Tag Archives: homelessness

Anything will work if you let it.


I ran into Lowell a couple of days ago down at the HIVE where he was helping out with the BikeMe! open hours. Lowell knows bikes; when he came to Greensboro three years ago he brought with him the bicycle he had bought in Artesia, New Mexico in 1983—he would still be riding that bike today if it hadn’t been demolished when a car ran into him last year. He came to Greensboro in the spring of 2005 with the bike, some clothes, and a guy who skipped town shortly after he dropped Lowell off in a patch of woods near the Coliseum. That’s where Lowell lived for the first summer and winter, in a makeshift shelter of plywood and shingles. After the police started coming around too often, he moved further out—“further out” is the only address I have for him, and the only address I want to have—and that’s where he’s been ever since.

I was glad to see Lowell. Homelessness almost by definition makes people hard to track down, and Lowell is more difficult than some because he refuses to use email. “How do you communicate with people then?” I asked him once. He answered the question with patience. “I talk to them.”

I had asked Lowell a couple of months ago if I could interview him for this blog, and he had told me to go ahead and tell him when I was ready. With all that’s happening at the HIVE and Food Not Bombs—Lowell is deeply involved in both—and with all the talk in Greensboro about the need for a day center, this seemed like a good time to write some more about homelessness. I told Lowell I wanted to share some of his ingenious survival tactics.

“Not survival,” he corrected me. “I do a lot more than survive.”

“How about thrival tactics,” I said.

“That’s better,” Lowell said. “I thrive.”

We made an arrangement to meet early at Food Not Bombs to talk. The weather on Tuesday was lovely. There must be a term in poetics or in physics for the feeling it gave me, for the strange way certain kinds of light can rearrange chronology. The clear, warm afternoon sunlight that filled the high-ceilinged room at St. Mary’s House belonged to a sequence of early summer afternoons that stretch all the way back to those first breathless days of summer vacation. It could have been 1958 or 1978 or last year; it could have been New Hampshire or Massachusetts or North Carolina. It had a floating, expansive quality that disengaged the day from Monday and Wednesday and strung it on a longer and more tender string.

“I’m not really homeless, you know,” Lowell said as we settled into the little nest of sofas by the front door, “I’m just houseless. I like the spot where I am.”

I asked him what he did about the necessities—drinking water, for instance. “You always boil the water—that’s not hard,” he said. You can’t burn wood or they’ll find you. You use a candle.”

“A candle? That’s hot enough?”

“Sure—all you need is a candle and a pot from Goodwill or the dumpster. You can use any kind of candle, anything but natural beeswax; paraffin burns the hottest. Then you make a grid out of green sticks to hold the pan and you shelter the candle from the wind. Long butane lighters, the kind people use on gas grills, are best. Matches are hard to keep dry—even if you seal them in a plastic bag, the bag has a tendency to sweat on the inside. The only exception is waxed matches designed for camping.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Oh, once you have boiling water there’s a lot you can make—ramen noodles, instant oatmeal, soup. Or you can heat food right in a can.”

Danny came over with a plastic bag full of peppers and tomatoes from the kitchen—we encourage people to come into the kitchen and take whatever food isn’t going into that night’s meal. “You know what that means,” he said, hoisting the bag. “A pot of beans.” Danny is one of the people participating in the new Housing First program—he’s living in his own apartment again for the first time in a couple of years. He sat down on the other sofa.

“Where does the canned food come from?” I asked Lowell.

“Sometimes the dumpster, sometimes a food pantry,” he said.

Urban Ministry is hard,” Danny said. “They won’t give you a bag of food unless you arrive in a car.”

“A car?” I said.

Mike sat down next to Danny. “They’re afraid you’ll sell it,” he said.

“If you’re homeless Urban Ministry will give you an overnight bag, something like a packet of crackers, a can of tuna—a dinky little can, not even one of the regular ones,” Danny said. “I had a couple of overnight bags, and then when I got my own place I got a ride over there and tried to sign up but they said I couldn’t because I’d already had four overnight bags this year.”

