I haven't written in a while in this journal of mine... my dreams of rising from poverty and becoming self-sufficient. One might think that nothing has happened or I haven't done anything in this area and that's why I haven't written, as if there wasn't anything to tell. That's certainly not the case. I just got a call from a Fischer Signs tonight. This was a place I stopped in while walking home from work some time back. I believe the store must have said something about they were hiring so I thought I'd check. It seemed like it just wasn't a job that would work out for me, meaning I didn't have the skills they he needed - hands on trademan skills. Apparently there is work this Thursday and Friday. Heck, if I can keep the job at Eckerd's at least it's longer term and there is a conflict in the work schedule, as I'm scheduled at Eckerd's this week for more hours than I had been getting.
I got a good lead from Susan Adams at Vocational Rehabilitation on a job with the University of NC. It involved using Flash and doing web design... seemed like a good match. So, I sent resume and cover letter by email and by mail/fax. There was a few other good jobs that I noticed in local papers this week from human services (social work) to counseling to web design. Perhaps I look too unfocused. No, I don't suppose any employer is aware of the different leads I pursue... unless they read this. I sure wish someone of these would turn into interviews. Speaking of interviews, the one I did get at DSS fell through. I was to have heard something by now if I was chosen. The wording during the interview was pretty clearly, "don't call us, we'll call you." Oh, well. I work at finding work and keep doing the same efforts.
Bruce

These days I seek any form of employment. I work at Eckerd Photolab which requires none of my education - no college training is required for the job. Hours got cut back and I only get a few hours a week (less than 10 this past week). So, that creates even more need to get additional work. I was across the street from work at the Family Dollar store. The manager sees me there often and I said about them cutting back at Eckerd and asked if they were hiring. She said not now but to try later. I do hope that later I will have a salaried position where I won't need to look for near minimum wage jobs. I did get a call from the Department of Social Services requesting an interview about one of the positions for which I had applied - one of three Social Worker III positions. In each position they have about 2-6 openings.

I had called the district office for Eckerds last week seeking to get involved in a managment training job. The district manager said he needed someone with more retail experience but I could try advancement within the photo department. I had tried that route and was told to look for the store's photo manager to recommend me for advancement - this was conveyed by the district photo lab manager. Instead of moving upward, I've seen my hours cut back, as I mentioned. Part of it is due to the overall store cutbacks but the manager also said that he would use the most reliable people the most. I believe that using the bus at times has made me appear less than reliable. There is no way, unfortunately, that I could afford a car payment now.
If I get a new job I could afford a car payment. In particular, I'm thinking of some of the jobs in fields related to web design for which I have been applying for work. There a number of positions in the Triangle Area (Durham/Chapel Hill/Raleigh NC) where I have been applying for work. I see jobs of this nature listed on monster.com and at triangle.jobs among other sites online.

Over the past few weeks, I have been getting listed with various employment agencies, making myself available for both temporary work, temporary to permanent and for career type positions, or any form of permanent work. Most agencies get impressed with my resume but say the opportunities are limited in those professional agencies - I should say the agencies with whom I spoke provide this feedback (most of them). However, I tell them that I need whatever is available and point out that I have been working at a job that doesn't use any of my advanced education or skills.
More later...

When I think of having been homeless back in early 2002, I wonder how this could be so. My father had an Engineering degree and that was the first degree I pursued. My father was able to buy a big home where we grew up in Southington, CT. To me, it was big, like the other houses in our neighborhood. I'm thinking of the home that we were in for about a decade when I left for college in 84. I began college with hope and potential. I had graduated 13th out of 565, that was the rank I was told. I am not sure if they told everyone their class ranking or how exactly it was determined such that all 565 people could be ranked. I hadn't had a chance to nurture certain talents of mine or gain appreciation for them. Perhaps it's just easier to measure competency in math and science or to give recognition to the challenge that Chemistry, Physics and math present. That was the picture of myself I had when I was choosing a college and an area to study.
I thought for sure I was meant to be an engineer. I considered Aerospace Engineering, Mechanical Engineering and Electrical Engineering. For some reason, the University of Connecticut wasn't perceived as prestigious enough for me, when I was selecting colleges that had Engineering programs. I learned about the best Engineering Colleges and applied to a few. All the colleges were out of state and Georgia Tech was said to be prestigious. So, that was my choice from among the colleges that accepted me. I was somewhat shy and nervous about going so far away but it seemed that it was just something I had to do. With a degree from Georgia Tech, I imagined I'd have a prosperous future ahead of me, at least financially so. Engineers could make large salaries I knew and I knew I would get that degree.

