social justice

Rough sleeping: Boston Street Retreat 2023

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cover of "Rough Sleepers," a book by Tracy Kidder

Why did I choose the Street Retreat in Boston, instead of Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco? One reason is the weather. I prefer heat over cold, and August in Boston matches my constitution better than Los Angeles in April or December in San Francisco. My decision to go to Boston was also influenced by Rough Sleepers, a book written by Tracy Kidder about a doctor named Jim O’Connell who has devoted his career to healing the homeless, particularly in Boston. It’s a fascinating, illuminating, heartbreaking and hopeful story.

A summary from Tracy’s website is as follows:

Nearly forty years ago, after Jim O’Connell graduated from Harvard Medical School and was nearing the end of his residency at Massachusetts General Hospital, the Chief of Medicine made a proposal: would Jim defer a prestigious fellowship and spend a year as a doctor to homeless citizens? Jim took the job because he felt he couldn’t refuse. But that year turned into his life’s calling—to serve the city’s unhoused population, especially the ‘rough sleepers,’ people who sleep on the streets, in the rough.

Dr. O’Connell’s initiation into caring for homeless individuals did not involve diagnosing or prescribing. He built rapport with them by washing their feet. And then, as they gradually began to trust him and share their stories, he listened. As a spiritual director, I resonate deeply with his approach. To be truly heard is to be seen and appreciated for exactly who we are, no strings attached. We discover that although we make choices that in retrospect seem wrong, there is nothing inherently wrong with us. And that is a path to healing.

The prospect of crossing paths with this inspiring man and witnessing the infrastructure in place as a result of his efforts drew me to Boston.

And now, for the first time in my life, I’m getting a glimpse into the lifestyle of a rough sleeper. Our first night of sleeping on the streets, out in the open, bathed in city lights and city sounds, is definitely rough.

We ask a sturdy, bearded man pushing a shopping cart where on the street is a good place to sleep. He says all around the central library, which is where we are, having finished our ad hoc meal. A few of us scope out another side of the library. It’s quieter, much more peaceful than Boylston Street. However, just as we begin to claim a space large enough for the eight of us, an elderly couple arrives. “This is our space,” the man says firmly. Our credo is to not take anyone’s space, whether inside a shelter or on the street. We cede the territory and return to the front of the library and arrange cardboard and blankets in the space along the large library windows.

Laying on my back, a floppy hat over my face to block some of the light, I wonder how in the world I’ll be able to fall asleep. Clusters of people between us and the street laugh and bellow. It’s a party we’re probably crashing. One group putters with a banged up moped, trying to get it started. A noxious odor finds its way to me: spilled gasoline? The engine starts with a roar and after a long 30 seconds the moped leaves, stuttering. Meanwhile another group is doing and dealing drugs. One of the individuals enters our space and speaks to Joshin: “Is this some kind of social experiment?” He’s satisfied with Joshin’s answer for a bit, then returns for more. I witness this through grommet holes in my hat.

I close my eyes and consider the strong possibility that sleep will not come easily tonight.

At one point the tenor of the party shifts. Voices sound tense, angry. I pull off my hat and see four men intertwined, pushing and shoving, coming perilously close to our lineup of bodies prone on the sidewalk. A drug deal gone bad. Joshin motions to get up. I nudge the other Wendy who is laying beside me, tell her we have to go. NOW. Each of us quickly gathers our belongings as the men continue to yell and shove. “Leave the cardboard!” Joshin says. Then only Peter is left in the space, slowly gathering up his belongings, and Joshin urges him to hurry. One of the angry men walks up to Peter and gets in his face. Another man interferes, for some reason protecting Peter, a gentle neurologist nearing retirement.

