Chapter 9: The Rules of Base Camp

My commitment to nonviolence as a Homeless camp leader undergoes a serious test.

July 2015, West Oakland - Where the world of Fight Club had seven rules, our small community under the Nimitz Freeway had only three:

1. No violence,

2. No hard drugs, and

3. No theft (this rule wasn’t as necessary if the second one was kept)

Other than that, I tried to set an example for daily living by showing great respect and care for those in our community. Everyone understood that the responsibility for the camp’s protection fell to me. By this time, I had the street experience, along with the sheer physical size and a cool head under pressure. Also, after what I endured in Santa Cruz, which you will read about later, I had no more fear.

In 2009 fear was all I had. Then, the idea of establishing a functional, peaceful Homeless community within a city would have seemed as likely as my landing on the moon. But life on the streets had schooled me. Myriad personal encounters had taught me greatly at just the right moments and kept me going. Odd as it may sound, setting up this small camp with all its inherent dangers and logistical problems, as well as establishing a life filled with contentment and service to others, was something I was finally prepared to do. But I could not have done so any earlier than 2015.

Get “homelessness” out of your mind

Other men quickly joined the camp as Fred and Stuart had. Some would stay for a while, but then go for months at a time. The usual makeup was about five to seven tents. Regardless of who populated the camp, I tried to both model and suggest a way of living that refused to accept the usual “Homeless” mentality. That meant being personally organized to some extent, maximizing benefits, and – probably most importantly – packing up early and getting out to someplace beautiful to read, work on a laptop, or simply sit and think. The beach at Alameda was a common retreat. Someone was always willing to stay on guard at the camp, so we never had theft problems. And it was standard practice to take your most valuable equipment with you.

In addition to the three camp rules, two personal ones were immensely helpful: maximize your money and buy the best possible equipment and clothing. I made weekly trips to the laundromat two and a half blocks from the Starbucks on Broadway. My neatly folded clothing stayed in my wooden crates. Extra wood became kindling for fires in a metal drum to keep warm at night or cook our group meals.

Our camp sat on the edge of a long strip of land that stretches from 7th St. to the Webster tube. Three massive freeway spans stretched about 100 feet overhead. These replaced the Cypress Freeway section of I-880 that collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. These thick, quake-proof structures shielded us from rain and reduced a 95-degree summer day to a cool 78.

Still, our location included some environmental and health-related downsides. The soil under our feet was something more akin to the lunar surface that bears Neil Armstrong’s footprints. It was a fine powder, probably 75 percent crushed debris from the freeway above mixed with pulverized cement. This dust was easy to kick up, getting onto and into everything. Then there was the intense noise level, at all hours, from the freeway above and traffic at our level speeding down the main artery into the Webster Tube. Imagine what we breathed in every day.

A few months after arriving at the camp, I went in for a checkup at Lifelong Medical. The nurse administered ear drops to dissolve some deposits she had found. She returned 25 minutes later to flush out my left ear with a warm water stream. After several minutes of this, we heard a loud “kerplunk.” She laughed, pointing into her catch basin at several impacted dirt clods. My hearing immediately improved. I had unaware what the constant buildup from the “lunar surface” was doing to me.

No violence

After a period spent in our original location, our group decided to move camp farther west to place some distance between us and another camp led by a man named Brian. He wasn’t a bad guy, until he drank, and then he could become violent. He wasn’t so much a physical threat when this happened – he was about 5’ 3” and 110 pounds soaking wet – but his behavior was a hassle we didn't need. CalTrans harassed us every other Wednesday, forcing us to break camp. So, this was the excuse we used to relocate, saying for Brian’s sake that we wanted to be closer to the back gate for easy egress during those annoyances.

By this time, a resident we called “Little Mac” had joined us. Drug use had been his issue, but he was making progress. I returned to camp early one evening to find local drug dealer JB trying to make conversation with Little Mac – and hopefully a sale.

“Hi. How are you doing?” I said to him.

JB turned and looked at me like you'd look at a hair on a biscuit. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I oversee this small camp - just this one section. And what you do elsewhere up and down the street is your business,” I said calmly, deadpan. “But you can't do it here. This is a no-drug camp. We have only three rules here: no violence, no theft, and no hard drugs. So, I'm afraid you'll have to go.” I was careful to say these things with conviction, but respectfully. My voice and face carried no hint of judgment or disdain for this young man. It wasn’t personal. I was just stating the facts.