Based on the feedback from poetry editor Jean Jones, this revision was written to the previous report entitled Street People
Kafka attends a Protest March
(A Prose Poem)

It seemed very surreal as I wandered among strangers in the crowd. I had no idea how large the crowd was on the Mall. All I could see were posters of various kinds, a diversity of people with my view extending all of 20 feet or so in all direction. I could see the Capital Building in one direction and the Washington Monument in the other direction. I could hear the speakers but could not see them. Later, someone who had been to previous marches on Washington said that the stage is often considerably higher.

I went up there knowing no one and was a no one in the crowd. I could look like a tourist or a protestor depending on where I walked or stood. I didn’t have a chance to put on any garb that would identify me as an activist, nor did I have a sign. After the initial speeches, the march began. I took time to walk over to the Capital Building, hoping to get a view of the extent of the attendees in this protest. The Capital seemed like a house where no one was home. Intellectually, I knew differently as the cable TV stations would attest. Did they hear us and was the crowd large enough? Some optimistic protest organizers claimed there were 500,000 people at the protest, while the police report 30,000 in the march after the initial gathering. I thought everyone joined the march. I needed pictures of the march and the capital area so I could remember this and prove to myself this was real.


Kafka walks home (A prose poem)


If this experience in DC wasn’t enough, I found myself walking aimlessly and lost again the next day. The next day, Sunday, after work, I went to work but this time I did miss the only bus that would take me home. On Sundays the last city DATA bus leaves downtown at 6:00pm. So, I try a friend’s number hoping to find a ride. I tried my roommate at the home number and on her cell phone. No answer anywhere. I told my roommate, on the answering machine that I would start walking and would call her along the way. She heard that I would start walking and could she drive out and look for me along the way - that must have been how I sounded on the answering machine.

Perhaps there were wiser decisions I could have made than to walk that distance in the dark and cold. I came to realize a number of things along the way. One was that I needed a new winter coat and couldn’t afford that or the new shoes or gloves. The other was that the street newspaper that I wanted to start for the homeless in Durham should be titled Durham Street People.


Raleigh’s street newspaper is called News From our Shoes, but I didn’t understand the idea. It seemed that the homeless hung out downtown when we weren’t looking for work and even then the bus was the way to go. But the reality is that we live on the streets, we have no home of our own.


We walk in dark and are unnoticed. We walk in the cold without sufficient clothing wear and are unnoticed. My father once shared a story he heard somewhere about a homeless woman who died in the cold because she didn’t come into the warm homeless shelter. By implication, her suffering and death was her fault, one of many bad decisions. .

I remember those periods when it seemed that the danger of my situation seemed to want to rise to my awareness. Seeing cars speed down the hill that curved away from me, had me wondering if the car would curve safely away from me or would I even be noticed. Not every part of town was safe, nor was every dark corner. So, I pretended there was no danger, nothing to fear and it seemed to work but I couldn’t quite extinguish all my fears.


Notes from Jean Jones (Word Salad co-editor:

You do write like Kafka, Bruce... I think by just putting the word "Kafka" to the title, these journalistic entries become witnesses of the postmodern era we live in, just like Kafka's short stories. See if Scott agrees with me. I'll forward this to Scott as well. Jean