With no time to stuff our blankets and belongings into bags or backpacks, we gather them loosely in our arms and walk across the street and down the block to an area that’s quieter, more residential. A small plaza in front of a yoga studio looks inviting. John, a muscular Canadian and veteran of Street Retreats, and the other Wendy and I scout the alley for cardboard. It’s easy to find in the city. Sometimes there are stacks of flattened boxes placed in the alley, presumably for the recycler. When we return with our found padding, the group organically positions cardboard and bedding in an L shape along a brick wall and the storefront. Then we settle in, hoping for sleep.

While on my back, the paper padding beneath me seems relatively comfortable. The problem is that I’m unable to fall asleep on my back. My body relaxes enough for sleep only I’ve arranged myself in a fetal position. I roll over, facing the bulk of John who is laying less than two feet from me. To my left is the corner of the L. Sandwiched among my companions I’m reminded of the peacefulness and joy of my youth during slumber parties – waking in the middle of the night, hearing light snores rise from still mounds arranged haphazardly across the living room floor. At this moment, sleeping on a street in downtown Boston, I feel connected to my companions. To the earth. And to God. I am not alone.

I’m awakened by two voices yelling at each other. A female and a male, volleying complaints back and forth. The only words I can distinguish are f*** and f***in’, which seem to be major building blocks in the woman’s vocabulary. I’m amused by a thick Boston accent. The heated argument continues for many minutes, then suddenly ends as if doused. I roll over, giving the right side of my body a break from the crush against concrete. There’s not enough padding in my body to cushion my hip bone or shoulder. I see that Helena, a young woman from Canada, is sitting up. She motions to me in a sign language I somehow understand as “I need to pee.” Our group’s pact is that no one leaves the group alone. We return to the alley where I’d scrounged for cardboard. First she pees behind a large dumpster. Then I take a turn – might as well, as long as I’m here. A car pulls into the alley just as I begin to stream urine. Although I’m hidden, I feel a sense of urgency, not from my bladder but from my mind as it imagines the worst. The car slowly rolls past Helena and me as we return to our street beds.

Somehow I fall back asleep in the relative silence that has returned to the neighborhood until around 5:30, I’m guessing, since I have no watch piece. A predawn light softens the night sky and there is more traffic on the streets as the city wakes from its slumber. A fire alarm punctuates the drone of cars with a steady, pulsing blare. The bodies around me stir. One by one we rise, then fold and stuff bedding into backpacks. Although my hips and shoulders feel a little sore, the rest of my body seems surprisingly refreshed. A few of us gather the cardboard and tote it to a recycling bin in the alley. No sign of our presence remains as we walk silently, as a group, toward Saint Francis House, where we anticipate coffee and breakfast. The blare of the fire alarm gradually fades. Day 2 of the street retreat has begun.

Boston Street Retreat: Juice & Generic Ministry

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Generic Ministry van in Boston

The one line I remember from Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” is when Blanche says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” From my perspective, relying on a stranger, or on anyone, for that matter, seemed impossible, even dangerous. I was raised to be self-sufficient. And to believe in self-sufficiency.

Now, in my sixth decade of fending for myself very well thank you, I’m living on the streets of Boston without money or a credit card. I’ll need to rely on the kindness of strangers. Granted, I’m here of my own accord; I chose to participate in the Street Retreat. Still, this vulnerability is a shock to my system. For several years I’ve practiced surrendering to the best of my ability, my grip loosening only slightly. Now, as if on a dare, I’m stretching out an open hand, wondering what will happen.

On this first evening of living on the streets, the church we’d understood to be serving free meals remains dark with locked doors. Peter, one of my companions on the retreat, enters a restaurant to ask for food. He rejoins us, empty-handed. I find myself following him into the next restaurant. No luck at that one, nor at the third. At a take-out Mexican restaurant I explain to the young man at the counter that we are living on the streets and wondering if he has extra food to offer. He turns to the woman standing next to him – likely his madre – and after speaking to each other in low voices in Spanish, he says, sorry, no. They do usually help, but later in the evening, after the dinner hour. I thank them and we walk back onto the street, wondering if we’ll have to skip dinner. A voice calls out from behind us, and we turn to see the young man from the Mexican restaurant. “Do you like watermelon juice?” Although the temperature is in the 70s, the air is thick with humidity. Oh yes, we would LOVE watermelon juice! Peter and I follow him into the restaurant. He pulls two tall cups of juice from the refrigerator, stirs the juice and hands us the cups with a smile. Muchas gracias. Adhering to the agreement that anything we receive as an individual will be shared with the group, Peter and I with no little excitement deliver the watermelon juice to the group. We all take turns sipping, the cups quickly emptying.