“There’s not a limit on overnight bags,” Mike said.

“Apparently there was for me. They wanted my ID and my social. When they looked me up they told me I couldn’t get a full bag because I’d been there before. They told me and they told my caseworker.”

Mike shook his head. “They do what they want to do.”

“That,” said Danny “about sums it up,”

Lowell doesn’t have an ID or a social security card, and he doesn’t have the paperwork to get them. He lost them back in New Mexico. “You did better than I did,” he said. “All I got from them is ‘I don’t know what to tell you’ and ‘I don’t care’.”

“How do you open the can?” I said.

“P38,” Lowell and Danny said at the same time.

“What’s a P38?”

Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flat piece of metal about the size of a razor blade. “Army can opener,” he said.

“That and a plastic spoon out of the dumpster and you’re set,” Lowell said. “The first thing I did after I’d made that shelter in the woods was start collecting stuff out of the dumpster—candles, food, LED lights from behind the drugstore. I slept on couch cushions. I found a tarp and put it over the opening of the shelter. I spent one winter in that little shelter—with the tarp down I could light a candle inside and not even see my breath.”

“So what are the basics that somebody needs?”

Lowell stood up and reached into his pockets: bike key, small Swiss Army knife, a neat packet of folded papers—Lowell calls them his “memory papers”, folded notes and flyers that are the equivalent of a daytimer—an LED flashlight from the dollar store. “I prefer the LED,” Lowell said. ”Much brighter than a regular flashlight and it runs on AAA batteries, which are cheaper.”

“It’s best to keep only the bare necessities,” Danny said. “When I was homeless I carried a military backpack. If it didn’t fit into the backpack I didn’t keep it.”

“Is there something you wish you had but didn’t? Something like, I don’t know, like an axe or something?”

Lowell shrugged. “A woodsman’s machete would be nice,” he l said. “It would make it easier to clean raccoons.” Mike made a face and shifted on the sofa. He’s from Brooklyn. “It’s hard to clean a raccoon with something this size,” Lowell went on, holding the diminutive Swiss Army knife on the flat of his palm.

“Why do you carry such a small knife?” I asked.

“You can’t bring anything bigger into Urban Ministry.”

“But how do you sneak up on a raccoon?”

“You don’t need to—they come to you,” Lowell said, and Danny nodded. “You hit them right behind the head with a big stick and break their neck.”

“You use your light,” Danny said. “Everything freezes when you shine your light on them.”

“That’s usually just long enough,” Lowell said.

“Then what?”

“The first thing after that is to cut both ends off and throw them out as far as you can. That’s to keep the other raccoons away. They’ll eat the head and the tail and leave you alone. Then you just skin it and clean it and cook it.”

“Do you do anything with the skin?” I had a brief internal picture of Lowell sitting cross-legged in the woods stitching himself a raccoon-skin comforter.

“Throw it out same as the tail and the head.”

“You don’t make anything out of it?”

“Not if I don’t want the fleas. And I’m careful about the raccoons I eat—I don’t eat the raccoons that eat out of people’s garbage cans, or the ones that come out of the sewer.”

“I eat out of people’s garbage cans,” I said.

“Not the kind of garbage cans I’m talking about,” Lowell said.

When the raccoon is cleaned and skinned Lowell fries the meat over a candle, or adds it to a can of stew. “It’s the same with snakes, squirrels, rabbits–even the occasional chicken will wander in down there.”

“Possum,” Danny said.

“The only thing I’ve had any problem catching is the frogs.”

Mike said “You eat snakes?’

“If they’re two inches in diameter I do. Black bull snakes. Then there’s the wild fruit. In town there’s people’s fruit trees all over the place hanging out over the sidewalk. And in the woods strawberries, blackberries, mulberries. All you have to do is watch what the animals eat. If they don’t eat it I don’t eat it, if they don’t drink it I don’t drink it. The only difference is I boil the water.”

