Part II Day 184: August 22, 2010 (in search of the homeless of Tuscaloosa)

Position: Part-time instructor and homeless hunter.

Last night at the Alcove, Dave Madden, the new nonfiction faculty member in the University of Alabama's MFA program, commented on the lack of visible homeless people in Tuscaloosa. I concurred, saying I've only seen maybe one man that looked homeless since I've been here. According to this outdated Tuscaloosa News article, the local branch of the Salvation Army only has 68 beds, and the VA Hospital, which "serves most of north and central Alabama," only has 48 beds in their domiciliary unit. Unlike many major downtowns in American cities, you just don't see many homeless people here.

"They're all down by the river," a local lawyer, protested. "I can see them from my office window. It's a real problem down there."

So this morning, around 8:30 a.m., I headed down by the Black Warrior River (Tuscaloosa is a portmanteau of the Choctaw words tushka, meaning "warrior," and lusa, meaning "black") to search out and possibly talk to homeless people. I assumed I would find a small encampment but didn't. I spotted this one artifact––which could be construed as evidence of a homeless lifestyle, but could just as easily be a lazy man's lunch––near a park bench:

My next mission is to make my way over to the Salvation Army center. Stay tuned . . .

Part II Day 176: August 14, 2010 (jerry's nuts and busing out of town)

Position: New Tuscaloosa Resident

"I'm pretty sure I saw a boiled peanuts stand back there," I tell my newfound friend Annie, a first-year MFA student at the university. She's driven me to the outskirts of town on Hwy. 82 in order to help recover my boxes I shipped out from California. Greyhound said it would take about 4 days for my boxes to arrive, but that was before they shipped one of them to Illinois by accident. Two days ago, I walked five blocks from my house in blistering heat and humidity to claim my boxes at the downtown Greyhound station only to learn they'd moved to this new location, a BP station outside of town.

When I go into the gas station, I see the Greyhound desk occupying a small area in the back. Outside, a bus is either picking up or dropping off customers, the majority of whom are black. After I claim my boxes, which aren't stored in the back but sitting right out in the open by the gas station's front door, I meet Annie outside. "This is stupid," I say. "Why the hell would they put the Greyhound station way out here? I mean, isn't the entire point is that Greyhound is for people without cars? It looks like mostly poor black people in there. The downtown location would have been much more accessible."

When we turn the car around on Hwy 82, I tell Annie I'm not sure where I saw the boiled peanuts guy. "I love, love, love boiled peanuts, "Annie says. She grew up outside of D.C. and the peanuts remind her of summer family trips down south to the Carolinas. "I think I saw him back by the gas station. I know I saw an old guy putting out several boiled peanuts signs––they said "Ralph's boiled peanuts" or something––but I can't remember where I saw him." Back by the gas station, we see the stand: "Jerry's boiled peanuts."

Jerry is a large older man, sporting a yellowish-gray-haired ponytail, a crimson colored muscle half-shirt that exposes his hairy gelatinous belly, and a pair of shorts and sandals. His blotchy skin is red from the sun, his nose bulbous from drink. His fingernails and toenails are partially split and discolored from a fungal infection. His blue eyes look squeezed together by his baggy eyelids and brow skin. In front of Jerry sit two mucky boiling pots hooked to propane tanks. A single well-used glove rests on each pot. Small Zip-lock bags of what look like dirty wet peanuts are arranged on a cooler.

Annie tells him she just loves boiled peanuts. "Well, I've got regular and Cajun," he says in a thick Alabama accent. "The Cajun ones is a little spicy but not too spicy." Annie tells him she's tried to boil some at home but with poor results. "If you try to boil the dry kind," Jerry continues, "it'll take you about eight hours. You need to get them green. And even then, it takes about two hours." We continue discussing the finer points of peanut boiling, and Jerry says, "I got the same people coming by here a couple times a week; they're eatin' a lot of peanuts. I eat––I do eat my own product, about a bag a day, I'd guess."

We tell Jerry we're new to town. "Oh you're gonna love it here. I been here, oh, about a couple years now, and I love it. I'm really looking forward to football season." I tell him that it seems safe here. "It’s a great town," he says "You could walk around any neighborhood in downtown at night and be . . . well, maybe not every neighborhood, but you could walk around down by the river and be perfectly fine. I plan on staying here.” I mention the stupidity of the Greyhound station relocation, and Jerry says, "A cab ride would cost you eighteen bucks just to get out here. You could easily of jump on a city bus when it was in downtown.”

Annie asks him what brought him from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa. "Well, it was a bit of a relocation situation," he says. He rubs his large rough hands, which look like, at one time, they could have crushed a man like a miniature origami orangutang. But now his pudgy fingers are wrinkled and bent inward with the signs of arthritis. Jerry takes a long uncomfortable pause, the kind a man takes before breaking down and sobbing or admitting something terrible happened in his past. Annie assumes it will be something about prison. "I . . . uh . . . I . . . it was an alcohol problem."

