Homeless, Colorado

A man with a teardrop tattoo reached into my truck at a gas station. It’s weird because there was a disparity between his words and his actions. He called me “sir.” He was asking for a handout, but he was trying to take. I slammed my door quickly. He pulled his hand out just in time to avoid a few broken bones. He leaned in to check his face in my side-view mirror. Maybe he wanted to see why he’d repulsed me so vehemently. Maybe he was just checking to make sure his artificial teardrop was in place. And then he walked away as if nothing had happened.

What was I supposed to do? All I had were 20s. Should I have used my money to contribute to the track marks on his arm? Should I have gotten out and confronted him? I would have won that contest, but what would it have done to me in the long run? I drove away, thinking about the homeless problem in Durango. Fat raindrops exploded on my windshield like turgid little water balloons.

The homeless are rampant here. On a recent outing, I counted nine homeless mid-siesta in Iris Park, surrounded by million dollar houses. They’re everywhere, and they’re allowed to be. According to the ACLU, disallowing panhandling infringes on free speech. When the homeless beg, they’re speaking freely through their actions. I’m a left-leaning independent like most of us in this town, but even that seems like a stretch. When it comes to “free speech,” I doubt our Constitution’s framers were thinking about handouts and cardboard signs.

I know you’ve had your own experiences. You’ve probably dealt with that career panderer at the intersection of 550 and 160. He dresses from head to toe in Broncos gear. I once gave him $5. He told me I needed to “pray” for him to find a ride to New Mexico. There were too many liberals here, and it was getting cold. He must’ve mistaken me for a conservative sympathizer thanks to my company truck and white skin. I was insulted. I told him New Mexico was just a five-hour walk, and that if he started now, he’d be there in time for dinner. He told me he had too much luggage back at the hotel and that the walk would be difficult because he had a cat. WTF? My words deserted me. The light turned green and I drove away regretting my $5 loss.

And then there’s Walmart parking lot – a veritable carnival for the homeless. A sad-looking teenage girl with a puppy and a religious cardboard sign almost earned a few alms as I drove by, but I was still shell-shocked from my experience with the Broncos fan. I watched her for a bit. Her shift ended, and she walked back to a motor home attached to a Dodge pick-up that was nicer than the truck from which I performed my stakeout. There was a box of puppies and a stack of signs by the motor home. There was a herd of “homeless” children with two adults – a man and a woman – acting as shepherds.

Stories like this are ubiquitous. A man and a woman asked my wife for money as she walked out of Subway. She said no, and they countered with “we take sandwiches, too.” I took my family to dinner on Main Avenue, and as we walked out armed with Styrofoam boxes, a herd of homeless men in their 20s asked for our leftovers. My 7-year-old daughter gave them death stares (she’s rather protective of her leftovers) and I declined politely, saying that the food was for my children. We walked away with a feeling of despair in our guts.

What to do? Labeling panhandling as illegal won’t work. So do we just live and let live? Let’s face it, there are a few homeless people who actually need our charity, like the woman who hangs out by the yogurt place. She needs our help, and always gets it from me, because she doesn’t have boot straps with which to pull herself up.

Solutions seem to be as scarce as vagrant-free street corners. This problem isn’t going away on its own. There’s an illegal homeless camp in the woods north of Manna Soup Kitchen. If the visceral fear of being eaten alive isn’t going to dissuade them, our spiteful sneers and exclusionary rhetoric won’t do a damned thing either. We have two options: let it be, or fix it. 

 Where would option No. 1 lead us? If you think about it, the homeless want to be here for the same reason we do: Durango is awesome (and let’s face it, pot is legal). So let’s look at someplace else that’s just as awesome, say, Key West, Fla. (The wife and I spent time there this spring, and I observed firsthand a highly evolved homeless population.) It’s always warm and there are plenty of tourists – a perfect place to be homeless.

But, you see, there’s competition between panhandlers. They’re constantly trying to outdo their compatriots. At first, they battle through their signs. They get more and more desperate touching on all of the bases (I have kids, I’m hungry, anything helps, god bless). And then they try honesty and humor (I need beer, I bet you can’t hit me with a quarter, ninjas killed my family and I need money for Kung Fu lessons). After the signs, comes performance art. In Key West, you see them dressed as Darth Vader playing the banjo. Mark my words: in a year or so, you’ll see Spiderman standing on Main. Would it really be that bad? Hell, maybe it would add a bit of flavor to this already flavorful town.

But, if it’s something you think needs rectifying, there’s only one way: outreach.  

You can’t make an undesirable thing illegal and expect it to disappear. We’ve learned that time and time again through Prohibition, the War on Drugs and gun control. We need to help the homeless. We need to fight fire with water, not more fire. We need an army of volunteers. We need to help the homeless choose something better, something healthier. These liaisons can wear uniforms and arm themselves with strong stomachs and rehearsed speeches. “Excuse me sir, are you OK? Will you please follow me to the community center where I can feed you and show you a way out of this hole? I’ll walk with you. I’ll be seen with you and I’ll treat you like a human, because I know that we share the same DNA. If you and I were switched at birth, I’d probably end up just where you are. I know you don’t really want to live like this. Share with me your story. I’ll listen. I’ll give you help that goes beyond a few dollars for your next meal, your next fix, your next mistake. I’ll help you find work, I’ll lead you to a new place, a place that allows you to help others like yourself. Wouldn’t that be incredible? Wouldn’t you chose that over this street corner? Take my hand.”

Or maybe I should go out and practice what I preach. And maybe, instead of sneering or handing him a few dollars, you should do the same (unless you’re looking forward to a busking Darth Vader). Because Durango is our home, and when something is amiss in your home, you fix it.

– J.J. Anderson