Homeless...and then I went home

A 24-hour brush with Winnipeg’s toughest, poorest, most invisible youth

For most Winnipeggers, homelessness exists on the periphery of our lives. It’s relatively easy to ignore – that is, until you’re forced to live it. As part of an event organized by Resource Assistance for Youth (RaY), a support agency for street youth, I agreed to spend a full 24 hours with a group of young people who have lived most of their lives on the streets.

This is part one of a two-part series on my day on the street.

• • • •

I arrive at RaY and am paired up with Kristy, 24 and Adam, 21 – they’ll be my guides for the day. Both left home when they were in their early teens and both are now transitioning themselves off the street.

I’m not permitted to have any ID, contact numbers, supplies or extra clothing. My driver’s license is taken away and I’m given one loonie and a bus ticket. I have nothing else except for the clothes on my back.

As of 10:30 a.m., I am officially homeless. We head out.

• • • •

We walk for hours with no destination and no real game plan – up Broadway, down Portage, back over to Assiniboine, up to the Forks, back down to the Village. We cross the same intersections several times in different directions. This, I’m told, is a typical day. Boredom is an issue, but with no money, there’s not much you can do.

Kristy and Adam expertly navigate the maze of downtown skywalks and underground corridors. So long as you keep walking, you won’t get hassled by security, making them appealing places to stay warm on cold winter nights. They point out heated parking garages where they’ve slept in the past.

As we walk, we talk about how they ended up on the street and they share snippets of their backgrounds.

Kristy left home when she was 14. She said she didn’t fit in, and felt like a burden to her family. Adam’s mom had died when he was little, and his dad was a drug addict, which he says “makes everything harder.” It’s both cryptic and insightful. When Adam was 13, his dad left and never came back. Just like that, Adam was on his own.

I ask if he had considered tapping into Winnipeg’s social safety net. CFS comes up and both Kristy and Adam look at me like I’m crazy. I’m told it’s far safer on the streets than it is in a group home.

By 2 p.m. my knees and hips have started to ache. A lot of street youth have joint problems – the trick is to keep moving. If you stop, the pain gets worse.

• • • •

We loop around the Convention Centre on a butt run, scouring the ground and the concrete ashtrays for cigarettes that still have some tobacco left in them. These get dropped in a Ziploc baggie, to be taken apart later.

The youth I meet smoke constantly – it suppresses the appetite, calms the nerves and keeps you warm. To be able to do this, they scavenge butts, buy cigarettes off strangers, or barter. There’s a store on Main Street that will trade one bus ticket for two smokes, or a full sheet for a pack.

• • • •

Around 3 p.m., we decide to try and get me on welfare.

Homelessness is a bit of a misnomer, since social assistance affords some people a residence but little else. I’m told about a scuzzy rooming house on Furby that has crammed 28 individual rooms into an old three-storey – its residents expected to share one stove and two bathrooms. Even here, rooms start at $260 a month. It’s unfathomable to me.

Kristy once lived in a rooming house that was so unsafe, she literally nailed boards across her door every night. Now, she has a two-bedroom apartment. After rent, she has $200 left to live on for the entire month but she’s says it’s okay because she doesn’t eat much.

Other people I meet have never been on social assistance. They support themselves mainly through panhandling, squeegeeing or flagging (holding up a sign). Some feel they don’t need it, some are against it on principle, while others have trouble complying with the various requirements.

There are lots of routines on the street, but not a lot of structure – one reason why some people have problems holding onto a job. If you’ve only slept for an hour or two under a bridge and you haven’t eaten for a while, your daily priorities shift. If you’ve been eating out of dumpsters and panhandling since you were a child, a ‘regular’ job can be frustrating.

The Rorie Street welfare office is where all intake appointments are made. Inside, there’s a long counter with wickets and I step up and explain that I don’t have a place to stay. I say I haven’t had work in a year, but I draw a blank when asked how I’ve been making money. It shows on my face.

I’m sure the clerk knows I’m lying, but she stays polite. When I bring up the fact that I don’t have any ID, I have to lie to her again.

She asks me a series of questions, including whether I have any addictions. Given that this women stands between me and money, the only appropriate answer seems to be no. I’m given an appointment for two days later – not for an actual intake, but for a consultation with the job bank. The implication is that I’m employable, not destitute.

The whole process takes about 15 minutes, which amazes everyone. Usually, it takes hours just to talk to someone, I’m told.

We’re also impressed by the clerk’s respectful demeanor. Some welfare workers are great, while others are by the book but “not a-holes about it.” Some are downright mean – how you’re treated depends on who you get.

They think the way I’m dressed has something to do with my treatment. I’m teased that my pants are too clean and my scarf doesn’t look like I’ve been wearing it for weeks.

• • • •

Later on, we meet up with the others and head down to the Union Gospel Mission on Princess Street for dinner. We’re a group of 15 people and two dogs, which makes me feel safe.

North Main Street feels grim. It’s now dark, and groups of people are gathering outside of the various homeless shelters on the strip, waiting to be allowed in.

Winnipeg’s homeless community is not a homogenous group. It divides itself by neighborhood boundaries and along racial lines. Adam says he rarely crosses Portage Ave – as a young white male, he’s not welcome there. He’s also not welcome in the suburbs, where he says he’d be hassled by jocks. He tells me the one time he stayed at a downtown shelter, someone stole his shoes while he slept.

The mission doesn’t allow dogs inside, which is a problem. This is not an area where we can leave them unattended, so we huddle up to discuss our options. Only seven of us decide to stay. I get the feeling the others would rather be hungry in the Village then hang around here.

There’s a catch to eating at this particular mission – before we get fed, we’re required to sit through a half-hour church service.

Rows of folding chairs are set up in a room decorated with posters of bible verses. The majority of people fit the stereotype of a homeless Winnipegger – they’re male, aboriginal, and rough looking. I count six women in a room of more than 50.

As the minister launches into an acappela rendition of Amazing Grace, a man starts convulsing in his chair and the person sitting behind him reaches out and rubs his back until it passes. It’s as surreal as it is disturbing.

Tonight’s sermon is about idols. The couple in front of me can’t sit still and talk through the entire service, earning a few hostile looks from those trying to listen. Other people sit completely motionless, staring at nothing.

Despite the encouraging words and the small act of kindness that I just witnessed, there seems to be very little hope here. I feel like I’m in a room of lost souls.

When the service is over, I get in line for my first meal of the day. It’s 8 p.m.

I receive a bowl of something that’s half soup, half stew. It has ground beef in it, as well as potatoes, spaghetti noodles and vegetables. It’s served with a bun, an apple and water, and it’s warm and filling. No one at my table talks.