Chapter 10: On Racism and Personal Grooming
Being homeless is difficult. Being homeless and Black is extremely difficult, as I saw over and over again from my perspective on the streets of Oakland.
July 2015, West Oakland, Starbucks, 8th & Broadway – Non-homeless friends usually had only a couple of common questions for me.
How do you deal with not having a bathroom?
How do you remain so clean and avoid the typical appearance of homelessness?
They would especially ask the second question if we discussed the topic of dating. As a single man who didn’t derive his sense of worth from employment or income, I had no problem dating interesting women throughout the Bay Area. And to head off your next obvious question, yes, of course I was always honest and forthcoming about my situation. It didn’t usually matter much at all.
To answer the second question first, how did I remain so clean and well-groomed?
I would either walk to the Starbucks at Broadway and 8th, or take the bus to the Starbucks in Alameda on the other side of the aqueduct, arriving just before they opened at 5 a.m. Both places would be essentially deserted.
My Wenger backpack didn’t draw attention to itself as a typical item of “homeless apparatus.” It was roomy and waterproof, and included many specialized compartments, such as a padded laptop sleeve. The front pocket contained my toiletries, and the larger interior pocket held fresh clothes. Once inside the restroom, and with little possibility of anyone needing to wait for me, I could do the following in under seven minutes: shampoo my short hair; go over my body in significant places with body wash and a rag; dry off; change into fresh clothes; shave with my Mach 3 razor; and then wipe down all surfaces. The restroom would end up in better condition than when I entered.
There’s a line in one of Greg Hurwitz's books: “How you do anything is how you do everything.” And that’s the only way my morning routine worked: deliberately. I invested in the best equipment and clothing I could afford. My unwavering 4:30 wake time ensured I could be clean and ready for the day every time. With lesser gear or a lax attitude about getting up, it would have been impossible.
A female perspective on racism
I grew up in an openly anti-racist, liberal-Democrat home where all our sports heroes were Black (Ali, Mays, Clemente, Thurmond, Connie Hawkins and Kurt Flood). But that was just book knowledge, as my home was in ultra-lily-white suburbia. My true, deep education on racism from a Black man’s point of view would not begin until 2014. The man I called The Great One - Reynaldo Cheney, Sr. - began my education and has guided it most of the way. Others have taught me, but none have taken me so far.
One dark, cold morning, I emerged fresh and clean from the Starbucks bathroom and placed my bag at my chosen seat. Settling in after retrieving my venti Americano and hot water, I saw an older Black woman across the big table. She struggled to stay awake so they would allow her to remain in the warm coffee shop.
As her head slumped onto the table, an employee arrived to tell her she would have to leave. I said I'd be happy to buy her a cup of coffee so she could stay to talk with me. The woman was very tired, and though she needed rest she also needed to stay out of the cold. I estimated she was probably in her early 70s. Wrong and unfair as it was, I was willing to use my White privilege to deter the employee. After purchasing her coffee, I returned to my slumped-over new friend.
I sat down and I asked her if she wanted anything in her coffee. Without any expectation we’d have any kind of in-depth conversation, I felt that if we kept talking, she could stay awake and avoid expulsion. But this woman had been up all night. Her head kept dipping down to her arms folded on the table. So, the employee continued the occasional warnings, nothing more than nudges at first. But as the woman became increasingly agitated, the employee resorted to threatening a call to the Oakland Police Department. At the mention of the OPD, the woman became upset and fully alert. A stunning and unexpected verbal rebuke finally sent the employee scurrying. It seemed over the top to me, until she explained.
My heart held a great sadness as I listened to this woman’s testimony concerning real injustice that would never be righted. They break my heart even now, her stories of the OPD gunning down her nephews and grandson as young boys, unarmed and committing no crime. Her hatred and deep hurt over the criminal injustice against her beloved young men is something she would never get over. This was years before cell phones and live TV would capture so many murders like these, sparking widespread social upheaval, demonstrations, and calls for justice. At this time, the OPD was outfitted as well as a small military. Its makeup of about a third White, a third Black, and a third Asian officers showed no discernible difference on the punishment they meted out to Oakland’s Black population.
This grandmother with a shattered heart wanted a confrontation with the OPD, so damned angry that she was ready to fight the bastards for what they did to her family. Her palpable rage convinced me her story was true. I had seen the disparity between how the OPD treated me as a White man walking the streets and how they treated my Black brothers. As sure as St. Paul used his Roman citizenship to the advantage of the early Christian community, I would use my White privilege whenever it could help protect others or add a fictitious air of accountability.
A work in progress
St. Paul says, concerning a full maturation of his faith, “not that I have already achieved it, but I press on …” This reflects my attitude toward my ever-growing education on the racism that exists even within me.
First, I needed to understand White privilege, but through the eyes of a Black man - my friend, Reynaldo. After some comfort with this reality, I was ready for the real shocker: that White supremacy existed somewhere deep in my soul, unchosen though it was. Perhaps this is not the best analogy, but it’s like a disease one acquires from growing up next to a toxic water source. Live your formative years exposed to a carcinogen, and don't be surprised if you get cancer.
One day I was buying groceries at the Smart & Final on Broadway and 10th. A Black brother about my size, but younger, approached me in the checkout line. I felt a reaction to his presence. So, I asked myself what it was. And I realized it was intimidation. You might argue my reaction was to his size, that I wasn’t used to seeing other men as tall as me. And that answer contains some truth. When I'm with my brother in-law, who is almost exactly my size, I watch in amazement as he moves around the room, wondering how he doesn’t smash into everything. Then I remember other people must see me that way.
But that wasn't the answer this time. I asked myself, “What if this guy was White? Would I feel the same way?” That's when I understood that White supremacy is all about fear – not of someone who's truly different from you, but of someone you perceive as being different from you, and therefore a threat. Observing him more closely, this man seemed cool and intelligent, the sort of person one would be blessed to know. It was a humbling moment for me – crushing, really – but necessary for my forward motion. And this happened before I read James Baldwin, who drove everything home with pinpoint accuracy and lightning power.
Despite all I had learned in Santa Cruz, and was currently learning in Oakland, I still had a long way to go in my education – or perhaps I should say re-education.
A few years later in seminary, I would hear a guest lecturer from the art department of one of the nine schools that constitute The Graduate Theological Union. This White teacher said the most ignorant thing I had heard in my four years at GTU (and the competition was fierce): “I finally realized that I could only understand White privilege by seeing it through White eyes.” That’s like suggesting a person perform cataract surgery on their own eyes to clarify their vision.
By contrast, my only worthwhile lessons had come from those who had suffered under the pervasive racism that exists in America. They were my educators, and I a simple student.
Back to the first question
So, back to question number one, which is essentially about how you handle number one and number two when you're homeless, number two being more challenging. This can be easy during the day, especially if you are a regular camped out at a place like Starbucks. You can usually ask someone at a neighboring table to watch your laptop for five minutes and use the facilities as needed. Depending upon which Starbucks in Oakland or Alameda, you may have to wait. One of the two restrooms was often out of order at Broadway and 8th by 10 a.m.
Originally, the number-one thing about number two was to get it done as a final evening chore at a late-night establishment. That way, you could sleep through the night without the need arising and waking you up. Think of it like taking out the trash the night before the trucks come in the morning – only you must do it every day. As for the middle-of-the-night pee bottle, detailed explanation is unneeded. However, it was crucial to be certain you were really grabbing the creamer for your instant coffee drink the next morning.