For Everyone They Impact

That's when he showed the open wound on the back of his right calf to the cars in front of us. He held a sign that said "NEED BANDAGES PLEASE" with a meek look on his bearded face. He stood in the middle of the median moving from car to car.

My first visceral reaction: disgust and anger. Empathy was no where in sight.

"What's wrong with that guy?" our oldest daughter Beatrice said.

"Don't look, Beatrice," my wife Amy said.

"Look at what?"

"This guy has a big wound on his leg and he's showing it to us all. It's gross and you don't need to see that," Amy said.

"What? What wound?"

"It's like his leg is cut open and you can see his calf muscles," I said.

"Kevin, don't tell her that."

"Gross!"

Beatrice could see, but our youngest Bryce could not. Thank goodness. The left turn lane light changed to a green arrow and we moved past the man, his bad leg turned away from us.

"God, he could lose his leg," Amy said.

"He should go to urgent care or to one of the emergency rooms. They most likely won't refuse him with an injury like that," I said.

"Maybe he doesn't know any better."

"Sure he does; why do you think he's out here begging for money for supposed bandages with that friggin' leg? It's a sympathy play for drug money."

"Sweetie, he may not know any better. He could be mentally ill. I'm calling the non-emergency line."

And so she did. We kept making our way to the store while she talked with the police department. They said they'd do a wellness check on the guy, and when we went back the same way to continue our errands, he was gone.

Like too many west coast communities these days, the growing acrimony between local community members and people experiencing homelessness seems to be at all-time high. Where we live is no exception. Crime and drug use are quite prevalent near the local unsanctioned encampment where conditions have only worsened over time.

And again, as I've written before, we have a family like many other families in Santa Cruz that we want to keep safe, and with 39 percent of Santa Cruz homeless having psychiatric and emotional health issues, 38 percent suffering from drug and alcohol abuse, and nearly 30 percent being incarcerated for a night in the past year (as of 2017 local stats). Many of us struggle with "not in my backyard" syndrome. Because they are literally in our neighborhood backyards and the city was considering opening transitional encampments in literally our neighborhood backyards.

We continue to educate ourselves as to what's happening in our community and we most certainly understand that this isn't just a housing crisis but a drug and associated crime crisis as well. Not to mention the safety of women and children experiencing homelessness today in our community.

But this guy with the nasty leg, he's somebody's son. He could even be a father himself. We have no idea about his story and the fact that my wife was compassionate enough to call the non-emergency line, was at least something. Maybe others called, too. Giving him money wouldn't have helped; he needed to a wellness check and emergency healthcare. Could he have faked the wound? Maybe, but it looked pretty real to us. And in the end, he's not part of our family anyway.

Yet, on some greater spiritual level, maybe he is.

These crises are escalating in communities like ours at an alarming rate. They are complex and there is no unifying clear solution for everyone they impact. And they most certainly impact everyone, and every family.

Assuming Otherwise

The smell was horrible. I knew immediately it was the two men shopping near us, one in a wheelchair, the other with a small dog on a leash. No matter where we stood, anywhere within a few feet radius of them and their pungent body odor smell hit us. By the looks of them, I assumed they were homeless, maybe part of the nearby encampment.

I had been grocery shopping at Trader Joe's with the girls in tow. My wife Amy was away doing a Kidpower training for the day. The girls and I were finishing up the shopping when our oldest, Beatrice, frowned and wrinkled her nose.

"What's that smell?" she said, a little loudly. Our youngest, Bryce, seemed oblivious and ready to be done with shopping.

"Shhh," I said. "I know it smells. Let's just finish up and get going."

"I know what it is. It's those poor people," she said, looking at the two men.

I didn't think they heard her, and I knew Beatrice was just saying what popped into her head without adult bias and judgement. We'd been talking about our local homeless situation with our girls since last fall, so she was equating homelessness with being poor, which wasn't wrong, but not all people who struggle to make ends meet are homeless. And we'd been there during the great recession, struggling and almost becoming homeless ourselves.

Later, when we were home and Amy was back from her Kidpower training, I brought up what happened to discuss as a family.