The smells coming out of the kitchen were growing richer and deeper, filling the space with sonorous tones of garlic and onion. We had been given a couple of bags of potatoes and Morris was deep frying them—big meaty wedges dusted with chili powder and sea salt. He brought out some of the first batch and passed them around; crisp and hot to the touch on the outside, cool and yielding on the inside.

“To me it’s like being in the army on bivouac,” Danny said, brushing the salt off his hands. “The only difference is that in the army you don’t know who the enemy is. When you’re homeless you know who the enemy is. It’s the guy next to you.”

Lowell nodded. “I have more peace now than I did when I had a home. I know where my enemies are, and they’re not where I am.”

“What do you mean by enemies?” I said. Like all homeless people Lowell gets stopped a lot by the police when he’s walking or riding his bike or even just sitting; it infuriates him. “Do you mean the government? The police?

“Oh no, they’re everyone’s enemies,” Lowell said. “I mean the people who have decided they are my enemy, the ones who would rather hurt me than help me. It could be the agencies, the churches, it could be other homeless. I didn’t choose to be their enemy, they chose to be mine. What I’ve learned is that you should always do the opposite of what they tell you. Whatever they tell you to do, you go in the opposite direction instantly or you’re going to wind up in that pit with them.”

I still wasn’t sure I entirely understood, but Danny was speaking. “There are people who make the rest of the homeless look bad.”

Mike nodded. “One person can ruin it for everyone else. Because of those selected few things happen to all of us.”

Stan had been standing a little outside the circle. He came in and sat down. “They’ll use any reason to stop you. Any reason.”

“You know, though, when you’re homeless there are a lot of headaches you don’t have,” Danny said. “How you’re going to pay the electric bill, how you’re going to hold onto your job, all that. With homelessness, once you get used to it, it’s actually better.”

“It’s like Will Rogers said: anything will work if you’ll let it,” Lowell said. “But a lot of people just don’t know. They don’t know that you’re set up to fail. They don’t know that there’s no way you can succeed under this system.”

“You want to know something?” Danny said “All those people in the middle class, upper middle class, all the people that look down on us, if we don’t get somebody worthwhile up there–I don’t care if it’s Hillary or Obama, anybody that’s not what we’ve got right now–there are going to be a lot more of them out here with us. And when that happens I think you’re going to start seeing the suicide rate go up. They’re not going to be able to take it.”

Stan shook his head. “It’s too late. It doesn’t matter any more who’s up there. Four years isn’t enough, forty years isn’t enough, to undo what’s been done. Basically the way it is now, we either live together or we’re going to die together.”

But it was six o’clock. There was a rustling at the other end of the room as people lined up next to the tables that had been set up with stir-fried vegetables and fruit and bread and Morris’s deep-fried potatoes. The sun was level now through the windows, glinting off the water pitcher and the forks and the stack of china plates. I wasn’t staying that night to eat, but I did take another one of Morris’s potatoes. People were eating, sitting and talking and eating, as I closed the door behind me.

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Home

Normally I ride my bike or walk down to the Green Bean on Wednesday to sit in the wide-armed easy chair by the fish tank and write out my thoughts. Today I had some errands to do, and since I’m still feeling the last barbs of a heavy chest cold, I drove. I had the radio dial turned to the local NPR station and all the way downtown weighty authoritative voices came out of my car dashboard: Are we in a recession? Is there a way to stimulate the economy? What do the indicators mean? Who’s suffering the most?

homeless-camp.jpgAs I drove along I passed the construction site where the old Wachovia building is being turned into spectacular-views-of-the-city condos. I passed nice new restaurants with handsome signs and shadowy high-ceilinged interiors; dress shops with headless mannequins looking beautiful and remote; dreamy New Age-y hair salons. At the same time I passed through another Greensboro, a Greensboro mapped out in invisible ink. It’s the city of the poor and the homeless. Just like the more visible city, it’s made up of individuals who wake up every morning, live out their day in a web of experiences and relationships, eat, sleep, talk, laugh, read, and at the end of the day fall asleep and roam through their own unique night landscape of dreams. They know the economy well. Why do I never hear their voices on the radio?