- Bruce Whealton

Street People
In the first months of 2002, I was living in a homeless shelter. This was my life despite the fact that I had a nearly 6 figure income in 2000 and that I have a graduate degree and hundreds of hours in post-graduate training. Without the help of my friend, who is now my roommate, I’d don’t know where I’d be living. I can’t always meet the costs of rent, food, clothing and such. She knows of my potential based on my training and lets me owe her the money that I can’t pay today. So, I still identify with homelessness and was passionate about homelessness issues before I ever became homeless. During the last two prior days, I found myself walking – perhaps I should say wandering and lost - for hours and for many miles around two cities, Washington, DC and here in Durham, NC. These were very surreal experiences and not something I have experienced previously. I felt like the main character in Stephen Crane’s “Red Badge of Courage.” I didn’t have a head wound, my wounds are hidden from others within my mind, but I seemed to wander just as lost and just as disoriented as that character.
These days, I live hand-to-mouth and the extents of my travels are usually only as far as the city DATA bus will go, which is around Durham. Occasionally, I take the Triangle Transit Authority to Raleigh for courses in the Webmaster Certificate Program at NC State’s Computer Training Unit. However, I have been on some anti-war mailing lists and thought I’d see if I could get a free ticket to the January 18th March on Washington to protest the possible war with Iraq. Sure enough, I got that ticket and made the trip that was to take me there and back in one day. I did make it back to Durham but almost missed any bus heading to the Triangle of NC.
It seemed very surreal as I stated. I had no idea how large the crowd was on the Mall. All I could see were posters of various kinds, a diversity of people with my view extending all of 20 feet or so in all direction. I could see the Capital Building in one direction and the Washington Monument in the other direction. I could hear the speakers but could not see them. Later, someone who had been to previous marches on Washington said that the stage is often considerably higher.
I went up there knowing no one and was a no one in the crowd. I could look like a tourist or a protestor depending on where I walked or stood. I didn’t have a chance to put on any garb that would identify me as an activist, nor did I have a sign. After the initial speeches, the march began. I took time to walk over to the Capital Building, hoping to get a view of the extent of the attendees in this protest. The Capital seemed like a house where no one was home. Intellectually, I knew differently as the cable stations would attest. Did they hear us and was the crowd large enough? Some optimistic protest organizers claimed there were 500,000 people at the protest, while the police report 30,000 in the march after the initial gathering. I thought everyone joined the march. I needed pictures of the march and the capital area so I could remember this and prove to myself this was real. I wanted a picture of the Capital Building for the because of the eerie impression it made on me. The only thing that identified me with the protest was marching with the crowd, stepping aside to watch, I was just an observer and that is what I felt. I was more spectator than protestor, even though I supported the sentiment of the march and the desire to prevent war.
Another part of me did identify myself as an activist. There was the risk of arrest if we got involved in civil disobedience. I don’t know what that would have involved but the feeling of being a protestor, a threat to the establishment did exist. I began to think of myself as that main character in Stephen Crane’s “Red Badge of Courage.” He flees when the fighting begins and in his escape wounds himself. That’s when the story became a reflection of the main character’s delusions and hallucinations, as well as his disorientation. So, as I wandered up and down streets for hours trying to find the right bus home, I felt like an outcast. Why would the police or anyone want to help this subversive? I hear the feds keep a list of people who join mailing lists like A.N.S.W.E.R. (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism), especially since 9/11 and the enactment of the USA PATRIOT act. Two images came to mind; one of some Arab protesters marching with flags and face masks; the other of police walking with those same face masks. The idea was to keep warm but the prejudice in America would probably have linked masked Arabs with potential terrorists. I was in that crowd. I was seen with them and all those who would condemn war, our president and his cabinet, and those who would label the US a rogue state.
It was so disorganized at the end. I didn't have a cell phone like others there who might call others and try to track down the bus they needed. With all the thousands of people from across the country the buses all were to pickup people at the end of the march on M street or in the surrounding area. Obviously not every bus could part on the streets in that vicinity. I walked for miles, up and down streets, some parallel to one another and going in one direction and then walking a similar distance in the other direction, crossing over between parallel streets, seeing bus after bus from different cities and states, getting ready to head to states as far away as the Midwest and northeast of the nation. It was a miracle I found a bus that would take me back to Durham.

