Two Memorable People and Why I Never Accept the First Explanation

Several readers have asked me what I’ve learned from interviewing homeless people during my stays in shelters. Hmm. One book about health care costs features this title: “Never Pay the First Bill.” I’ve encountered exceptions, but if we hope to be both compassionate and constructive, our rule should be, “Never Accept the First Explanation.”

I tried to stay at shelters for at least four days. In Missouri, 32-year-old Mirenda (that’s her real name, and she specified that the fourth letter is an “e”) said on day one that she was homeless because of the foster care system. That system was clearly a problem for her, as it is for many kids bounced from house to house. Eight different placements is average, so it’s not surprising that no place feels like home.

On day two of our conversations, Mirenda moved from blaming foster care (for good reason) to blaming churches and government (probably also for good reason). Interested in Christianity and baptized four years ago, she said, “I believe in God, but a lot of churches pander to the populace or to politicians.” Between foster care placements, Mirenda would return briefly to her mom, who (Mirenda said) got her diagnosed with bipolar and PTSD, and thus, worthy of a monthly disability check of $800 or so. Mirenda said her mom looked the other way when the mom’s boyfriend “creeped on me.”

On day three, I learned about Mirenda’s children. She was ready to tell me that, while still a teenager and unmarried, she had a son who went to live with his dad, but the dad was arrested for child molestation. (Their son is now “in foster care somewhere, I don’t know where.”) Mirenda talked about being six months pregnant with a daughter in 2017 when a Dodge Ram 2500 hit them. Mirenda, on the hood for 100 feet, fell off the front, which ran over her and dragged her eleven feet more. Helen Mae, delivered much too early, died. Her ashes are now in a vase.

On day four, Mirenda acknowledged some personal responsibility. She is smart but repeatedly looked for love in all the wrong places. Once, she left the shelter she now calls home to move in with an irresponsible guy in Illinois, then barely escaped. The Bible says those who aren’t busy become busybodies, and Mirenda realized that: “When I have time on my hands, I get into trouble.”

Here’s my experience with another M, Michael, age 48. On day one, he blamed the home (from which he ran away, for good reason) and then the correctional center to which he was sent: “It was a gladiator school for people from 18 to 25 where I learned how to do more crimes.” Later came prison: “There you’re either white or black,” which meant that for self-protection, he joined the Aryan Brotherhood. “It was full of hatred and bred more hatred.”

On day two, he was willing to talk about growing up as the only boy among five sisters. He went to a Baptist church on Sundays and a church camp during the summers, and was baptized twice in the process. He also had an overwhelmed mom and a Hell’s Angels stepfather who “never called me by my name, always called me Susie” (after the song, “A Boy Named Sue”). Michael’s most vivid memory from age 12 is of his stepdad hitting him. When Michael cried, the stepdad made him put on a dress and stand in front of the stepdad’s pals: “That humiliated me real bad.”

On day three, Michael was ready to talk about how he hurt others. “I terrorized the whole town.” He became a soldier in drug wars and paid the price in 2016, when — while he was sleeping — a competitor shot him in both legs. But here’s the rest of the story: “Getting shot opened my eyes.” A pastor came to the prison “when I was watching Jerry Springer, and for two months I wouldn’t talk much with him. But he took a personal interest in me, and he took the time to put on an inmate’s uniform and stay in jail during lockdown, even though some of us were in for murder, some for sex crimes.”

On day four, Michael told me about his son, but then “my son’s mother ended up leaving me for my best friend.” And yet, instead of castigating his supposed buddy, Michael gave me a copy of a poem he has written, titled “Why?”

Michael wrote what he thought Jesus would say to him: “I gave you a woman to love you, but I guess she wasn’t enough. You went looking for something else, you wanted lust instead of love. You stuck a needle in your arm, just for a little high. And I’m still here: considering all you’ve done, how dare you ask me ‘why’?”

Michael was accepting his own responsibility. He said, “I need to be consistent in working, in building relationships. And if I’m always chasing something else, the blame’s on me.”