Last Thursday Tim and I went to annual Housing Summit sponsored by the Greensboro Housing Coalition. I’ve known Tim for a couple of years now; he started out coming to Food Not Bombs to eat, and began coming earlier and earlier to set up the tables and generally lend his common sense to the operation. He’s taken primary responsibility for the new kitchen project at the HIVE. The Summit was well attended in spite of icy, rainy weather—several hundred good, dedicated kind-hearted people made it there. I don’t know this for sure, but I wouldhomeless-camp2.jpg guess that Tim was the only one among them who was homeless. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of social workers, non-profit agency executives, government officials, academic experts, policy analysts, number crunchers, client service providers. And one homeless guy.

One of the principles I learned from Isabell when she was herself learning about anarchism is that people know best what’s best for themselves, and its corollary, the people most affected by a decision should have the biggest say in the decision. It’s pretty obviously when it applies to us and people like us; more difficult to see when we’re talking about the “other”, whoever our other might be.

Homeless people are America’s ultimate other. If owning a home represents the American Dream, homelessness is the American nightmare, and like all nightmares we try to shove it as far down in the collective psyche as we can. Unfortunately, with it goes real flesh-and-blood people who get shoved in all the ways our culture knows how to shove people—jailed, warehoused, hassled, humiliated, patronized, fnbapril.jpgstigmatized. We make it difficult for people to take care of their most basic needs—we withhold food, shelter, withhold even a place to go to the bathroom–unless they have money, then we arrest them for stealing a loaf of bread, for sleeping outdoors, for urinating in public. We don’t give them a place to wash and clean their clothes, then we call them “dirty.” We shake our heads and say that if people are homeless it must be because they’re mentally ill, then we slowly drive them crazy.

For a long time I’ve wanted to write about the things I’ve learned from the people I’ve gotten to know at Food Not Bombs, but something hasn’t felt quite right. Finally I remembered another principle of anarchism that I learned from Isabell: we shouldn’t speak for other people, nor should we let other people speak for us unless we ask them to.

So in that spirit, last month I asked Tim if he would sit down with me and talk while the recorder ran about the experience of homelessness. Tim has been homeless for five or six years; he has helped me to understand that homelessness is as dynamic as any other condition of life—as dynamic as marriage, as parenthood, as work, as school, as aging, as illness, as love. He has helped me to understand that where you are in homelessness at any given moment is simply where you are at that moment, and that the condition of homelessness is as much internal as external. You can slip into homelessness while you are still living in a house; you can slip out of homelessness long before you move inside. I think that’s the aspect of homelessness—or of homedness for that matter—that awes me: the amazing resilience of spirit that allows people to make a full life out of the most rudimentary materials.

Tim has become a kind of one-man homeless welcoming committee. I watch him at Food Not Bombs, and I understand he does the same at lunch down at Potter’s House, going up to people who look lost and afraid, saying a kind word, telling them where they can find the food or shelter or other services they need, if those services are to be had. He helps people past those first terrifying days when all the safety nets that keep the rest of us in our homes have torn through. I wish there were more of him.

Here’s Tim:

It’s always the same story. If they didn’t have to be there they wouldn’t be. They got confused, and then they got more confused, and it’s hard on them. They feel ashamed. They’re sad, they’re depressed, they’re confused. I’ve invited several people down to my tent—you know,
tim.jpggive them a place for the night so they can figure out what to do for the next day. Food’s a top priority, then somewhere to…finding a spot.

When you sit back and hear all the stories, they’re actually all the same, they’ve just changed the names and the places. For a lot of them homelessness is probably from addiction, but I think actually something happened earlier and they never got that resolved, or didn’t even know it, and if they were prone to be addicted one thing led to another. Everyone wants to get out of homelessness, but they don’t need to get out and go right back to the same situation they were in before. You’re supposed to learn from your mistakes, right? So if for some reason you find that job and you’re working every day and you get out, then all of a sudden you’re not homeless anymore, but before you know it you’re right back there at the same edge as before. You didn’t go anywhere.