Entering a restaurant and asking for free food instead of a table is definitely awkward. And, depending on the response, also humiliating. On this first evening of the retreat my clothes are still clean. I look very much like a patron. The friendly expectancy on the face of the greeter instantly shifts to an expression of confusion, concern and sometimes irritation. Our mistake of asking for food during the busy dinner hour becomes obvious. Still, I feel grateful for the experience of asking and feeling no anger or judgment toward those who denied me. I’ve lost nothing by asking. However, if I hadn’t eaten in several days, would I be as quick to smile and say, “Thanks anyway”?

As I stand on the corner at a busy intersection with my seven companions, wondering about next steps, a young woman with a bright smile recognizes Bushin, our co-facilitator who is enrolled at Harvard Divinity School. They share hugs and happily chatter. When she learns about our retreat and our predicament, the woman extracts $50 from a nearby ATM and hands the money to Bushin. As a group, we decide that Trader Joe’s would be the most affordable venue. We roam the aisles, searching for food that would provide the most nutrition for the least amount of money, While Mike, a professor on sabbatical from Colorado State, stands in the checkout line with a filled basket, the other Wendy (a physician) and I search for utensils. Trader Joe’s is out of knives. We’ll have to use a plastic spoon to spread the peanut butter. I’m reminded of the adjustments made on camping trips and comforted by the familiarity of this workaround.

Photo by Bruce T. Martin

On the sidewalk in front of the contemporary addition to Boston Central Library, we sit in a circle and spread out our food in the center: gorp of two kinds, peanut butter, Ezekiel bread, apples, hummus, a bag of sweet peppers. Wendy uses the spoon to slather peanut butter on slices of bread for us. As we share a meal that feels even more like a gift than usual, a white van with the words “Generic Ministry” pulls up to the curb. Within minutes a line of people forms at the back of the van, its doors open, the lights from within shining into the darkness of the night. I have no timepiece. It’s been dark for at least an hour. Bright lights from the library beam down on us – the urban version of picnicking under the light of a full moon.

My belly full, I’m feeling no want aside from a toothbrush. One of my concerns about the Street Retreat is the fur that will thicken on my teeth over the course of four days of not brushing my teeth. When the last person in line at the Generic Ministry van walks away with a plastic bag stuffed with clothing and supplies, I approach the van. A lumpy-faced middle-aged man greets me with a huge smile. I ask if they have toothbrushes and toothpaste. Yes! He apologizes, says he didn’t realize we were living on the streets, and invites me to the back of the van where another volunteer can help me. Along the left wall of the van are shelves of clothing, and along the right wall are small bins containing items that might be helpful for people living on the streets. But no floss. A thin, wiry woman, who appears to be my age and is adept at maneuvering in the cramped space, hands me a toothbrush and a small tube of Crest and asks me what else I need. Turkey sandwich? No, thanks, I’m vegetarian. I settle for packets of moist towelettes.

My needs today were met, thanks to the kindness of strangers. The generosity I’ve experienced gently corrects the false narrative of self-sufficiency. The truth is that I’ve lived a comfortable life, always sheltered and never hungry, because of the generosity of others and the privileges that come with being White, intelligent and middle-class. I was born with a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’ve made foolish, even dangerous choices that caused great suffering to myself and others. Without the safety net I was born into, I could easily have ended up living on the streets. Maybe this Street Retreat is an invitation into deeper gratitude for all of the generosity that’s come my way, especially the generosity I didn’t appreciate at the time.