"What you said wasn't wrong, Beatrice. But the words weren't exactly right; not all poor people are homeless," I said.

Beatrice listened, but I could tell she thought she'd done something wrong.

Amy spoke up. "It's not about right, Beatrice. It's just about being respectful of how we address people we don't know and what's going on with them. You were just saying what you thought without trying to be mean, and that's okay."

"Okay," she said and nodded slightly.

"Right," I said. "And we don't want to say those things too loud so they can hear and make them feel bad. You were just making an observation to me."

"Yes, there are too many people without a home or shelter or running water, so they do smell because they can't take baths or showers like we can everyday," said Amy.

"This is why there are really important organizations in town that are doing there best to help homeless people," I said.

We went on with the rest of our day, but we didn't lose sight of the greater lesson. We talked about it again during our weekly family meeting to ensure that we respond appropriately and with respect in situations like the one at the grocery store and the homeless men, when we don't know them or assume to know their story based on what we see or smell.

And because the girls are getting older and more aware, we then expanded the conversation to include if they were with a friend who was talking badly about another person they knew, and trying to sway them into talking badly about the person. Amy role played with the girls on how they should respond and not to participate in the belittling of others just because we don't like them (when we may not even know them), or because someone else doesn't like them (when he or she may not even know them), or because we assume something about them when we really know nothing about them, only basing it on something we heard.

It's about time we start assuming otherwise.

Human Like Us

As we drove by, I watched him cut his hair with an electric razor as he stood on the sidewalk. I’d seen him park his older nondescript van there before, in front of our neighbor’s house three houses down. But I’d never seen him outside shaving his head with an electric razor plugged into the neighbor’s porch outlet.

That’s odd, I thought, watching him in the rearview mirror.

“Did you see that guy?” I asked my wife.

“What guy?”

She obviously hadn’t seen him, so I waited until we parked in our driveway and got out.

“That guy,” I said, pointing down the street along the sidewalk.

She stopped and nodded. “Yes, what’s he doing?”

“He’s cutting his hair. Maybe shaving his head actually. On the sidewalk. And he’s plugged into our neighbor’s house.”

“Maybe he’s a friend of theirs,” she said.

“Maybe, but I’m not sure they’re home.”

It was Christmas day and we’d just returned from an outing with our girls. Immediately I felt conflicted – on the one hand I wanted to walk down and ask him who he was and what he was doing there, and on the other hand I wanted to check with our neighbors first if they knew him. There had already been other neighbors finding phone chargers plugged into their front porch outlets, which unfortunately wasn’t unusual with the homeless traffic that frequented our way. We live on the edge of town and just beyond our neighborhood are homeless encampments in the hills. In fact, there have been more brazen encampments on either side of Highway 1 near where we live.

I felt conflicted because I thought it pretty bold for a homeless man to park his van in front of a neighbor’s house and start living in their front yard and driveway while they were away. Our new police chief recently mandated that, unless there is a complaint by someone in control of that property or some other crime or nuisance behavior is taking place, they wouldn't enforce the city’s overnight sleeping/camping ban. He also encouraged city and county leaders to work together to create better long-term solutions to homelessness.

There are pockets near us around the outskirts of the city limits where homeless camping via cars and motorhomes is constant. Our county’s overall homeless population exceeds 2,000, which made it the eighth largest in the country, compared to 306 other small regions, according to our local paper and a U.S. Housing and Urban Development report.

And the population has increased, "Overall, homelesssness increased in Santa Cruz County by 15 percent in 2017, compared to a similar one-day count conducted in January 2015. With the exception of 2015’s significant 44.5 percent drop, the region’s homeless population has generally remained steady through the years, according to homeless census data."

“Should I call the police?” I asked my wife.

“Not yet. Why don’t you try to contact the neighbors and see if they know him first.”

I emailed them and then called them, leaving a voice mail. I still wasn’t sure they were gone, but it looked more like it. My conflict grew, primarily because I felt like if it were us being the ones gone, and someone was doing that in front of our house, we’d want them to do something. Contact us. Call the police. Ask the person who they were and what they were doing.

“I have to go down there,” I said. "What if he's a pedophile? I don't want him down there."

