Part II: Lessons in Abundance: From Helene and our friends on the street

The Asheville City Council will vote on a proposal to extend restrictions on panhandling at their upcoming meeting on August 26. This has prompted much community conversation around issues of poverty and homelessness. In today’s newsletter, and each weekly newsletter in August, our Director, Ben, has included commentary around the proposal.

Note: I’ve changed the names of some of our neighbors in this piece to protect privacy.

“Perry”

Perry sleeps on sidewalks. 

Occasionally, he panhandles to earn money. According to him, on days when he panhandles (called “flying” or “flying a sign” on the street), he’ll take in somewhere between $7 and $15 a day. 

That money, Perry says, is enough for him to make a decision. He can use the cash to eat something or to buy enough fentanyl to “not feel sick.” He freely admits his addiction, though he says he’s worked hard to reduce how much he needs each day. 

Even if there were one with open beds for adult males, he said he would struggle in a shelter. He hopes to have his own tent one day, near a creek, something private and away from others. He has work skills and says he used to work in food service. He’s a bit older now, probably in his upper 50s, and struggles to move. His diet is restricted. Nearly everything he eats upsets his stomach. He’s open to doing some work, he says, but admits he’s limited physically. He doesn’t collect disability or food stamps. He has no steady income. 

He gets excited talking about bringing people together who live on the street in the hopes of talking to city leaders and problem-solving about issues related to poverty and homelessness, but he also struggles with hopelessness. When asked if he has any interest in getting into a recovery program to start working on his admitted addiction, he shook his head side to side. 

“I already know everything they’re going to tell me,” he said, stating he’s been in and out of previous programs. “I’ll be dead within a year if nothing changes,” he said in an emotionless, matter-of-fact tone.

A couple of weeks ago, outside the cafe, we were in a late summer afternoon rainstorm. One of our staff members from the cafe was struggling up the sidewalk on State Street, alongside the garden, balancing boxes and an umbrella. He couldn’t see me, but I saw Perry pull himself off the sidewalk, hold the umbrella for our staff, and escort her across a busy Haywood Road to her car. He made sure the boxes were put away and she was in the car safely, then made his way back, in the rain, to everything he owned on the sidewalk. 

Amidst all this pain, addiction, and hopelessness, there is kindness. Where there is kindness, there is hope, and a reason to live. 

“Lance”

Lance is younger. He’s been in and out of housing, but he's currently unsheltered. He shares the hopelessness we often see from so many who walk through the doors of 12 Baskets Cafe. This hopelessness feels like a disconnect from the “normal world,” which seems to have moved on, forgotten, or discarded him and so many in poverty and without shelter.

“The world has winners and losers, and it’s clear I’m with the losers,” said Lance. “I’ve accepted my fate,” he said, and then said he would like to work some cash jobs before he paused. Lance redirected, changed his tone, and started talking about some of his many gifts. 

“You know, I’m a decent-looking guy. I’m smart. I have all my physical abilities. I’d like to see my two sons again one day,” he said. He also worked in food service, where he managed a team, stating he had worked hard to keep his son’s mother in housing for years, only to have her leave him as soon as he lost his job. 

Lance can be extremely helpful at the cafe, and often works very hard. I don’t doubt he could merge back into a job and climb his way back to housing and self-sufficiency, if he chose that path. He needs a chance. Maybe two or three chances. Maybe more. He, like all of us, needs repeated invitations into community, support, encouragement, and accountability once he gets there. He needs a reminder that he’s valuable and needed, not invisible or forgotten. He needs reminders that he has needs and flaws, but also many gifts and talents.  

Mercy (real name)

Mercy, a Navy vet and former housekeeper, is a mother of two grown daughters. Mercy ended up in prison for five years due to drug charges. When released, she immediately went to ABCCM’s Transformation Village in Enka. There, she was supported by a wide range of social services. She had opportunities for education, access to Medicare, Medicaid, and rental assistance. 

After eight months, she moved into housing, secured by another local non-profit, Homeward Bound, which helped with half the rent. Today, you can find Mercy mentoring others as Operations Manager at yet another non-profit, Deep Time Coffee, across the street from us at 12 Baskets Cafe. Deep Time provides job training, spiritual growth, and mentoring for those re-entering society from the justice system.

Fully immersed in various levels of support, including housing, Mercy is not simply employed, but serves and leads others each day in her role at Deep Time. Without the support, she said she more than likely would have ended up homeless or in worse trouble.

Mercy’s story is a powerful reminder that, with love, support, community, hard work, and wraparound resources, we can lift each other and allow the gifts we all possess to overcome our past mistakes. This is another example of what we say at API all the time. Community cures poverty.

Reminders of Helen

We all recently participated in an incredibly powerful experiment in community last year, after the devastation of Hurricane Helene. In the weeks following the storm, our local, state, and national government, along with many thousands of supporters from across the US and here locally, came together to provide the most basic needs we were all without — bathrooms, showers, laundry, water, food, and other essentials. Nobody asked for ID or income verification, nobody asked where people worshipped or who they voted for, and nobody ran a background check; nobody has forms to fill out before offering help. 

We took care of each other because we recognized that humans deserve access to basic needs, simply because they are human. We didn’t punish or judge each other for putting our hands out. We shared what we had because we had all shared incredible adversity; we recognized the emergency occurring all around us. We helped and reminded each other how communities can come together and take care of one another. It is still happening, and that was the compassionate, loving, humane response, and our city and region will be forever grateful. 

The question we now ask is, why did we not respond that way to our neighbors in need before the storm, and why would we so quickly and so firmly forget the lessons of Helene, not even a year removed, and revert to a system that allows so many to try and survive without access to basic needs? 

Helene was an emergency, without question, but the emergency of poverty and homelessness existed long before the hurricane, and, unless we fundamentally change how we look at and treat and care for each other, it will be here long after. 

It doesn’t have to be this way. The extension of the panhandling restriction would employ more of the same punitive measures we’ve used as a city over the years. We can, however, seek an alternative solution that addresses the fundamental problem of poverty, rather than simply pushing it down the street. We can choose compassionate support, and a commitment of resources to surround those that need it most, as we all needed and benefited just 10 short months ago. 

We can maintain a supportive relationship with our friends who view panhandling as a last resort, while also supporting and strengthening our business owners and communities as a whole. Next week, we’ll explore alternatives to punishment that are working in other cities.