Boston Street Retreat: August 2023

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MBTA red line subway train arriving at platform

Five weeks ago I waved good-bye to the last of my seven companions. We were parting ways after four days and nights of living on the streets of Boston and Cambridge. Peter stepped onto the subway platform, the doors closed, and as the train resumed its journey I wondered about my own. I’d been taken to a new space where old rules and outworn habits had been stripped away.

Now what?

I’m still answering that question several weeks later. Our facilitator Joshin Byrnes recommended a soft landing of spaciousness instead of creating a narrative prematurely, and I’ve taken that advice to heart.

How long does it take for a rose to recognize the effect of a blind woman dipping her nose into its bloom and breathing deeply? When does snow understand how it has changed after a skier lays parallel tracks through pine trees?

At this point I have inklings, which I’ll share in blog posts as they form a more definitive shape. Before I offer my first inkling, I think it would be helpful to explain what, exactly, a Street Retreat is.

In 1994, a Zen Buddhist named Bernie Glassman led the first street retreat in Washington D.C., contemplating the question of what to do to serve those rejected by society, those in poverty and those with AIDS. Afterwards he and his wife established the Zen Peacemaker Order, “a religious order with a strong social action component that would bear witness on the streets, at sites of atrocity, and meet the troubles of the world,” as described on the Zen Peacemakers website.

“I want to figure out how to learn from those who have suffered in a certain way, even though I can’t fully enter that realm. So we go on the streets. I know we aren’t homeless and I make that quite clear. At the same time those who came will experience something that is closer to that world than those who haven’t been there. This is the meaning of ‘bearing witness.’ It’s like entering a church knowing you’re not God or the priest. But you will experience something different from someone who stays out of the church or someone who is just hired to fix the roof.”

– Bernie Glassman 

Joshin Barnes, the founder of Bread Loaf Mountain Zen Community and a former student of Bernie, has led many, many Street Retreats throughout the United States. As the facilitator of the Boston Street Retreat in August 2023, Joshin brought a calm, mindful and clear consciousness that almost immediately helped me to feel at ease. Sitting in a circle on the Cambridge Commons with my new companions that first day, meditating and then sharing during Council, the earth beneath me felt solid, the trees around me protective. Trust surprised me with its gentle bloom.

That’s not to say I thought the experience would be easy. In my backpack I carried a blanket, a print-out of the chants we would use throughout the four days, a pen and small notebook, a tube of sunscreen, a floppy hat, Nanopuff pullover and rain poncho. No money. No credit card. No phone. No change of clothes or hygiene products. Not even a tooth brush. I was entirely at the mercy of Joshin, my companions and the citizens of Boston and Cambridge. What would that mercy look like?

Although we intended to find nourishment at soup kitchens, we would not stay overnight in any shelters, even if eight beds had miraculously been available. We would sleep on hard surfaces. Or at least attempt to sleep. I was pretty sure sleep would not come easily for me. How much of a zombie would I be after being deprived of sleep for four days and nights? None of us had a tent. We would be exposed.

At this point you may well be wondering why I signed up for this experience. When I first read about the Street Retreat, deep down I knew I needed to participate. For more than a decade I’ve served people on the margins, including those who are homeless, offering a loving presence, food, beverages and an ear to hear their troubles and celebrations. In return I’ve received a greater understanding of homelessness and contributing factors. And I’ve always returned to a home with a refrigerator, running water and a cozy bed. I’ve wondered how people manage to live on the streets. And what it would be like to beg. As I imagined the Street Retreat, my enthusiasm quickly shifted to apprehension.

It took four months for me to work up the courage to sign up for the August 2023 Street Retreat in Boston. How many months will it take to gain a full awareness of the significance of this retreat?

