything. That was the moment everything changed; I had finally felt the full impact of the life. I felt helpless. More important, I felt ashamed

I lie awake at night feeling numb, angry and sad. I have come to realize that this part of America has been marginalized; the homeless know it, and they feel helpless to do anything about it. They are used to being ignored.

In the shelter, I encounter tragic stories of broken homes, shattered dreams and extreme trauma. My eyes well up with tears. I have changed here in a way I would have never thought possible.

When the politicians talk about turning the corner towards recovery, the homeless don’t believe it because they cannot afford to believe it. Most of the day is spent associated with other invisible people just trying to get by until tomorrow, when it starts all over again.

I encounter people who volunteered to help feed the homeless. Most are from churches; I considered them unsung heroes.

A few recommendations from my personal experience:

Never pity a homeless person. When you do, you take away their dignity.

Never give a homeless person money. What they need is a place to live or something to eat.

Volunteer. It may not change the homeless, but I guarantee it will change you.

Remember that in the final analysis, when all is said and done, we really are our brother’s keeper.

Walter Backstrom is a former News Tribune reader columnist.