The Age of Wrath: Part 2

The Homeless Live Like Zombies

Albuquerque, N.M. An improvised barrier manned by a portly black man who checks my name off on his clipboard. I have an appointment with Jonathan, manager of Joy Junction, a Christian homeless shelter. Behind me, a yellow school bus drives into the dusty parking lot. A constant stream of freight trains rolls past, their whistles blaring.

Several flat-roofed houses on the largest of which hangs a huge cross outlined with light bulbs. Air conditioners snarl and a screen door rattles in the wind. Jonathan is lean and muscular with a firm handshake and looks you straight in the eye. He’s articulate, as most Americans are, and he immediately starts reeling off his statistics. Joy Junction serves 16,000 meals every month and can shelter 300 people per night. It covers an area of two square kilometers between the street and the river and has an annual budget of nearly $3 million. Their motto is “Never turn them away.” In emergencies with no immediate alternative, they will put families up in hotel rooms. Jonathan says that families are especially vulnerable, families and veterans. They’re threatened by alcohol, drugs, debt and mortgages. Sometimes they’re threatened with beatings from dad.

I ask Jonathan how many homeless people there are in Albuquerque. Depends who you ask, he says. The Housing Department says 2,800. The School Board says 6,000 children claim their parents are homeless. Two years ago, only 3,500 children made that claim. Albuquerque’s population is around 500,000.

They’re like zombies living among us, Jonathan says. Like the undead in horror films. The same shuffling gait when they walk. The same ravaged faces. The tattered clothing, their speechlessness. One can ignore them, but they never go away.

“I know what I’m talking about,” Jonathan says.

It took me a while to understand what he meant.

“Four years ago, I was on the other side — a manager in California with 15 years experience and working 17-hour days. Then I had a minor heart attack at age 35. I recovered quickly, but nobody wanted to hire me after that. Too risky. Maybe I couldn’t take the stress. No more job, no more house, no more health insurance and five children to feed, all girls from one to 10 years old. Then came total collapse: I became deeply depressed.”

Jonathan and his family wound up at Joy Junction. They were allowed to stay there nine months, on leave from his job. They were cared for and began to recover — spiritually, physically, emotionally and socially. Now he manages the shelter that sheltered him.

Mealtime for the Homeless: Children First, Then Their Parents, Then Singles

Shelter for the “Okies,” the job seekers from Oklahoma, hardly got mentioned in the mass media of the 1930s — about as seldom as today’s homeless. John Steinbeck had no idea of the problem until photographer Dorothea Lange’s husband took him on a tour through one of the camps.

Sleeping time ends at 7:00 AM; at 7:15 the beds and mattresses are stowed away, tables are set up and breakfast is served. Some dress in business suits, work in offices in Albuquerque, then return to the shelter at dinnertime.

Dinner is the major meal of the day in America and at Joy Junction as well. It’s the one time of the day when the residents don’t have to stand in line. Once a day, they’re served a sit-down dinner at the table.

“You can’t understand what it’s like unless you experience it,” Jonathan tells me. “Do you want to help?”

TO BE CONTINUED