My wife stopped what she was doing and channeled her Kidpower. “We don't know that. We don’t know who he is and yes, it could be a safety issue, so I don't want you going down there. Maybe he’s mentally ill. Either way our rule is to be aware, move away and get help if needed.”

“But what if it was us? I should at least call the police.”

“I understand, but they may not do anything. They aren’t enforcing the camping ban.”

“But I have to do something.”

“It’s Christmas, Sweetie. Let it be. If he’s still there later doing questionable stuff, then we call. But do not go down there.”

“Fine,” I said. Although I still didn’t agree about not walking down to talk with the guy, about not doing anything. I thought of my father, a policeman and detective for 32 years, and knew he would've walked down the street and asked the guy what he was up to. Not to aggressively confront, just to be neighborly. But I'm not a policeman, and I'm not my father. I realized that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. So best to monitor and wait and call the police if I need be.

On the eve of our annual holiday Disneyland trip, I remembered the homeless women in Anaheim from last year. She was a large women, parked quietly at a bus stop, and she smelled really bad. The girls asked why she was sitting there like that. We told them the poor woman didn't have anywhere else to go. She didn't talk with anyone or ask for any money, just sat with her eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Everyone walked by her as if she didn't exist. We struggled with what to do, if anything, and ended up not doing anything. Two days later she was gone.

I struggled with what to do again this time, although the circumstances were much different. Of course homelessness is much more complex than any experience we've ever had personally. According to an analysis earlier this year in Santa Cruz, over half the homeless have been homeless for a year or more and also suffer from one or more disabling conditions like substance abuse, psychiatric conditions, physical disabilities and more. Sadly one in three have been in jail within the past year as well. Then there's the harsh reality for too many homeless is that there is a potential violence and sexual abuse that comes from living on the street. I went on a ride along with an officer recently and we picked up a transient felon with weapons who had violated his parole.

Safety first for our families and communities, but we talk about the homeless as if they're another species, one whose poor choices, addictions, mental illnesses and/or other tragic circumstances have evolved them into societal blights. The reality is they're human like us, and at any given time we can become them because of the same genetic disposition and/or unfortunate circumstance.

The day after Christmas on our way to Disneyland this year, I received an email reply from our neighbors about the van-driving hair trimmer:

Hi Kevin,
Thanks so much for watching out for us, much appreciated!
In this case all is well. He’s our long-time friend, and in this case house sitting for us.
He does cut his own hair and didn't want to get little bits of hair all over inside.
Hope you all have enjoyed your Christmas, we wish you all the best in the new year.

Well, I'll be damned, although cutting hair on the sidewalk is still odd. We wish you all the best as well. 

Happy New Year. 

When Empathy and Faith Aren't Enough

Three days later, the bus stop benches had been removed. I noticed them missing before we even crossed Harbor Boulevard to head back to our hotel. After four consecutive years of coming to Disneyland in and around the Holidays, the two benches near our hotel that we passed by a few times each day going back and forth to the park, had vanished.

"Look, they're gone," my wife said as we crossed the street, all of us bathed in Southern California sunshine and blue sky.

"I know," I said.

But although that's what we fixated on in that moment, it wasn't what bothered us. Three days earlier when we first got to Disneyland, we passed an old obese white woman, seemingly homeless, sitting on one of the benches, eyes closed, wrapped in what looked like a old blanket, empty food containers stacked next to her. That wasn't completely out of the ordinary because every year there are homeless camped out at that bus stop.

This time though the smell was horrible. Her smell. The fat woman wrapped in a dirty blanket. And it followed us in either direction after we passed her. It wasn't just the smell of body odor, urine and feces either. There was another underlying sulfurous smell of decay, something we didn't want to imagine. But she was still breathing, so it wasn't the unimaginable. The girls smelled it too and we treaded lightly on the subject when asked why she was sitting there like that. We told them the poor woman didn't have anywhere else to go.

That's where the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) and I diverged, because while forgetting about the homeless woman after each time we passed was easier for me, it wasn't for her.

"Maybe we should call social services or something," she said. "Thousands of people are walking by her every day and no one's doing anything. And neither are we."

