The Homeless Buzzwords
By Andy Pope
When I was homeless, I heard a number of words used predominantly by those who lived indoors that had a dubious ring in the ears of those of us who lived outside. These words often had a way of revealing our homelessness in a situation where it would have been wiser to conceal it — for example, when one was seeking a place of residence among numerous applicants.
Even if the situation were such that there was no reason why our homelessness couldn’t remain “out in the open” (so to speak), these words still had a way of making us feel that we were in some way distinctly set apart from the rest of the human race. At times, the words suggested that we may not have been fully human.
For example, ordinances were proposed to the city that would effectively “shoo homeless people off of the sidewalks.” What kind of entity is usually “shooed?” A fly, of course.
In making reference to homeless people, many words were used by those who lived inside that were never used by those of us who were outside. Moreover, these words were not used in similar contexts in reference to those who were indoors. Would an ordinance ever be proposed that would “shoo people out of their apartments?” I don’t think so.
We who have lived outdoors for prolonged periods of time can easily come up with numerous similar buzzwords, possibly one for every letter of the alphabet. But for now, let me list only four. The first two will be called the two “s-words.” The last two will be called the two “h-words.”
Shelter
Once on Facebook, a friend of mine in Texas posted an announcement on his timeline: “My friend Andy is looking for shelter. Can any one help him?”
Now, out of all his Facebook friends, how many of them would have known that I was homeless? Probably only him, his wife maybe, and a couple people from his church. Does a person who isn’t homeless ever look for “shelter?” No, they don’t. They look for a place to live.
I asked him to remove the post. Though he was trying to help, he didn’t realize that the revelation of homelessness in this fashion would work against me in trying to secure residence. People are much more likely to offer temporary lodging to someone who is looking for a “place to live” than they are for someone looking for “shelter.” One’s need for shelter conveys that one is homeless to begin with. One’s need for a place to live does not.
By this time I had learned from experience that if there were 10 applicants on a rental application, and one of them put down that he had been homeless, there would soon be only nine applicants on that application.
Services
This one wasn’t nearly so bad as the other “s-word.” But it still pointed to a certain stigma associated with poverty and disability culture that could conceivably work against us in many circumstances. A person trying to find residence, for example, is generally reluctant to admit that they need access to “services.” A prospective landlord would much rather hear about “gainful employment” than “services.”
Even in the context where no discrimination would be involved, there was still the inner sting of feeling that we somehow weren’t employable, able, or competent. No one likes to think of themselves as incompetent. We all want to think we are at least capable of earning our own way in life, even if circumstances–personal, medical, or financial–are temporarily preventing us from doing so.
In all the years when I flew a sign on a Berkeley city sidewalk, only once did a person walk by and shout, “Get a job!”
It was just about the most refreshing thing I’d ever heard. For it was very common for passersby to point me to where all the services were—as if I didn’t know already. After a number of years, the overall effect of this dynamic was to drill deeper and deeper down into the depths of my psyche the disconcerting notion that I was somehow “less than” all the more worthy sorts of people — those who were capable of holding down jobs.
Housing
The first of the two “h-words” is akin to that of the two “s-words.” Who needs to be “housed?” A person who doesn’t already have a house, of course. So when a social worker would refer to finding us “housing,” it only served as a general reminder of the essential difference between us and that other kind of human being — the one who was so privileged as to be living indoors. That person could conceivably delight in having “moved to another place” — a place of their choice, and more to their liking.
We could take no such delight. The homeless person, even when told to move (which we very often were told to do), doesn’t really get to move to a new place. Wherever we moved, we were still homeless.
“Hey buddy, wake up! You’ve been crashing out here for five days now. Time for you to move on!!”
“But – but – where do I move to?”
“That’s your problem! I said, move!!”
If perchance one of us did find a place to live in the area, people would say, “Hey did you hear what
happened? Bob’s been housed!!”
Honestly, we sometimes felt as though we were animals being assigned to cages.
Compare that feeling to that of a person who had lived in a rental and who then succeeds in buying a house. Possibly they move out into the suburbs, or even into a gated community. They get to do what they want to do. They take their pick and of available houses until they eventually find the one they like. This is the sort of person who actually gets to “move” – and to move up in the world.
