Bloggers Unite for Refugees

 Since I found out about Bloggers Unite I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around what I could write about relating to this months topic of refugees.  Then, the obvious chant echoed in my head, “Write what you know.”    While I hate to admit it, I don’t know enough about the current situations of refugees around the world to speak intelligently about the subject.  But I do have some experience related to the refugees in my own backyard.

 In the 80’s I remember hearing a new phrase: “Urban American Refugee”.  Soon this was replaced with a simpler term: “homeless”.  However, this didn’t refer to the “bums on skid row” that we thought of when we imagined people living on the street.  These were families with kids huddled in cardboard boxes and lined up at outdoor soup kitchens in cities all over the country.  One wrong step on the path of life had sent them falling over a cliff, landing in an impossible situation. 

They had no residence so nobody would hire them, and without employment they couldn’t afford a place to live.  Without a home address the children weren’t allowed in the school system, and without basic education their future was all too predictable.  Their Catch-22 situation ripped apart families as parents were forced to give up their children in order to save them.  I remember seeing countless stories on the subject that tore at my heart.  I contributed what I could to projects like Comic Relief and urged family and friends to do the same.

About this time I was doing some part-time work as a “cater-waiter” in Denver to earn extra money for the holidays.  In conjunction with a church charity, a movie theatre booked us to do a “special event” for homeless families.  Families were invited to a G-rated movie for the kids and popular holiday sweets were served to make their holiday a little brighter.  

On the day of the event, there was a beautiful snow storm.  It was heavy, wet snow.  Annoying to drive in, but the kind you don’t mind because it transformed the city into a remarkably beautiful winter wonderland.  As I stood there in my itchy cater-waiter tux offering fruit juice and hot cocoa to the kids, I watched the blanket of white get thicker, deeper, and more Norman Rockwell-esque by the moment.  I was filled with a nice “warm fuzzy” feeling because I was doing something to would make these families have a merrier Christmas.  

As I looked at the other caterers I could tell they felt the same.  Their smiles were different than the predictably plastic grins we glued to our faces at other events.  This time the smiles were real.  We were making a difference.  We were part of the solution, improving the lives of these long-suffering families.  Then, after the movie ended and we were packing to go home, my soft and gooey inner-glow was frozen solid by the angry voice of one of the homeless fathers.  His frustration echoed through the theatre as he pointed at the snow, “What are we supposed to do now?!”  The futility of what we had done hit me like a sharp rock to the temple.  

The heavy snow had been falling continuously since before the event began and was easily up to my knees by now.  The families had been brought in on busses, but the busses were gone – it was a one-way ride.  The area of the city with the homeless shelters was at least 70 blocks away and the temperature was falling.  Snow means shelters fill up fast.  These families were likely to be left out in the cold, and it was guaranteed to be a night so cold it burned.  The organizers of this “special event” didn’t consider the reality of the beneficiary’s daily lives.  They were brought to an area of the city that may as well be Siberia for them.  We’d filled their bellies with empty sugar calories and now we were sending them out into the bitter cold without so much as a pair of dry socks.  Never had the phrase “The road to hell is paved with good intentions” meant so much to me. 

While I waited for my car to warm up enough to drive home, I noticed a handful of families huddled together in the entryway of the theatre.  I saw others slowly trudging through the snow.  They knew they may as well start back because it was going to get a lot colder before it got warmer.  The theatre would be opening to the public and their gracious hosts would soon be chasing them away to clear a path for the paying customers who would be offended by their presence. 

I pulled out of the parking lot as soon as my car was warm enough to drive. My destination was in the same direction as the walking families, but instead I went the opposite way. I didn’t want to risk getting stopped at a red light and catching the disappointed eyes of the people I’d hurt, if only by association.  At that moment I felt about as socially responsible as Marie Antoinette, and I’d even been serving the cake. 

The snow continued to fall all weekend long.  It wasn’t as beautiful as it used to be, at least not for me.  And every holiday sweet I had that year tasted just a little bit bitter.  However, on the other side of the equation, my drafty apartment didn’t seem so cold that winter, and the distances I had to walk in the snow seemed a lot shorter. 

Fast forward more years than I’d like to count.  Just like any long-term problem, homelessness drifted from the headlines and was replaced by another story demanding society’s outrage.  Stories about the homeless became as invisible as the homeless themselves- seen, but unnoticed.  Stories about people who pretended to be homeless and scammed drivers at red lights replaced the faces of the homeless children on the evening news.  And, while I hate to admit it, I’d moved on too. 

Then a few years ago the cold and unforgiving waters of hurricanes Katrina and Rita washed the Urban American Refugee back into the headlines.  In a matter of hours, the lives and livelihoods of thousands of families were swept out to sea.  Those who were teetering on the verge of homelessness had just been pushed over the edge.  And those who thought homelessness only happened to other people discovered that the remainder of their lives could fit in a shopping cart. 

A very good friend of mine is director for the Texas Homeless Network, and I remember him telling me Katrina caused the number of homeless in the city of Austin to double overnight.  When I told him I was writing this post, he gave me some information that’s both encouraging and disturbing at the same time.  

At any given time there are approximately 6000 people experiencing homelessness in the city of Austin.  After hurricane Katrina, 6000 more homeless people came to Austin from New Orleans and were placed into the system.  Within about 2 weeks, the city of Austin and various non-profits were able to get housing for almost all of the evacuees.  This begs the question:  Why couldn’t we do it for the people who were already homeless?

As we head into the holiday season we’ll start to see the perennial red kettle in front of retail stores.  We’ll see features on the news about food pantries, toy drives, and other ways for us to make a difference in the lives of the homeless and others less fortunate than ourselves.  Many of us will open our wallets and our hearts to contribute.  Then after Christmas we’ll make a New Year’s resolution to do something to make our lives better.  While giving of ourselves during the holidays is a good thing, if it only happens once a year, the long-term effect is similar to the special event I catered so many years ago.  It’s a short-lived “warm fuzzy.” 

This year I’m proposing something a little different.  How about if we don’t wait until next December to give of ourselves again?  How about if we volunteer our time more often than Thanksgiving and Christmas?  How about if our New Year’s resolutions aren’t about making our lives better, but about making someone else’s life better?  And how about if this is the year we keep that resolution? 

Final thought:  There will always be problems in the world that seem insurmountable, and there will always be another sensational story to make the last one fade into the background.  But just because the story isn’t being written doesn’t mean it isn’t being lived.