JB turned more fully toward me, making a show of resting his hand on the hilt of his gun. “I don't know who the fuck you think you are, motherfucker. But this is my turf, and I'll do whatever the hell I want to do,” he said, trying to conjure up some menace.

“No,” I said flatly, “This is my turf, and you're going to have to leave. Now.” JB searched my eyes for any hint of fear. There was none there, but I could see it in his – not because I would harm him, but because he knew I was unafraid. That’s when he quietly left. There is one thing that can defeat an angry man with a gun: a man with no fear who can love the man with the gun, even if it means his own death.

I am not suggesting one should never fear a gun. But a general nonviolent stance will de-escalate many situations. Since the Rev. Darrell Johnson taught me the way of nonviolence in 1993, I have counted 23 situations in which I had to intercede with calm, firm resolve. I am 23-0.

But the story isn’t over

I was usually away from camp between 4:30 a.m. and 7 p.m., with intermittent check-up visits. As you might imagine, stuff happened in the interim. When I returned, the residents would provide a full report of the day’s events. As of late, Brian had gotten out of control. During his bouts with drunkenness, he would harass JB. Brian had pushed him too far the prior week, ending up knocked out for his trouble. JB. had given him every opportunity to avoid it, showing all reasonable restraint. But Brian had persisted.

This all came to a head outside my tent at 4 one morning. JB came looking for me, not to stake a claim but to seek help. So, after only one encounter, JB had gotten it. He had seen something in my unflinching confidence that told him he could trust me. And it was true, he could. He was quite insistent on gaining an audience with me. I said I’d “be a minute,” as I was changing my underwear in a dark tent, and he would have to wait. He was insistent I come out “now.”

I finished quietly and then emerged to hear JB’s complaint. He wanted me to help get rid of Brian, because Brian was making JB’s passage in and out of our camp nearly impossible. I saw his point. I commended JB on his restraint in his last encounter with Brian, noting that only after much taunting had he resorted to violence, and measured at that. But, I said, Brian had lived near us for three years, that this was his homestead, and that JB should not disregard this. Once again, JB’s reaction was, “This is my turf.” I could see he viewed my response as a devaluation of him, so I was glad I had a better answer this time.

“JB, your safety is no less important to me just because you are not part of our camp,” I said. “I see the value in every person – the image of God in each man. So, I am not saying you are any less important than Brian.” We discussed why Brian might be having such an outsized reaction to JB’s presence in our camp compared with our other residents. We knew the “business” that often transpired at JB’s middle camp, but if they respected our boundaries and property we would not interfere. This may not sound right to someone who has not lived in such circumstances, but the desire for peace amid a fight for survival can change one’s ideas about justice.

Just then, Brian approached. The mood changed immediately. He and JB began arguing, assuming an Israeli/Palestinian “You have no right to exist!” kind of stance. There was a question as to whether JB had a gun. Ah, Oakland and its guns. The mention of a gun was more a posturing tool than an actual threat. As in, “If I had a gun …” With the situation devolving into another chest-puffing session, I said I had better things to do. If they wanted someone to help negotiate an actual peaceful agreement, I would be available. But, if they just wanted to posture and threaten each other, I didn’t have the time or interest. I went into my tent.

After a while, lacking an audience, the argument withered, as I hoped it would. Reemerging from my tent, I made the simple point that this had been JB’s neighborhood for 15 years, but that Brian had occupied his specific area for three – no small feat. I wanted to shout, “YOU want someone to go? I’LL GO!” Instead, I asked JB if he would simply use his “influence” with people to keep them away from Brian’s camp and belongings. And would Brian please just let JB go about his life, unhindered?

They agreed and shook on it. Done. Thankful that alcohol had not been a contributing factor, I thought the deal would hold.

As he turned to leave, Brian asked me, “Do you realize you have no shoes on?” I looked down and saw the tops of my bare feet, the rest buried in cool lunar dust. “Haha … yeah,” I said. “I’ll get right on that.”

Guns in Oakland

On Sept. 9, 2015, Antonio Ramos, an artist working on an anti-violence mural in Oakland, was gunned down. His killer tried to rob Antonio of the camera he used to document his work. This happened under the 580 overpass at West Street, less than two miles from our camp.