I tell him that can be tough. "When you're down," he says, "it keeps you there." He looks up, and in a tone that sounds like we need convincing, he says, "But my life has completely turned around. Been about three years sober. I don't know what y'all believe or nothin', but the man upstairs helped me out. I mean . . . I wasn’t much of a Bible thumper . . . well, I’m still not much of a Bible thumper, but I know He did this for me, because I didn’t have the power to do it myself." Jerry looks us right in the eyes and his sincerity is heartbreaking. He seems like a character out of a Johnny Cash song, perhaps the "Kneeling Drunkards Plea."

"I'm not making no excuses about drinking. I've had some physical problems, but I'm not blaming that. I was in Vietnam, and I'm not blaming that, either. Up in Montgomery, I had a great spot. Took me time to develop it, but I was making $600 a week. Clearing! Of course, I’m not makin' that kind of money here. I need to develop this spot. I've asked the landlord to move this school bus so I'll be more visible. I think he's going to do that for me." Jerry turns around and points to a mobile home behind some trees. "I live right back there in that mobile home." He used to have his stand on the other side of the BP station, but the gas station manager told him to leave after BP customers complained that he was soliciting them. "I wasn't doin' no such thing."

"You know, you'd think it'd be hard to screw up a boilin' peanuts operation," he says, talking about Montgomery, "but that's exactly what I did. One day, I woke up flat out on the ground looking up at two police officers. I had tucked a wine bottle under my head as a pillow before I passed out. A friend from AA vouched for me, and that's the only reason I didn't end up in jail."

Jerry is exactly the kind of character I was hoping to meet in Alabama, but, like many of the other residents of this area, I'm disarmed by his overwhelming kindness. In Australia, he'd be called a "battler," a guy who constantly has hard luck but battles it our for life, holding on anyway he can. And his boiled peanuts are delicious, especially the Cajun style. "Be sure to tell all your friends I'm out here," he says.

If you're ever out on Hwy. 82, south of Tuscaloosa, be sure to stop and buy some peanuts and have a chat with Jerry. Don't worry, he'll do all the boiling and talking.

Part II Day 173: August 11, 2010 (losing hope and life in tough economic times)

Position: Part-time Temporary Instructor

EDD Check: $250 per week ($0 left in award balance)

I'm not poor, nor have I ever been. I've lived on couches and felt the burning pain of hunger, but those were by choice, and I always had the resources and power to end those situations. What I can't control is the lack of self-worth I've felt collecting unemployment. You may think it's wonderful to be home all day, doing whatever you like, but you're limited by the sparse income and sudden lack of energy brought on by depression. Your life loses structure.

In these hard economic times, it's no surprise that in my new home of Tuscaloosa, AL, a small college town of 78,000 residents, the suicide rate reached a new record last year––31 dead––and is set to eclipse it this year (20 already dead by July, 31) . While people choose to cash out on life for different reasons, this article in the Tuscaloosa News quotes Dr. Beverly Thorn, the chair of the University of Alabama's psychology department, as saying that "hard economic times could be at the root of some of the cases." Four times as many men in this town committed suicide this year than women, most often by a gunshot wound. The article opens with a man in his thirties shooting himself in the head in his home and being discovered by his parents, but never talks about his economic situation.

While I assume the higher suicide rate among men in hard economic times is due to the loss of one's ability and social/instinctual need to provide, that cannot be proven. And since only seven of the twenty suicides this year left notes, and the article doesn't disclose the contents of those notes, we may never know how poverty or a loss of employment directly correlates to suicide. By reading Urdo Grashoff's strange collection of German suicide notes, called Let Me Finish, I've learned that lost love can be just as responsible as lost wages for suicide and general economic standing doesn't determine the likelihood of suicide. Rich people kill themselves as often as poor people.

What I've also discovered by moving to Tuscaloosa sans personal transportation is that living in a city designed for automobiles can prove unmanageable for those who cannot afford a car. I've only been here less than a week, but riding my bike in 100 degree heat across town (20 minutes each way) to buy needed supplies at Target, such as a pot in which to cook oats and rice, can make anyone feel suicidal. One must rely on the kindness of strangers or new friends with cars in order to survive. At least I have that option. I can also afford a car, so I feel sorry for those who can't. They must feel trapped in their homes.

As you can tell, I'm struggling to find a new angle on poverty here to write about, but that's not the point (suggestions are welcome, though). For me, the point of this "experiment" has been to highlight the plight of the poor in our country and to develop a culture of volunteerism in my own life, which has sadly been lacking until this point. As soon as I get settled and my classes are humming along, I shall begin finding ways to volunteer and continue writing about the poor. Stay tuned . . .

In the meantime, here is some Gil Scott-Heron singing about my life:

Part II Day 163: August 1, 2010 (saying what you have and what you are, before saying goodbye)

Position: Volunteer

EDD Check: $250 per week ($250 left in award balance)

Hours Volunteered: 3

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,300

I knew saying goodbye would be difficult before we arrived here, but I had no idea how difficult. I've accepted a part-time teaching position at the University of Alabama for fall, and I must move to Tuscaloosa by the end of this week.