Within the little community I live in, certain ones help each other and that’s just the way it works. You can’t always help everybody, but I’ve met a lot of folks, I’ve seen them come and go. Once you become homeless, you wonder “What do I do now?” A lot of them, they go, “Well, I’ll go to the day labor, get some work.” When that falls through and you don’t get sent out this day, this day, this day, and you’re having to move—once you start moving you realize you’ve got to declare yourself homeless. Reality sinks in. You end up moving from spot to spot until you find a good one, and then that one can only last a while. If you don’t go out to work it plays mental tricks on you—you get depressed. You’ve got to get over that. If you don’t, it eats you up and you slowly deteriorate, and if you have an addiction you keep going to it. You need to have something meaningful to do every day.

What’s better: to have nothing and be happy, or have everything and be miserable? Homeless people will accept the simplest things of life and be happy about it—we’re just talking about some kind of decent shelter with the minimum of requirements. We’re stuck in a culture that says, unfortunately, that you need to be indoors out of the cave, you need to have running water, you need to have a light bill, you need to have a water bill, you need to pay taxes, and then we’ll accept you. Most folks don’t realize that they got confused about all of this, about what was going on. Stress—stress is just a question you haven’t got an answer to, so they get stressful, all stressed out because they’re confused, they don’t know the answer, what to do for this or that, when instead somehow—we don’t know how—but somehow things work out, they really do, they really work out along the way.

I remember my first night out, I had no idea what to do. Right in downtown Greensboro I said “Well, this is it. It just starts right here.” I didn’t know the Weaver House existed, and here I was sleeping outside in the rain. I had no idea. So I can understand when I see somebody new, that they have no idea of where to go, of what to do, who to ask. You can tell, they won’t admit it, but they’re scared.
.
Homelessness isn’t about having a roof over your head. It’s more about a person figuring it out for themselves. Homeless people need a place to be so they can get their thoughts together, because I’m pretty sure 10 out of 10 of them grew up in a house. It’s very few that were a homeless child. Some of them, they don’t want to accept the reality of it, they just feel “This ain’t right– something’s not right.” They’ve gotten off their timeline. They were meant to be somewhere else. And yet they’re here, and a lot of them, they just want to get back on the same timeline that was supposed to be their purpose. When you become homeless, though, the bubble pops.

One thing a person needs is time to themselves—that’s a fact. It’s almost chemical. I believe a person needs some place to be, something to do, and–Michele says–somebody who cares. This is just a natural thing, but you can’t do it on a mass scale all at one time. You’ve got to just keep digging at it, keep watching people and going “they’re ready.” I don’t mean a place like Urban Ministry; I mean a place where they can have time to catch up with their thoughts. They went for day after day without their thoughts. They got confused, and then they got more confused. To be able to survive this long you’ve got to…you’ve got to go through it all. You’ve got to figure it out and be happy with it, and once you are you can tell a difference in the folks. I can tell just by looking which ones are comfortable within their own skin.

If you do it on a mass scale it will attract those who aren’t ready to be there, or shouldn’t be there, people who have lost their energy. You’re supposed to be able to produce your own energy, your own basic instinct to survive, but you don’t know, you’re confused. And tired, tired all the time. You might try to lie down and die, but it doesn’t happen. You end up having to get up anyway.

So what’s it going to take? All right, once somebody has a place to be, the next is to find something for them to do that they really want to do, that they enjoy doing, that’s worth doing. They feel as though someone’s in control other than them. That’s the deal, they’ve lost control. They’re scared. So you’ve got to…what? Re-empower them. Let them know it’s OK. If they keep working at the day labor they’re going to go on staying in this small little circle that they’re living in, and they’re not going to get anywhere. They say “But if I don’t do that I’ll be thrown out of my place!” They’re right there homeless anyhow, they just don’t want to admit it. Our culture says: “Go get a job,” but actually in a lot of cases that’s the last thing they need right now. That would actually cause more damage—it actually does cause them more damage, and they stay in this horrible circle, and they just keep doing it over and over and it’ll slowly keep eating them away until they can actually come to terms and get a grip.