Then yesterday, Sunday, after work, I went to work but this time I did miss the only bus that would take me home. On Sundays the last city DATA bus leaves downtown at 6:00pm. So, I try a friend’s number hoping to find a ride. I tried my roommate at the home number and on her cell phone. No answer anywhere. I told my roommate, Elaine, on the answering machine that I would start walking and would call her along the way. She heard that I would start walking and could she drive out and look for me along the way - that must have been how I sounded on the answering machine. Perhaps there were wiser decisions I could have made than to walk that distance in the dark and cold. I came to realize a number of things along the way. One was that I needed a new winter coat and couldn’t afford that or the new shoes or gloves. The other was that the street newspaper that I wanted to start for the homeless in Durham should be titled Durham Street People. Raleigh’s street newspaper is called News From our Shoes, but I didn’t understand the idea. It seemed that the homeless hung out downtown when we weren’t looking for work and even then the bus was the way to go. But the reality is that we live on the streets, we have no home of our own. We walk in dark and are unnoticed. We walk in the cold without sufficient clothing wear and are unnoticed. My father, a conservative, was fond of talking about a homeless woman who died in the cold because she didn’t come into the warm shelter. By implication, our suffering is our fault, our bad decisions. I remember feeling unsafe with where the shelter was located in Durham or even inside the shelter. Still, if I had been thinking wiser, I would have acted differently than deciding to walk such a distance in the dark. I don’t always make the wisest decisions… Does anybody consistently make good decisions? I consider myself bright but I, like anyone else, intelligent or not, can make some poor decisions, from time to time.
My conservative friend says that is why there are consequences. That’s just the way it is… We have to accept that reality. No one owes me or anyone anything. Is that right? If that was truly believed by everyone, perhaps my roommate would not have come to pick me up when I finally found a convenient store and a phone, after walking miles in the dark and cold. This time I was able to reach her. She had been out to try to find me and she was on her way now.
I am back now. I will continue the job search for a job that will pay me enough to support myself and a family. After all, I do have the training.

Bruce Whealton, Jr.

Seeking Shelter
Story appeared in the October 2002 edition of “The Urban Hiker, Stories in the First Voice” – local magazine for Durham, Orange & Wake Counties & Environs

I started working with the Coalition to End Homelessness in Durham not long after I found shelter through a friend locally. I had been interested in housing and homelessness issues long before I, myself, had faced homelessness or the threat of homelessness.
I am currently living with a friend, but it was just a few months ago that I had been living in a homeless shelter in Durham. I am one of those who would fit the federal government’s definition of persons at risk for homelessness because I pay close to 50% of my income in housing. Affordable housing by this definition implies that one is not paying more than 30% of their income toward housing expenses. Additionally, by some measures of homelessness, which include living doubled up with friends, I am still among the homeless. I still fear and worry about my future. I see myself getting deeper and deeper in debt to my roommate with household expenses, such as food, the electric bill and other bills. This debt is only going to grow.

I have a Master’s Degree in Social work along with post graduate training. I am currently studying web design at NC State’s Computer Training Unit. This is paid for by Vocational Rehabilitation services. I had thought that when I got my Social Work degree I’d always be able to find work, that there would always be opportunities with that degree. In order to qualify for job retraining with Vocational Rehabilitation, they had to determine that I could not continue to work in Social Work. This does a great deal of damage to one’s self-esteem. When I look for work, these days, or just talk to people, they want to know why I am not still working in social work.

The Durham center tries to provide treatment for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Major Depression, of which I am said to suffer. I had recently experienced the trauma of assault of a sexual and physical nature on more than one occasion two years ago. Though, the rape crisis center has a support group for male survivors of rape and sexual assault, it isn’t recognized, in my experience, as something that happens to males. Additionally, the depression or the worsening of the condition can be seen to have roots in all the losses I have experienced. Just two years ago, I had a career, with close to a 3 figure income. I was engaged. I had a home. Members of my fiancée’s family were family to me, but I don’t have contact with my fiancée or her family any more. I wasn’t able to support myself much less someone else. When she became sick with complications related to a chronic genetic illness, specifically Cystic Fibrosis (CF), she had to return to live with her mother.

My depression got bad enough that on two occasions I was involuntarily hospitalized at the state psychiatric hospital because of fear that I might be a suicide risk. From my last hospitalization, I was discharged to a homeless shelter, the Durham Rescue mission. They provide work for all residents as a requirement for staying in the shelter but there is no opportunity during the first 9 months to seek a career outside the shelter environment. That didn’t seem to match the goals set out by my therapists at mental health, case managers, or the goals set by my involvement with Vocational Rehabilitation. Thus I moved from there, after one day, to the Urban Ministries shelter just about a mile away.