Homeless people, on the other hand, only need to be housed — and quickly, I might add. This was a huge obsession of many of the indoor-dwellers in our midst, especially of the ones who were trying to help us. Something had to be done with us — hopefully as soon as possible — and our own personal say-so in the matter was of limited importance in their minds.
This was the case even before the terms “houseless” and “unhoused” came into vogue. I suppose if someone doesn’t mind the world knowing that they’re homeless, they might not mind hearing that they are “unhoused.” But again, I was never outside when the ugly specter of these and similar buzzwords reared its head.
Homeless
Now for the big one.
I have probably used the word “homeless” 10 times as much in the past seven years living indoors than for the previous 12 years outside. Even now, I prefer to use words like “outside” or “outdoors,” rather than “homeless,” whenever possible.
Partly this is because I feel called upon to emphasize that the main difference between those who are homeless and those who are not is that the homeless person lives outside—exposed and vulnerable to all kinds of external influences, human or inhuman, foul or fair. Whoever is not homeless lives inside and is as such protected from the vast array of such external elements.
But the word “homeless” for some reason carries a number of unrelated connotations that obscure the real issues of those who are outside. No doubt this is why words such as “unhoused” and “houseless” have emerged to replace it. The word “homeless” has indeed pejorated; that is, changed for the worse. As a former homeless person, I would however suggest that words such as “houseless” and “unhoused” aren’t a whole lot better.
We are at risk of evoking what Stephen Pinker calls the “euphemism treadmill.” When was the last time you heard someone who lives outside describe themselves as a “hobo?” Aside from rare exceptions, this would have been years ago. Why? Because the word “hobo” became pejorative, and then replaced with “homeless.”
It was only a matter of time before the word “homeless” would also undergo pejoration—and so now it is being replaced as well. This phenomenon could go on forever, and this is the essence of the euphemism treadmill.
It is largely because these words carry so much stigma that many homeless people do everything they can to conceal their homelessness from those who live indoors. The word “homeless” carries so much stigma, it drives the average homeless person into the realm of invisibility.
Typical connotations on the word “homeless” include “drug addict,” “alcoholic,” “nut case,” “loser,” “lazy bum,” and a whole plethora of stigmatic labels that serve to obscure the more essential information about the homeless condition. As I said, these labels are unrelated to the real issues of those who live outdoors. Plenty of people who live indoors could easily have any one of these labels attributed to them, and there are many homeless people to whom none of these words apply.
Even if one or more of these attributes accurately reflect some aspect of a person’s homeless experience, it serves no purpose to dwell on them. An overemphasis on a homeless person’s problems with substance abuse or mental health often obfuscates the top-priority issue of those who live outside. We may or may not have needed help with alcoholism or drug addiction. But we definitely needed to find a way to live inside.
And yet, many people without drug problems become frustrated living outside, and they will identify as drug addicts because it’s one of the easier ways to get inside. I tried it myself once.
I was on the verge of being accepted into a certain rehab, when one of the officials approached me with my medical information.
“Excuse me, sir. You do not have Hep C or Diabetes 2. You have no STD’s. You claim to be a methamphetamine addict, but your heart looks like that of a lifelong athlete. We do not believe you have a drug problem.”
I walked back out into the elements thinking, “Well, I guess that one didn’t work. I’ll try the psych ward again.”
And of course, psych wards and drug rehabs are neither permanent places to live nor do they provide much dignity. The quest of the self-respecting homeless person is to find a place where the human dignity that has been lost can be restored, not further shattered.
So to avoid having to cut through the quagmire of all this unrelated labeling, I had to begin by avoiding the label of “homeless” in the first place. For it would be from that label that all the other distracting labels would spring.
If instead I could somehow manage to be seen only as a fellow human being, in as many situations as possible, and not as a “homeless” person, then my chances of attaining a place to call my own were greatly enhanced.
At the end of my homeless sojourn, that was exactly how I found a place I could finally call my own — by leaving all trace of “homeless” out of my persona, and finding a landlord who had no reason to see me as anyone other than a fellow human being.
For years, I was not seen as a person. I was seen as a homeless person. And that dynamic is essentially what this column is all about.