I empathized, but didn't comment further, and we never called anyone. Two days after passing her multiple times, we were on our way into the park yet again when the Mama tapped my shoulder.

"What?"

"Did you see that?" she whispered, making sure our girls didn't hear.

"No, what."

"The homeless women was gone."

"I didn't notice."

"You didn't see the yellow tape blocking off where she was?"

"No, I didn't," I said, although the sulfurous decay smell had been stronger this time.

"There was a big human waste stain on the bench and on the concrete under where she sat. So sad."

That image floored me. We crossed Harbor Boulevard and I couldn't get it out of my head.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. You didn't see it?"

I didn't want to turn around to look. "No, but now I do. Thank you."

My faint attempt at humor was lost on her. "She's gone. The homeless woman. "

"Wow. I wonder if she --"

"I know. We've should've done something. I should've called someone. I feel horrible," the Mama whispered, her voice trailing off.

Later on our way back to the hotel room, we passed the benches again, which at this point had been hosed down along with the sidewalk underneath them. No one sat on them and the stench still hung in the air. The few people who seemed to be waiting for an actual bus stood away from the benches.

My wife struggled with everyone's inaction to this homeless woman's plight, especially her own. It had all been washed away. Literally. And then completely removed, only the footprints of the benches remained like scars in the sidewalk concrete. Again, I empathized, but moved on to worrying about battling the dense crowds and getting our return on investment with the rides and the character sightings and signatures.

Eventually my worrying turned a little broader and darker as I thought about what the coming New Year would bring -- global conflict, another recession, civil unrest, maybe a zombie apocalypse and God knows what else. I worried about my wife marching in the local Women's March on Washington next month. All of us are marching in it actually, and so I worried about all of our safety, even in this still peaceful bastion of progressiveness called Santa Cruz. The march mission across the country is to stand together in solidarity with our partners and children for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families.

But what about the homeless woman's safety and health? Why did her family and community fail her? If this was a test from God, then I failed miserably. I didn't even feel committed to Kidpower's commitment to integrity and safety for everyone. Not my problem. Somebody else's. I have my own first world kind to deal with here in New Pottersville. That much I thought about while we waited in line for the Storybook Land ride.

That, and the fact that on the night before we left for our Disneyland trip, Christmas Day, a young white guy with a scraggly beard wearing a hoodie sweatshirt rang our doorbell. I answered the door and although he looked to be well-dressed with a new knapsack, and not homeless, he proceeded to tell me he was trying to make his way up north to somewhere undecipherable and wanted to know if we had any fresh "tasties" we could give to him -- food that is -- and he kept asking me for different kinds of food, although I kept saying no.

After less than a minute, I shut the door on him. Maybe he was legit, maybe he wasn't, maybe it was another test from God. I'll never know. I did tell our neighbors to keep an eye out just in case. I should've never answered the door anyway. It wasn't that late, but unless we know who it is, we don't answer the door after 7:00, and we've lived in a relatively safe neighborhood for over 10 years now. And who the hell knocks on your door at 7:30 at night on Christmas Day anyway?

And who the hell lets an obviously "sick" elderly woman become homeless and possibly die in a pile of her own feces at a bus stop in Anaheim across the street from Disneyland during the holidays?

After this year, it just feels like we're all a long way from the happiest place on earth. Maybe it's just me and my clouded perception. I don't really know. A good friend of mine who was an amazing artist and who volunteered for marine mammal rescue locally passed away suddenly earlier this month, and he wasn't too much older than me. Feeling the road as I already do, it just added to my angry yet impotent introspection of late.

Maybe it's not all so bad after all, though. I mean, our family is healthy and our girls have grit and we have a home and employment and causes we believe in and we love and care for one another, our families, our friends. And we do live in a community that mostly embodies similar spirits. Even when I doubt a little, or a lot, I still have faith we'll be strong and persevere, and that our girls will as well.

Someone reminded me recently that everything that happens is God's will and we're just living His plan for us all. I grew up in the Christian faith hearing that every single Sunday bloody Sunday. But I've always struggled with it, and I don't believe that's how life works, because our will is God's will is our will.

