The 3-H Club

When was the last time you heard the word hobo? I hear it with surprising frequency, as my daughters think a hobo is any person down on his luck. I have tried to explain to them that the life of a hobo is more than just a downward turn. It is a hardscrabble life, men with an ever present five o’clock shadow, bandana knapsacks tied to a stick over one shoulder, riding the rails from one town to the next, eating beans out of a can heated over an open flame. The hobos sit on stumps and overturned pails, the light from the fire illuminating their rough features as they share their stories of like on the tracks. I have even showed them pictures of Boxcar Willie, that hobo’s hobo.

Well, the railroad connection is lost on my children. We have the same issue for hillbilly; the “hill” part has no meaning for them. The focus instead on the silly way it sounds. To my girls, hillbilly is a stupid word used for stupid people, and while it makes them dance around and stick their teeth out, it does not make them think of the Hatfields, the McCoys, or even any part of Kentucky.

But why the analysis of the misuse of hobo and hillbilly? A few weekends ago was the twentieth anniversary of United Ministries’ Walk for the Homeless. The three mile charity walk is a well attended event which raises oodles of money for different programs in the upstate of South Carolina, all geared to help the homeless both with their immediate needs and they long term goals. The event is so successful because of the support of area churches and religious groups which form large teams of walkers with a great fundraising capacity.

We learned of the walk not by the social action committee of our temples, since, shame on us, we don’t have one, but from my friend, MJ, and her daughter, AJ. MJ lives to serve her fellow man. She not only publishes a senior resource guide, she also volunteers in capacities not seen in the under 40 crowd. When she’s not supporting some cause or another, she is fostering that spirit of goodwill in her daughter.

The night before the walk, AJ slept over with my daughter, E. She came in and flopped on the couch, and the two of them began to play an imaginary game which revolved around the walk the next day. I sat behind them and acted as if I were engrossed in a computer game. I kept my mouth shut so they would forget I was in the room.

One of them pretended to be a reporter interviewing the other one who pretended to be a homeless person. If I heard correctly, the game was called “Interview with a Hobo.” Here are some sample questions and answers:

AJ (as interviewer): What is your favorite food to eat?
E (as hobo/homeless person): I like spaghetti and meatballs and sushi a lot.
AJ: And where do you live?
E: Under the bridge, near the highway.
AJ: Do you have a cardboard box?
E: I have two. They’re very roomy.
AJ: What do you do for fun?
E: I look for places to live. And I walk a lot.

I am pretty sure AJ asked things about pets and favorite colors, which I thought was sweet. I bet homeless people don’t get asked about their pets and favorite colors very often.

They switched roles at one point, and E asked AJ similar questions. What struck me was how little either of them understood what it meant to be homeless. We live in a house with more toilets than family members. AJ’s parents are divorced, so she has not one but two houses to call home. To the two of them, being homeless meant nothing, in the same way that hobos are unlucky slobs and hillbillies are goofy.

I, however, do know what it means to be homeless. When I was a senior in college, my mother remarried and moved from my hometown in Florida to a big city in the Midwest. I no longer had a home to go to, and the bulk of my belongings from my childhood bedroom fit inside two white office storage boxes. One month after my mom moved, my roommates moved out of our shared college apartment with no warning or concern for our rental agreement. I handed their parent’s information over to my landlord in exchange for the termination of the lease and my share of the security deposit. Which meant I was free, but also that I had nowhere to go. I lived off campus at the time, and it never occurred to me to seek aid from the housing office, especially since I had less than three months until graduation.

I stayed on my boyfriend’s couch for a few nights and asked everyone I know if anyone needed a roommate, but mid-semester is not a good time to hastily change living arrangements. Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s uncle had a vacant apartment downstairs from his dental office, more like a basement with a sitting area, a closet sized bathroom, and a kitchenette than an actual apartment. He agreed to let me live there until graduation for the same amount of rent I had paid for my share of the apartment, which was $143 a month and all I could afford at the tail end of the school year.

As appreciative as I was for his generosity, I hated living there. His office building was located on a highway across from a small state park which was known more for its illicit activities than its natural beauty. One window had a bullet hole through it, and the unused kitchenette had become home to more than a few large roaches and their many tiny offspring.

The main storage room became my bedroom, with my second hand twin bed scooted against one wall while the rest of the large dark room was overrun with a collection of antique furniture and cardboard boxes. I never unpacked my clothes, since I didn’t have a dresser, but kept them in the boxes I had clustered around my bed. I would close the door to sleep because the bullet hole in the window freaked me out, but the darkness of the room with the door closed would freak me out worse. I didn’t sleep until after graduation.

I didn’t share my story with AJ or my daughter. Instead, I tried to point out that being homeless for most people is not a choice. While they may have made other poor choices that led to their current lack of living arrangements, they certainly didn’t think having no home is a lifestyle. I emphasized the need for us to be sensitive to other people’s misfortune and life circumstances, and also to appreciate what we have.

The next day, we walked for, and occasionally, with, the homeless. It was a cold, blustery afternoon despite the bright sunshine, and if it weren’t for the massive crowd surrounding us and leading the way, I would not have known where the hell I was, even though I’ve lived in their town for twelve years. The walk route followed the path that the homeless walk to find services, and along the way, the girls, acting as tour guides, would point out service locations as landmarks. We stopped at water stations along the route, and made conversation with friends we saw while walking. After we completed the three mile loop, MJ drove us to another sketchy part of town to get Blizzards from the Dairy Queen. And after that, we returned to our cozy, well appointed homes.

I don’t know if AJ and E had a better understanding of what being homeless means, or at least, the difference between a hobo, a hillbilly, and a homeless person. But I do know that even the free t-shirt made E a little sad, and with that sadness came a lesson that stuck somewhere in that spongy absorbent brain of hers. Raising the awareness of one child is still raising awareness, even if the benefit won’t be appreciated for years to come.