Hamster-ass alleluias on the Green Line

Wendy church, social justice 0 Comment
Hamster-ass alleluias on the Green Line

A sturdy Black man boards the train at Prospect Park. In his 40s, he’s midway between hail-Mary hope and a shuffling resignation. Tonight, the train’s lights piercing the dark, he’s blissed out on hip-hop, belting out lyrics. 

“Fuck the police.”

He climbs steps to the raised section and sits with his back against the conductor’s cabin. Eyes closed, holding his phone up like a lantern, he searches the song for places where he can enter, yelling the words he recalls. “The niggas on the street is a majority.” Why broadcast the lyrics with such exuberance on the light rail? Maybe he’s being bold. Or maybe he’s just high.

Either way, I’m irritated. I’ve come from a closing reception for an exhibition, where conversations flowed non-stop for hours. I’m craving silence. Instead, the trains wheels squeal at a high pitch around curves and I’m trapped in a train car with a human amplifier. 

“You hamster-ass nigga. You just stuck in a loop.”

Two teenagers across the aisle from the man seem oblivious to these outbursts. Chattering and laughing, heads leaning toward each other, they’re making their own music and they don’t seem to mind his mixing in.

Oh please, mister, please be quiet. Surely the conductor hears these outbursts. Surely the cabin door will fly open at the next stop and the conductor will sternly advise the man to turn down his volume. I sigh as the cabin door remains closed.

Green line light rail in St Paul, Minnesota

At the Snelling Avenue stop a Black woman wearing loose, robe-like clothing boards the train and takes a seat halfway between me and the amplifier, facing me. 

“I’ve got 99 problems, but a bitch ain’t one.”

The outbursts gain momentum as the man listens to a song he knows well. The woman between us fidgets with a pamphlet. Gradually a soprano voice rises from the din, singing just one word, slowly, over and over: alleluia. The clarity of her voice shines like the sun breaking through storm clouds. 

As the woman’s voice grows louder, so does the man’s, Alleluias layer over expletives and profanity layers over alleluias. 

I begin to see the Black man in a different light. Perched in the elevated section of the train car, it’s as if he’s in the pulpit, sharing a liturgy from streets littered with needles and Colt 45 cans, from the confines of a prison cell, from yet another funeral for a Black man killed by the police. He’s reciting psalms of lament, a rapper’s version of “I cried unto the Lord with my voice…I poured out my complaints before him, and showed him of my trouble.” 

As the angelic choir in this impromptu church service on the Green Line, the Black woman sings praises to the One who knows the pain of those who suffer. Her melodious voice softens hearts hardened by the fear of being overwhelmed by the suffering of others, the uneasiness of profiting from systemic oppression.

She softens my heart. 

Take everything

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image of graffiti

Little did I know when I saw this graffiti on May 13 that in two weeks, looting and burning of buildings would spread like wildfire throughout Minneapolis and St. Paul. I was returning from a walk through the Bruce Vento sanctuary, lush with vibrant shades of green, turtles basking on rocks, redwing blackbirds balancing on cattails gently swayed by the breeze.

I missed that day what the breeze was telling me.

image of graffiti

Take everything

Those two words carry new meanings and nuances in light of the George Floyd murder by police on May 25, the outrage that it triggered, and the rioting which quickly followed.

“Take everything” may have been the slogan of looters. Was their smashing of windows motivated by a sense of lack? An attempt to redistribute wealth? Anger toward the dominant culture? Maybe a stolen lamp serves as a symbol of taking matters into one’s hands instead of continuing the long, agonizing wait for a more equal society where no one lacks food or housing. Tragically, those most affected by the looting and destruction are people of color who lost businesses, jobs, and services in their neighborhood, such as grocery stores and drugstores. 