There are no divine tests as referenced above, only our lives, our wills and the decisions we make, the actions or inactions we take. We should've called for that homeless woman on the bench, but we didn't. That won't happen again. (The jury's still out for the guy at our door, though.)

Today, when empathy and faith aren't enough, our complex collective wills need to take progressive actions. The kind that will make a difference in the years to come for ourselves and our children. Mostly positive and peaceful actions, but also a throat punch or two delivered to indifference and incivility as needed.

We know how incrementally complex our lives can become, how vitality and happiness are relative spectrums we try really hard to stay centered in. The Mama and I pledge to stay centered and fight the good fight together to protect our rights, our safety, our health, our family, our community and our country. Because no other wills will do.

Not cool to trash Baby B’s city. Not cool.

This week we had our annual homeowners' association meeting. The past two years we've lived here I've been on the board and Amy and I have been very involved in the neighborhood.

One problem we've had to deal with is the land across the street from us – and the landowner. The land is unkempt, weeds rampant, trash accumulates, homeless use it as a weigh station locking up their bikes and washing up (which has decreased dramatically of late thank goodness), and the landowner just doesn't care.

We tried the diplomatic route to get him to clean it up, we hired a lawyer to try to force him to comply via the city of Santa Cruz, but to no avail either way. In fact, the city told us that since no major ordinances are being violated (although the landowner has been cited multiple times in the past), we should deal with it elsewhere because the city has too many more important issues to deal with.

Like the fact that the city budget shortfall will reduce the number of officers on the street, marijuana's been decriminalized in the city and now we have a grow house around the corner, and this kind of out of control crap is tolerated downtown (our nutty, eclectic downtown we love). Granted, the article points out that almost 200 arrests have been made downtown over the past year, but at the expense of local partiers and homeless addicts trashing corners and making it unsafe for families. And did there really need to be 200 arrests? C'mon.

I embrace diversity and am progressively tolerant – but not for those who aren't personally responsible, who aren't getting help and taking advantage of the city's services. And it's not cool to trash Baby B's city, whether it's across the street or downtown or along the beach. And it's not cool to not take care of your property.

So there.

Who you lookin' at?

It’s Not the Summer of Love, Folks

No better way to launch my new blog that with the letter to the editor I sent to the Santa Cruz Sentinel this past Sunday:

The city and county of Santa Cruz are not free campgrounds. Yet, much of the transient population feels that they are entitled to camp wherever they want because of Santa Cruz’s longtime progressive political landscape.

When I read the articles about the homeless protest at city hall last week and the follow-up booting by the police department, my frustration had reached its end. I am a strong believer in personal responsibility and trying to get back on your feet as best as you can. There are many homeless services in Santa Cruz, including the Homeless Service Center, whose aim is to help those to help themselves, including the mentally ill. I empathize and as a tax payer I’m happy to pay for these local services.

However, the real problem is the drug-using, criminal homeless population – many of whom aren’t even from the area – who are the bane of our beautiful city. We’re involved with the Santa Cruz Neighbors and have a Neighborhood Watch group and we’ve talked with the police about how difficult this population makes their jobs (and how the political climate enables the homeless to come and stay).

I’ve also been on a ride along with the city park ranger, John Wallace. John has shown me first hand how dangerous and filthy the homeless campsites can be. And yet the supposed city hall homeless activists want the city to give up a piece of land that they promise to manage and police? C’mon, it’s not the summer of love and it didn’t work then either.

We live in a newly developed area on the west side and a regular transient flow to and from the Moore Creek area. There’s also a strip of undeveloped private property along Grandview St. where we live that has become a regular homeless rest stop; they fill up their water jugs, wash themselves off, dump their trash, fight with each other over cigarettes (and who knows what else), defecate and urinate, and sometimes even take a leisurely cat nap.

In fact, as I write this I watch three of the regular campers walk and ride bikes down our street, one of them stopping to fill their water bottle.

Thank goodness the city has hired new park rangers to work alongside John Wallace to patrol our parks and open spaces. It’s time to clean up and clear out these dangerous homeless campsites and campers – and let’s continue to help those who want to help themselves and no longer tolerate Santa Cruz as one big KOA campground.

More to come...