Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, March 11, 1990 TAG: 9003081796
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: E-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CODY LOWE STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
But sleeping under a highway overpass and spending the days outside in the rain and snow and sun and wind is close enough to homelessness to get a taste of that condition.
Since Christmas Day, small groups of people have been coming here to spend just such a week. They hand out fliers to the Capitol's visitors, and they lobby congressmen and senators, urging them to support a measure for more government-funded low-cost housing.
Their hosts are David Hayden, a Roanoke advocate for the poor and homeless, and Harold Moss, a staff member of the Community for Creative Non-Violence, a District of Columbia organization founded by Mitch Snyder.
Hayden and Moss have spent almost every night since Christmas under an Interstate 395 overpass in Southeast Washington. They'll maintain the "winter campaign" until April 15, Easter Sunday. This week they are joined by eight people, including four from Justice House in Roanoke. The groups sometimes number as many as 15.
Hayden and Moss give neophytes survival tips - keep a blanket over your head at night to preserve heat, don't get wet, don't overheat or wait too long to bundle up, get to the soup kitchen just after noon to avoid the crowd.
The week quickly evolves into a cycle of drudgery, Hayden said, for the seven-day visitors as well as himself. But it's worth it.
"The momentum builds as the campaign goes by," he said. "You have to be willing to do the drudgery. Unless we're willing to do that, we will not see visible change."
The whole point of this demonstration is to be visible on behalf of a largely invisible group - the homeless. The participants specifically advocate passage of a bill to restore $25 billion a year that they contend was cut from the housing budget during the Reagan administration.
Public pressure is needed, they say, because months have passed since House and Senate leaders promised to submit such a bill. And people are still dying on the streets.
Some advocates are wondering whether a bill can be entered in time even to be considered by the two chambers before the session ends. But, for now, Hayden and his colleagues seem content to work quietly, waiting for the system to respond.
So they spend their days in the struggle to raise homelessness above the swamp of issues that Congress slogs its slow way through. And one day seems much like another.
Feb. 27, 3:30 p.m.
David Hayden is at the John L. Young shelter for the homeless, run by the Community for Creative Non-Violence in the 400 block of Second Street Northwest in Washington.
The non-violence community's 1,400-bed shelter is the base of operations for the campaign. Hayden
On Sundays, when one group of advocates leaves and another arrives, he occasionally stays overnight. He gets a shower and washes his clothes - bleach-spotted sweat pants, hooded sweat shirt and layers of long underwear.
About 50 volunteer staff members are in the building now, living in 3 North, a wing of the sprawling shelter with its own kitchen and recreation area.
Just behind the pool table is the door to a small office. Hayden goes in to return a phone call to a Los Angeles Times reporter who is writing about the protest against a census count of the homeless.
The room is sparsely furnished. Behind the door is a neat stack of clear plastic boxes containing ashes and bone chips. Some have names attached, but many are labeled simply "John Doe."
They represent the unclaimed dead from the ranks of the capital's poor. The newest addition, not yet transferred from its black cardboard box to a plastic container, bears the remains of John Young, the 30-year-old former resident for whom the shelter has been named.
Hayden officiated at his funeral only a couple of weeks before. He blames the government for the death of Young and others like him.
"Their blood is on their hands for not providing affordable housing," Hayden says. He wonders why people don't get as angry over the spilled blood of one of these homeless people as they did when protestors splashed blood on the Capitol steps and columns a few weeks ago.
4 p.m.
Hayden leaves the center's offices, walking five blocks to the Capitol to rejoin the demonstrators passing out leaflets there.
After his high-profile participation in last fall's New Exodus march of poor and homeless to the Housing Now rally in Washington, Hayden was asked to co-chair a committee planning another such national campaign this year.
At first he accepted, but he has just quit. He fears that any organization to support such an event is doomed to waste energy in trying to perpetuate itself.
Housing Now, while it generated "a significant, necessary event, . . . legally died on Dec. 31." And, in any case, a promise of legislation was elicited from congressional leaders before the massive rally was even held.
"The next logical step is to organize at the congressional district level - all 435 of them," Hayden says as he walks. "That is where my effort is going to go."
There are "no real plans" for that work. "It is an unfolding process . . . [for those] totally committed to the pursuit of justice. God responds to that obedience."
Although he was defrocked by the Mennonite Church during the New Exodus march last fall, Hayden continues to approach his work as a Christian ministry of liberation of the poor. He views the poor as the only legitimate claimants to salvation through Jesus Christ.
Conflicts over his attacks on the established church, as well as his personal style and use of profanity and vulgarity in speech, were among the issues that led to a loss not only of his ordination but also of a $26,000-a-year grant to his Justice House ministry to the poor and homeless in Roanoke.
5:15 p.m.
A group from Alaska is handed leaflets as they walk up the steps to the now-closed Capitol. They are in town to press their congressmen for broader environmental-protection laws, but they seem eager to join the fight against homelessness as well. They listen to Hayden's oft-delivered explanation of their position.
"We're here to make visible with our bodies the consequences of poverty," he says. He concludes that the process works because a commitment for legislation has been made by congressmen.