Image showing a firefighter and police in Minneapolis
Photo by David Joles

“Let my building burn!” That’s how Ruhel Islam responded to the destruction of his restaurant, Gandhi Mahal. For Ruhel, “take everything” points the sacrifice he is willing to make for an end to police brutality. “Let my building burn, justice needs to be served, put those officers in jail.” The Gandhi Mahal building, heavily damaged on May 28th, burned to the ground the following day after the Minneapolis’ Third Precinct caught fire. Ruhel’s daughter Hafsa wrote on social media, “Gandhi Mahal May have felt the flames last night, but our firey drive to help protect and stand with our community will never die! Peace be with everyone. #JusticeforGeorgeFloyd #BLM”

An affordable housing unit under construction burned to the ground on the first night of protesting. I stared at the news in disbelief. Too many people living on the streets in Minneapolis desperately need housing. How is perpetuating oppression an answer to the grief over George Floyd’s last minutes of life? Surely “take everything” isn’t urging us to strip all hope from those in need.

Haven’t we taken far too much already? 

In spite of my limited perspective from the space of middle-aged whiteness, I do understand that Mr. Floyd’s murder alone did not combust into violence and destruction on May 26. It merely sparked kindling piled sky high from centuries of white supremacy. 

Awful as it is to imagine, it’s possible my ancestors had a hand in taking Africans from their communities, their land, their livelihood. We took everything from them except the one thing we couldn’t touch: their spirit. Now, more than a century after “emancipation,” it’s as if we white folks still hold a grudge against Blacks because they didn’t give us every damn thing they had. 

When the white settlers arrived on the shores of what would become the United States of America, they followed narrow-minded greed into the newly discovered land, lush with resources. The settlers blindly assumed this abundance had been created specifically for them, for the taking. This arrogance continues to this day, with the government once again taking back land it had “given” to indigenous people. This time, it’s from Native Americans in the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation – Oak Flat – for copper mining interests. 

photo of protester in Washington, D.C.
Photo by Steve Pavey

How is that Blacks and Native Americans are still alive? Do overtly racist white people hate them because they refuse to be exterminated? And those of us who don’t think of ourselves as racist – why have we remained silent in the face of oppression?

Take everything

A homeless man in my neighborhood carries all of his possessions in a daypack and two plastic bags. He takes everything he has with him, wherever he goes. Amazingly, Dave seems content. I bring him cold water and food, and we talk for a bit, sharing stories about our lives. As he sits, all day long, patiently waiting for the shelter to open later that night, Dave prays.

Psalm 23 comes to mind: the lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. I’m not blind to the possibility that Dave entered my life as a reminder of how much I want, how often I forget to trust in “enough.”

During the rioting I worried that the condo under construction beside the building in which I live would be an easy target for arson. Large gaping holes not yet filled by windows seemed to invite a molotov cocktail. Laying in bed, in the dark, listening to the thump-thump-thump of national guard helicopters overhead and the wail of sirens in the streets below, I wondered which of my belongings I would grab in my escape from fire. Everything I’ve acquired and placed throughout my living and working space would go up in flames. All of the artwork I’ve created would turn into ash. My sanctuary from the outside world would crumble. Would I be woke enough to echo Ruhel’s words? “Let my home burn, justice needs to be served, dismantle white supremacy, end police brutality and racism so that all may have life, liberty and happiness.”

I’d like to think that I would. If I’m honest, though, I’m not so sure. 

take everything

What am I willing to give up? How much am I willing to let go of? What is the social cost of my own security if people of color aren’t safe in this country? Those are some of the questions I’m pondering. While I’m personally not taking anything from people of color – rather, I focus on giving – I’m unwittingly participating in a social structure that continuously takes, takes, takes. Instead, I need to take something different. I need to take action. I need to take steps toward change. Lasting change.

image showing a wishbone and pottery

One thing I would save from flames in my home is a tiny grouse wishbone, which my beloved Val gave to me in 2014, the year before he died. I haven’t made a wish yet. I’m saving it for just the right time.

It could very well be that the right time is now.