If we could just set up some kind of units and say “Look, we’re not going to hassle you, you can be here and have a start.” All the land’s owned by somebody so instead of saying it’s trespassing—just give them a place where they can be, no matter where it’s at. Don’t put them all in one place. Let them be wherever they want to be, then open the doors. They’ve got to be somewhere, then give them something to do.. There’s always something someone can offer. Society—our society—has forgotten this. They came over here in their fancy ship and they forgot. One side needs the other. Until the human race figures out that it’s the human race…that’s the hardest part.

The answer is it’s cheaper to go ahead and do something now. Go ahead and set something up, and over the half the people will even help set it up. They will help for themselves. Quit hassling them.

Thanks to Michele Forrest for the photos of homeless camps and Food Not Bombs. If you want to know what’s going on with homelessness in Greensboro and the world, make a habit of reading her wonderful blog ChosenFast.com

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Permission

A couple of years ago the Food Not Bombs group in Greensboro found itself with an abundance of both food and cooks, so we decided to add another day. No one else in Greensboro was serving dinner on Monday so we chose Monday; a lot of homeless people spend the day down at the Central Library—Greensboro should have a day shelter but it doesn’t, which means that the library serves as a de facto day shelter–so fnbhaircut.jpgwe chose the library. There’s a low brick wall outside the library windows that makes a good buffet table and a couple of park benches where people can sit. It’s nice when the weather’s nice, not so nice when it’s cold or rainy or, as happens in the winter, dark. Still, no one complains.

Until, that is one day when a security guard came out and told us we had to leave. We had been serving there for well over a year but had never asked permission, partly on the Food Not Bombs principle that food is a right not a privilege, and partly on the principle that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission. Except that we didn’t want to ask forgiveness either. In many cities Food Not Bombs servings double as a form of non-violent civil disobedience, a tacit protest against the way poor and homeless people are shuffled out of sight. Food Not Bombs-related arrests are common around the country; it’s crazy, but the movement has even made the FBI terrorist watch list. All for serving food without permission.

It was a chilly night, winter, lit only by the streetlights and the glow of the library windows. “You can’t serve food here without written permission,” the security guard said. He was standing with his legs spread a little apart; he rocked a little back and forth on his toes as he talked.

“Permission!” several people said. “Permission! Permission for what? We’re eating, we’re hungry, this is a public sidewalk!”

“No it’s not,” the guard said. “This sidewalk belongs to the city. You have to have permission to be doing what you’re doing. Who’s in charge here?”

“Nobody! Nobody’s in charge!” That’s true. Food Not Bombs is a decentralized, consensus-based, leaderless organization. I’ve been volunteering with the Greensboro group longer than anyone else so a lot of people think I’m in charge, but I’m not. I was deeply gratified that the people clustered together on the sidewalk recognized that.

“Who drove the food here then?” the guard asked. Everyone was silent; no one looked at me. There was no escaping the facts, though.fnbshave.jpg

“That would be me,” I finally said. “I drove the food here, but I’m not in charge.”

“Well you need to have permission to serve food here,” he said.

“Permission!” someone said again before I could speak. “Why do we need permission?”

It went back and forth like that for a while. At one point the guard went inside and got one of the librarians. The two of them stood in the chill telling us we had to ask permission; we stood in front of them saying we didn’t.

“If you come back and serve food here next week without written permission you’ll be arrested,” the guard said.

“For what?” people shouted. “For eating? For eating?”

“For serving food without permission.”

Nobody would budge but eventually, inevitably, the confrontation ran out of steam. The security guard wrote out a name and phone number on a page of his spiral-bound notepad and handed the paper to me. “This is who you ask,” he said, and he and the librarian left.