He defends demands for a national policy because, in a capitalistic system, "government must take the leading role in housing or it doesn't get built." Hayden contends that business won't build the housing because it is not profitable enough, and that it would take 1,000 years for all the non-profit groups in the country to build enough low-cost housing.
"We know the people of this country have not grasped the significance of this problem," Hayden said, repeating a prediction by one group that there will be 19 million homeless by the turn of the century. Some housing advocacy groups now estimate that there are about 2 million homeless people, although some government and university studies put the total at 600,000 or less.
Hayden saves his harshest attacks for capitalism and materialism.
"You cannot change capitalism, you must change sides."
"Thinking has become a subversive activity."
"A great concern is a numbness caused by materialism."
"Go back and stir up God's good trouble. Kick people in the ass."
"The revolution has come. We are doing it."
5:45 p.m.
" 'Bout that time," Hayden says. The group picks up the white and black trash bags holding their belongings, as well as a couple of back packs and sleeping rolls, and begins the seven-block walk down Capitol Hill to the Interstate overpass.
The walk goes past the Library of Congress, down First Street, past the House of Representatives Child Care Center, by a gentrified brownstone neighborhood and into Garfield Park. The overpass is at the edge of the park, along Virginia Avenue. It marks a boundary between the affluent restored area and a deteriorating housing project and industrial area.
6 p.m.
It is a tired group that drops its bags on the asphalt pavement under the overpass. Two basketball goals are mounted on poles and a court painted.
A group from the Community for Creative Non-Violence already is there with supper from the shelter. After gathering in a circle for a quick prayer, everyone fills up a cafeteria tray with baked spaghetti, potatoes and squash, applesauce and garlic bread soaked in margarine.
6:30 p.m.
The meal is finished. A few people wander away for a walk after helping clean up the plastic foam cups and paper napkins.
Hayden talks about his Roanoke ministry.
Despite the Mennonite church's cutoff of funds to Justice House, "needs are being met in ways that surprise us. We don't plot or scheme or plan for the next dollar, but we find that our needs are met."
Recent conflicts with the Virginia Mennonite Conference are a concern though, Hayden said.
He is carrying in his pocket a copy of a 12-year lease agreement for the Justice House property. The Mennonite Conference owns the apartment building and had let Hayden use it for his ministry. Last fall, Justice House residents demanded that the property be transferred to them. But when the residents refused to comply with conditions the church insisted on - one of which was that Hayden not be a trustee of the property - the lease was proposed as a compromise.
Hayden says he is not philosophically opposed to a lease arrangement, as long as it provides some security to the residents of the community and avoids a "landlord-tenant, slave-master" relationship.
7:30 to 10 p.m.
All bedrolls are out. They have been spread over plastic sheets and a layer of cardboard to ward off the damp and cold.
Most of this week's participants have lightweight summer-type sleeping bags and a couple of thin blankets.
The cool, overcast day has become a cold night. There is a lot of noise. The traffic on I-395 - about 20 feet overhead - is still heavy. A railroad track slides into an underground tunnel about 50 yards away.
By 7:30, a couple of people are already wrapped up like cocoons and sleeping. On most nights, just about everyone would be under cover by now, Harold Moss says, but there is "a festive atmosphere tonight" because some of the non-violence community folks stayed to talk after the van took the leftover food and utensils back to the shelter.
At 8:17 p.m., a Capitol policeman stops his car and walks over to greet Hayden: "Just wanted to make sure everything is all right."
By 9 p.m., everyone is in sleeping bags. An hour later, a man - intoxicated, by the sound of his top-of-the-lungs singing - takes the short cut by the basketball court to cross Virginia Avenue.
No one stirs or uncovers a head for fear of losing heat as the temperatures drop into the upper 20s.
Feb. 28, 12 a.m. to 5:30 a.m.
Other people have walked through, but no one bothers the sleepers. Truck drivers waiting to load their panel trucks at The Washington Post's printing plant across the road yell to each other and rev their engines.
At around 3 a.m., a faulty timer turns overhead lights on over the basketball court, waking some of the group. By 5:30 a.m., overhead traffic has picked up considerably - and so has the noise.
6 a.m. to 8 a.m.
Hayden gets up. Rolling up his sleeping gear, he walks over to a waiting stack of newspapers, left by a resident of the John Young shelter who works at the printing plant across the street.
Moss wakes up half an hour later, but lies in his bedding reading the Bible for a while.
By 7, others are up and folding their bedding. He names each of the four Justice House residents here and his reasons for admiring them. Many of them have lived on the streets, he says, and reliving it through this experience is hard for them, even though it's for a cause they believe in.
At 7:35, breakfast - coffee, grits, some oranges - is delivered by staffers from the non-violence community. The sleepers pack up all their belongings and bedding - except the plastic and cardboard, which is folded and stored under the bridge.
8:10 a.m. to 9 a.m.
Bags over shoulders, they begin walking back to the Capitol. On the way, the heavily laden group draws a few stares from the crowds rushing to work.