I carried all my belongings in a suitcase and a large duffle-bag from one shelter to another. I had a home with a library of books, furniture, much more clothing and other belongings. This was lost in the months of moving from one housing situation to another and then ending up with a homeless shelter as the only place to stay.

At the Urban Ministries homeless shelter, I had to be out each morning at somewhere between 7:00 AM and 7:30AM, which isn’t easy when one is drained of energy as a symptom of Major Depression. I couldn’t return to the shelter until 7:00 PM when dinner was served. It didn’t seem safe at all, as far as I could tell, standing outside the shelter in the dark. The location – that area of downtown - I knew was not a safe place.

I was warned by a couple of concerned street people, not to take out my wallet or show that I had any money, as that would put me at risk for being mugged or attacked by someone needing money. There were many homeless persons that were kind and considerate, including one resident who offered help in finding a job, so that I could get out of the situation. Still the dangers existed for being robbed or worse in that part of town. I had to pay $5/night to be able to secure a bed and leave my belongings when I left each day in search of work. Otherwise, I’d have to carry that suitcase, bag and other belongings along with me all day.

Each night the twenty or so beds were occupied and people were sleeping on almost every inch of the floor area. There was one telephone available to every one of the shelter people and one could only talk for 5 minutes at a time. There was no reliable way to receive phone calls during the day, which made securing employment all the more difficult. I had to sleep with my wallet and hope that by morning it was still there. It wasn’t easy to get to sleep with the noise from a television nearby and the people talking well after the time when I wanted to be asleep, knowing what time I’d have to get up the next morning – when the shelter staff would tell us to leave.

The situation didn’t offer me any hope of recovering from psychological problems. In fact things just seemed hopeless. I wasn’t truly suicidal when I was hospitalized but obviously someone felt that I was. I couldn’t understand why the hospital and my treatment team at the Durham Center didn’t see this as a situation that would put me at continued risk for suicide, increased problems with depression and with my condition of PTSD. I knew from my past training and work in social work that the resources just were not there. My parents had a large home with several upstairs bedrooms that were unoccupied since I and all my siblings had grown up and moved out. This was in another state and was explored as a housing option. My parents refused to allow me to stay there, saying I needed to continue his treatment that he had begun in Durham. However, the real reason was that there had been problems in that relationship over the years. I heard my mother telling me she loved me and cared. I had problems believing that from experiences of abuse, mental and physical, and neglect during my childhood and later. I honestly did have problems over the years seeing evidence of love for them or from them. I was never the way they wanted me to be. I was never smart enough, respectful enough or etc. I had lived like I was walking on egg shells, all my life with them, afraid I’d say something wrong or otherwise upset them. My mother’s problems with uncontrolled anger and physical, verbal and emotional abuse were the most frightening to me. It was unpredictable and I hadn’t figured out how to avoid being hurt. So, I guess it was best that I didn’t move in with them.

I did not overcome homelessness by finding a job and being able to pay the costs associated with moving into an apartment. The list of housing resources that the Department of Social Services provided, for people like me needing housing, did not offer any opportunities. It was the same list that the mental health center had. I thought these sources would have lower rents and no security deposit. This was not the case. So, it was only through the luck of finding a friend that had an extra bedroom that I was able to get out of the shelter and off the streets. Within a few weeks of moving in with this friend, I was finally able to find some work.

I don’t have many belongings but somehow I have kept my computer system that I built. I will be using my web design skills to design and publish a web site for the Council to End Homelessness in Durham (CEHD). I’ve always been sympathetic to the less fortunate because I always figured that no matter how much education one has or the extent of one’s employment skills, things can change and all that one has can be lost.

The following was added by the editors of ‘The Urban Hiker’ based on information provided by me. The above is largely unedited from my original submission to the magazine.
Bruce Whealton grew up in Southington, Connecticut, and has lived in the Durham area for just over a year, after spending the previous nine years in Wilmington, NC. He holds an undergraduate degree in Electrical Engineering from Georgia Institute of Technology and a Masters in Social Work from the University of South Carolina. He has published an online poetry magazine, along with Jean Jones, called Word Salad since 1995 (http://wordsalad.net ) and is currently studying web design.