When we enter the Bhutanese family's apartment, the familiar quilt is laid out on the floor, grandma sits in her place on the couch, and the mom squats between the kitchen and dinner table, peeling potatoes over a bowl on the floor. The father disappears into the back room and returns with his note pad, ready for the lesson.

In my absence, Etel has been teaching them the verbs "to have" and "to be." Etel and I run them through the items they have: "I have four children"; "I have a sofa"; "I have a table," etc. After we cover most of the items and people in the room––"I have a husband"––we move on to the expansive verb, "to be." We start with physical descriptions, which, because of our lack of preparation, leads to awkward and funny moments. It's easy to describe the father: "You are tall," followed by, "You are thin." The kids translate the meaning of thin, and we all agree that the dad is tall and thin.

When we turn to the mom, we can only describe her as short. "I am short," she says. The body type for her is a little more difficult. Etel turns to me and says, "What's the word for being between thin and fat?"

I stumble and say, "Normal?"

The mom already knows the opposite of thin, and she announces, "I am short and fat." We all laugh, including the kids, but it sounds awful. "No, no," Etel says, "you are thin," which isn't quite true either. The mom has an average body for a short Bhutanese woman, neither thin nor fat, but she's definitely roundish. The mom laughs and repeats that she's short and fat, and Etel, unlike Cosmopolitan Magazine, assures her she's thin.

We move on to conditional forms of "to be," such as "I am hungry" and "I am warm," which they quickly understand. They struggle for a minute with the negative use, adding in "not," before finally getting it: "I am not cold"; "I am not hungry." The oldest daughter has been in the kitchen this whole time cooking, and I, personally, am very hungry.

When we finish the lesson, we move to the couch and the mom folds and puts away the quilt. The daughter serves us fry bread and samosas and tomato curry paste with cups of water, since we've said we prefer not to have coffee and tea today. Etel, as usual, barely eats anything while I chow down, and the family takes notice. "You don't eat," the mother says.

"I'm not that hungry," Etel says and points to her stomach. The mother tells Etel that she is thin, and then grandma speaks up from across the room. She says something in Nepali, and then points at her belly. We don't understand, so in order to be more demonstrative she lifts her shirt and sagging breasts to reveal her bare, flabby stomach. The kids translate: "She says she is fat and you are thin." We love the grandmother's sense of humor, even though we can't understand her, and we're just glad she didn't expose her breasts.

Etel reminds the oldest daughter again how we've collected money to help her pay the relocation loan. She looks "sigh" again, but is very thankful. Etel hands her an envelope with $100 and says, "This is to make your first payment."

The kids ask Etel if she can help them with the new apartment they're trying to move the family into, because they don't understand what's going on. Etel calls the new landlord and sets up an appointment for the next day. When she's done, I broach the subject of my move. The family looks confused, so I explain I received a teaching job. "But you already have a job with the IRC," the son says. We explain that we are volunteers, that we don't get paid, and he's incredulous. "I thought you got paid by the IRC," he says. "We have volunteers at school, so I know what that is."

I manage to say, "I'm very sad," but can't hold back the emotions. I walk over to the door, sit on the floor and slip on my shoes while staring at the wall, and then walk outside to the end of the apartment walkway. I watch the kids soccer game across the street and try to compose myself, but I can't. A Somali girl bends down at the small BBQ next to me and lifts the lid. Unrecognizable cuts of meat cover the grill. She jams a large knife past the meat and stirs the coals. "What kind of meat is that?" I ask. Beef.

When I get myself together, I return to the apartment. While I was gone, the youngest daughter brought out a map and asked Etel to show her where I'm moving. "It's far," she said when Etel pointed to Alabama on the map. I sit back down on the couch, and the mom stares at me with pain in her eyes. I'm trying hard to hold it together. "It's very sad," the son says.

"Yes, I'm very sad," I say.

When we go to leave, I shake the son's hand, bow to grandma and say "Namaste," shake hands with the youngest daughter, and then hug the mom and oldest daughter, before I head for the door. Damn, this is hard. They make me promise to call and e-mail them, and I say I will.

Tomorrow, Etel will return and take them to the new apartment, where they won't understand why they can't leave their old apartment without a 30-day notice and why the new landlord––who greeted them by saying, "Does anyone speak English here?"––won't hold the apartment until the end of the month for them. It's all so confusing to the Bhutanese family, and the old landlord won't budge. "30-days is California law," he'll say, "and I'm tired of them saying they're moving out, they're staying, they're moving."

What he may or may not know is that the landlord at other apartment they had lined up for $895, changed the price on them at the last minute, saying it was now $1,200, the same amount they're paying. I've never really understood what slum lords are, but now I know. They overcharge for crappy apartments in crappy parts of town and take advantage of people like the Bhutanese and their confusion.

After their failed attempt to set up a new apartment, Etel will drive them back to their old apartment, and the mom will turn to her and say, "I am sad Eric go. I learned so much from him." And that breaks my heart.