At 8:28, on the Capitol steps, the bags are piled more or less neatly about a third of the way up. Capitol Police officers chat amiably with the protestors, who are among the few people about yet because the Capitol doesn't open to the public until 9 a.m.
At 8:30 a.m., a daily ritual begins as an officer moves among the bags of clothes and bedrolls, leading a dog trained to smell for explosives.
The friendly atmosphere deteriorates as a volunteer from the non-violence community starts shouting at the truck as it pulls away. The dog had urinated on her belongings.
The incident "just shows what it means to be poor," Hayden says, before filling out a complaint form against the officer.
Few in the group will enter the Capitol, which they see as the symbol of an oppressive government. At 8:45, most begin the 200-yard walk to the Library of Congress building to use the rest rooms and wash up.
Although the day is sunny and promises to be mild, the wind whistles across Capitol Hill, chilling fingers and ears.
9 to 11:40 a.m.
Tourist groups begin entering the Capitol as the doors open. The demonstrators begin giving out some of the 3,000 fliers they received yesterday and explaining their position on the need to fund housing.
At 9:45, three demonstrators move into an alleyway under the steps, where a heat exhaust grate provides some relief from the wind.
Shortly after 10 a.m., Hayden begins the three-block walk to Union Station to pick up sodas for the others and to see if the Los Angeles Times has printed its story about the census protest.
When he gets there at 10:35, a vendor tells him today's LA paper won't arrive until tomorrow. Hayden and a Justice House resident walk to the downstairs food court and sit down with The New York Times and Cokes.
At 10:55 a.m., Hayden returns to the Capitol. More tourists are arriving, many taking pictures of the demonstrators.
A group of high school-aged girls arrives and sits down right in front of Hayden and Moss on the steps to have their pictures taken.
It turns out these are students from the Soviet Union on the first day of their first trip to America.
Hayden tells the girls "We need some perestroika here," and begins to describe "third-world America." When one student says there are the same problems for the poor in the Soviet Union, Hayden says, "There is no excuse here."
At 11:40, a couple of folks volunteer to stay with everybody's "stuff" while the others go to the soup kitchen for lunch.
Noon to 1:30 p.m.
The soup kitchen at Washington City Church of the Brethren at North Carolina Avenue and Fourth Street Southeast is already crowded.
Ten numbered tables seating 10 to 12 people each are set up in the basement. Volunteers call out a table number, and its occupants move into line for the pork and potato soup, rice pudding, bread and apple dessert.
The clients, mostly black men, are wearing layers and layers of clothes. They are young and old, some healthy-looking and some not, some carrying on loud conversations either with themselves or a table mate.
The group returns to the Capitol around 1 p.m. The day has warmed into the upper 40s, so Hayden peels down through his layered clothing to take off an undershirt. The marble steps now make a warm seat, and the bright sunshine seems to raise everyone's spirits.
1:37 p.m.
"It's about that time," to head over to the office of Rep. Harrison Flake, D-N.Y., in the Longworth House Office Building.
Flake is the congressman designated to introduce the Mickey Leland Housing bill to restore $25 billion to the federal budget for low-income housing.
Hayden is to meet at 2 p.m. with David Liss, Flake's legislative aide, on the status of the bill.
Liss explains in a low voice that he had hoped for introduction of the bill in early March, but "we're still going over some things. . . . We still have to jump through the last couple of hoops."
He insists that Flake is working hard to get the bill ready, but that since the bill was initiated by the House leadership it now needs the backing of the Housing Committee.
Hayden says some of his colleagues are worried that even if the bill is introduced now, there isn't enough time left in this session of Congress to have it on the floor by closing.
"Anything is possible," Liss says. He lowers his voice even more to ask, "What are you planning?"
Hayden just smiles. "I appreciate the few minutes today. Next week, I'll check up with you again."
"Keep your noses clean," Liss says.
"We're going to do what we have to do to get this legislation passed," Hayden says slowly and calmly. "We are anxious and impatient. It is difficult to see people suffering."
"It is important not to alienate your friends," Liss warns. "You know I have nothing but the greatest respect for you."
Hayden reassures him that "we have no surprises planned."
Liss worries that some members of Congress are concerned about the association of the housing advocates with the demonstrators who stained the Capitol steps and columns with blood.
2:10 to 3 p.m.
On the way back to the Capitol, Hayden says he believes the poor and homeless have "shown a lot of patience." The funding bill "should have been treated as emergency legislation, but it has not," he said.
One reason, he believes, is because the problem of homelessness is no longer "a top five concern" with the public, as one pollster reckoned it was in the fall.
The crowds are smaller at the Capitol now than they were earlier in the morning, but the protesters continue to hand out fliers and leaflets.
Most of the demonstrators, whose permit requires them to stay on the steps and the sidewalk immediately in front of them, are running out of energy. They are tired; some are hungry.
In a few minutes, Hayden will walk back to the John Young shelter, pick up his messages, make a phone call or two, then rejoin the group on the Capitol steps.
Then the trek to the underpass and the whole cycle of drudgery will begin again.
by CNB