“Permission!” The crowd had dwindled a bit but those who remained still felt strongly. I had the little lined piece of paper in my hand. If this had happened a couple of years ago I know what I would have done—I would have apologized to the security guard, taken the piece of paper, and called to ask for permission. Except that a couple of years ago I don’t think I would have found myself in this situation in the first fnbbrian_halfway.jpgplace. That was before I understood the concept of consensus, and the extraordinary power of direct action, before I had read the famous essay of the same name by Voltairine de Cleyre, one of the great anarchist thinkers of the early twentieth century. “Every person who ever thought he had a right to assert, and went boldly and asserted it, himself, or jointly with others that shared his convictions, was a direct actionist,” she wrote in 1912. ”…Every person who ever had a plan to do anything, and went and did it, or who laid his plan before others, and won their co-operation to do it with him, without going to external authorities to please do the thing for them, was a direct actionist. All co-operative experiments are essentially direct action.”

“So what do we do?” I asked. Homeless people are particularly vulnerable to arrest and get treated very badly when they are arrested. I didn’t want to do something that would put them in a dangerous position. “Should we come back next week?”

Yes, everyone said immediately. We should come back next week and we shouldn’t ask permission. “I’m tired of asking permission for everything,” one man said. “I can’t even sit in the park without a cop coming up and asking me what I’m doing. We don’t need permission.”

I love libraries; I love librarians; Greensboro has a terrific library. I was so proud of the direct action that the people at Food Not Bombs were taking, in awe of their courage at standing their ground, but as the week went on I began to feel worse and worse about the library. I finally emailed a librarian friend and explained what had happened—explained that this was not about the library, but that we would be back on Monday. We wouldn’t be bringing signs or drums or chants, we wouldn’t be making declarations or demands. We were just coming with soup and bread and salad. But we weren’t going to ask permission.

The next day my phone rang. It was Sandy Neerman, director of the entire library system. “I heard about what happened on Monday,” she said. This whole thing was taking on a life of its own; if this is such a leaderless organization, I thought, how come I’m the one in the hot seat? I stood in my room with the telephone to my ear and looked out the window at the big pine trees at the end of the yard. “I heard about what happened on Monday,” Sandy went on “and I want to apologize. Of course you don’t have to ask permission and of course we’re delighted that you’re doing what you’re doing. Please go on doing it.”

So that’s how it came about that last Monday 40 or so people sat down to eat together in the Nussbaum Room of the Central Library. This is the second winter now that the library has invited Food Not Bombs inside—inside!—to serve. Last winter we simply served food for the most part, but this year Jen Worrells, our wonderful library liaison and a direct actionist if there ever was one, suggested a full winter of programming. We’ve shown movies, done blood pressure tests, held discussions. Cakalak Thunder played after dinner on New Year’s Eve, filling the library with radical drumming (that was Jen’s idea!) This past Monday volunteers gave shaves and haircuts. One of the as hoc barbers was a man who was at Food Not Bombs for the first time—he had come for a free meal, but when he saw what was going on he said “I can cut hair” and picked up a pair of clippers. (Every person who ever had a plan to do anything, and went and did it….) We’ll be inside for another couple of months. We have some meetings with government officials planned, we’ll be showing more movies, having more parties, maybe having a massage night, a dental care night, a poetry night, who knows?

Anything can happen.

UPCOMING WINTER SERIES EVENTS:

Mondays, 6:00 pm, Greensboro Central Library, Nussbaum Room

If you’re interested in being part of the process, join the Winter Series wiki

January 14 – Government Official
January 28 – Movie Night: War of the Worlds (2005)
February 4 – Culture / Celebration
Febraury 11 – Health and Beauty
February 18 – Government Official
February 25 – Movie Night
March 3 – Culture / Celebration
March 10 – Health and Beauty
March 17 – Government Official
March 24 – Movie Night
March 31 – Culture / Celebration

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