Some of our guys thought having a gun was the answer for personal safety. I have heard every argument in favor of firearms, including those from my friend R.J., whose one claim to fame is that he accidentally shot himself.

Setting aside all the good reasons for guns – collecting, hunting, and unfortunately the legitimate use during wartime – it is far too easy for people on the street to get them. I regularly faced people with guns, or at least who threatened to have them. I never needed one, and in fact I was safer and had more power without one.

As a man, I have noticed that when men start talking about the need for guns, they get … testosterony. Mmm … doesn’t that sound like a lovely pasta dish? “I’ll have the testosteroni with the beef flank and a Caesar salad.” But in seriousness, talk of guns tends to anger men, as if the mere conversation is a mortal threat. It’s all fear, and the reaction to it, as far as I can tell. And perhaps it’s unfair for me to wade into this argument, as I inexplicably don’t have such fear. I could throw a guy through a window, but I won’t. If anything, I’ll take a punch. In fact, while learning the principles of nonviolence, I was in a physically abusive relationship. The real test was when I let her beat on me until I bled. She finally gave up, as I sat there with my hands on my knees offering no resistance.

My one mistake? I should have called the police.

In the confrontation I just recounted, one guy had a gun. Had things festered a few days longer, with alcohol in the mix, someone would have taken a bullet. People are not rational. If they were, I wouldn’t care if they had bazookas. But they aren’t, and I was down at Ground Zero with them.

In 23 years of practicing and intervening with nonviolence, no one was ever shot. On two occasions where people were stabbed, I had arrived on the scene too late. In the more serious, the gang would have finished off the young man they were hunting if I had not held him through a locked gate and screamed at his oncoming attackers that they would have to kill us both. I also mentioned – lying – that the police were on the way.

People who threaten or brandish weapons are often drugged or liquored up, not behaving intelligently. I have disarmed many, in many ways, but never with physical violence. Surely, sometimes my size has been a factor. But when guns have been involved, quiet calm and direct engagement has made people put them away. De-escalation.

My best example of this was the night I went across the way on Brian’s behalf. The members of the other camp saw a giant specter in a long coat and hat coming out of the shadows toward them, frightening and imposing. Four or five of them raised their golf clubs, and one said he had a gun. High alert.

I raised my hands with open palms and calmly said, “Hey, I am nonviolent and I am just here to hear your side of things – to listen and understand. That’s it. No other agenda.” Their reactions went immediately from “You’re getting a five-iron to the forehead!” to “Hey, come on in.” Everyone relaxed. We talked. I listened to their grievances. They made a good point. I made sure they knew I got it. De-escalation.

I was mildly anti-gun before running a Homeless camp. Now I am more so. I think pro-gun people are too caught up in fears about theories of what might happen. Out there on the streets, I witnessed what was happening. We’ve made it harder for anyone with a criminal record or a mental illness to get a job to support themselves. Why can’t we make it at least that hard for the same people to get a firearm? And let’s keep them out of the hands of kids while we’re at it.

What I learned

It’s easy to categorize and dehumanize other people, forgetting the core similarities we share.

Reading U2 singer Bono’s book, Surrender, I was amazed at his ability to remember the name of every human soul he's ever met. Me, I just remember faces. To this day, I can see that young drug dealer’s face in my mind's eye as clear as day. I hope he's okay. He was intelligent and introspective, and he could read people well. In our first confrontation, he understood my calm resolve – that nothing was going to move me, certainly not fear. But he also felt the level of respect I offered him, and perhaps more importantly that I had not displayed the usual judgment, disrespect, or disdain he might have come to expect from someone like me. So, he knew he could wake me up at 4 a.m. to ask for help, and that I would care.

The only other time I had to kick someone out of our camp broke my heart. “Little Mac” got sucked back into heavy drug use. And it wasn’t really the drugs themselves that made this unavoidable, but the stealing from other camp members to support the habit. I had already seen this process turn good, moral young men with great hearts into amoral zombies, sometimes overnight. There’s a saying: “An alcoholic may borrow money from you and feel terrible remorse when he cannot pay it back; but a tweaker will steal and sell your stuff while you sleep, and then offer to help you find it in the morning.”

That’s why we had to have our three rules. That’s why I had to stand behind them and stand up for them. They were for the image-bearing men who had been placed in my care.