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Twin Town High (vol. 8) |
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Night owl puts hundreds to bed
Wednesday 22 November @ 14:47:10 |
 by STEVE BUTCHER
Of the Twin Cities’ 100 odd homeless support and advocacy organizations, perhaps none has as much influence as Catholic Charities. For area homeless people, the two most familiar names are the Dorothy Day Center, located across from the Excel Energy Center in St. Paul, and Branch II, which is tucked in behind a massive parking garage across from the Target Center in downtown Minneapolis. Both organizations are run by the Catholic diocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis; both are capable of taking in, on a temporary basis, several hundred people; and both have roots that reach deep into the Twin Cities’ philanthropic community.
 “[Street] people know where to find us,” said Catholic Charities’ communications director Leslie Johnson.
“There is a quote from the Bible: ‘The poor will always be with us.’ Catholic social teaching says that we are responsible for our fellows. Everyone has an inherent dignity and deserves to be treated with dignity. That is the operative word in all of our programs. People are treated as fully capable human beings deserving of just treatment.”
For the hundreds of homeless men and women who turn to Catholic Charities for support, the single person who is responsible for making sure they get that support is program director Sharon Reis. A diminutive woman in her 50s, Reis looks like a Cub Scout den mother. But her nicotine rasp and her steady gaze suggest someone who has been around the world—in her case, literally, as she was formerly employed by “a large transportation company” (she would rather not disclose which one).
Her working hours are decidedly nontraditional; she often does not get home until well after sunup. In fact, if you want to arrange a meeting with her, make sure to ring her cell phone at a reasonable time—say, 2 a.m., when she is likely to be on her lunch hour.
On Wednesday evenings, just after the beginning of her shift, she can be found in her office on the second floor of the Branch II building at 1000 Currie Avenue. She quickly stubs out a cigarette and then invites a visitor to sit at an alarmingly rickety table. “All our furniture is donated,” she explains. “I’m on a tight budget, too, like everyone else.” Except for framed copies of her graduate degrees behind her desk, the room is bereft of personal items. Her office bathroom is out of paper towels.
She talks about the hard lives and hard times that have brought the men to Branch II (women are referred either to the Salvation Army’s Harbor Lights residence, behind Branch II, or to one of several women-only shelters throughout the Twin Cities). “Thirty percent of our homeless men work full time,” she says. “Typically, they work in janitorial, restaurant or service. If they want to live upstairs [on the pay-to-stay floor] they must be sober.” Reis sympathized with those men who find themselves in suddenly debilitating straits; who willingly sacrifice their privacy and humanity in exchange for the minimum amount of shelter. “When you put people in a place like this you take away their humanity. Men and women aren’t meant to be separated. It isn’t natural.”
Branch II holds restorative justice sessions on Wednesday nights. The idea is to heal psychological injuries and otherwise make amends between both the victim and the transgressor. Reis is responsible for getting men who have quarreled to mend their differences calmly, without violence, before the matter escalates. “Since I started at St. Paul and Minneapolis there have been fewer fights. It used to be that the inside of the shelters was an extension of the streets. But my first rule is that the street stops at the door.” The concept is simple. “We ask basic questions: What did you do? Who did you harm? What can you do to repair the damage?” Her mercy, however, is not without limits. “I have no tolerance for predators,” she says. “I won’t restore anyone who is not able to show me something.”
Tonight’s session centers on a dispute between a resident and a shelter employee. The resident is accused of using an ethnic slur toward the employee, who had been charged with making sure everyone in the shelter was up by 6 a.m. The resident, a young, trim looking man in his 20s, had lingered on his mat. When Reis examines the incident report she is reluctant to intercede. “You are not eligible for restorative justice because of the nature of your remark,” she tells him. “I will not tolerate threats against my staff.” Her ruling is potentially devastating. Because Catholic Charities issues its own bar-coded IDs, the resident would automatically be denied admission to every one of the organization’s shelters. But after the resident explains the circumstances of the incident, Reis softens. She calls downstairs to the front desk where the employee is on duty and summons him to her office. While waiting she gently admonishes the resident.
“You have to take responsibility for your actions,” she tells him.
“I understand,” he says. With his hands folded on his lap and one foot tapping the floor, the resident looks like a second grader who has been called to the principal’s office.
When the employee arrives, Reis questions both men. It is clear that the resident is anxious to retrieve whatever meager status he has remaining.
“I never disrespected you,” he tells the employee. “I never said those things to you.”
“You’re trying to lie out of this, dude!” snaps the employee, eyes flashing behind his glasses. “You don’t know me, you don’t know nothing about me!”
“Hey, I don’t have no confrontation with you,” the resident says. “I was being called a porch monkey. I’m against the majority, not the minority.”
The two men glare at each other before Reis announces her decision. She orders the resident to attend a month of classes in cultural history, to be taught by the employee. “I’ll restore you and give you a chance to come in out of the cold,” she tells the resident. “You will meet up here every week for the next four weeks. If you don’t show up for one week, your card will be swiped at the front door.”
After the two men leave the office, Reis departs for another restorative justice session downstairs. Meanwhile, she has asked a resident of the pay-to-stay dorm to speak about his experiences at Branch II.
 Tyrone is 43 years old, a husky looking man with an open, friendly face, who has lived his whole life in Minnesota. He smiles and shakes his head when asked to provide a last name. He ended up at Branch II following what he termed “a nasty divorce” two years ago.
Formerly the manager of a limousine company, he now makes local truck deliveries. “At first, I thought I would be here for two weeks,” he said. “I had come out of the courtroom pissed off. I gave myself a time frame, but it fell through.” His first night at the tramp camp was a shock. “It was a reality kicker,” he said. “If someone had said to me when all this started that I would be homeless, I would have laughed.” But Tyrone kept his focus; he continued to report to work each morning, and within days he had moved into the pay-to-stay dorm. He continued to visit with his daughter every Sunday. He has finally saved enough money to get his own place. “I’ll be moving into a nice one bedroom apartment in Eagan with my girlfriend,” he said. “I have some furniture on layaway.” He looks forward to his first night alone. “I’m going to have a steak and potato dinner with my girl.” He gladly provides some parting advice: “Don’t take anything for granted.”
After the interview, Reis returns to conduct a tour of the Branch II building. Approximately 120 bunk beds are arrayed in the crowded second floor pay-to-stay dorm, which opened in 2002. Each bed is less than an arm’s length from its neighbor; the low ceiling and bright lights make the room seem even smaller. The cost to stay on the second floor is $4 per night, and Branch II will help any resident devise a savings plan. Much like the program at Simpson, Branch II is eager to see men return to the world confident in their ability to plan for the future.
On the way downstairs Reis points out the medical room where the county funded program Healthcare for the Homeless conducts a weekly clinic. On the first floor she describes how the cold nights will force the tramp camp—the secure waiting area—to expand out past the check-in desk (where a Minneapolis police officer is on duty 24 hours per day), down into the building’s foyer, and into the stairwell. “When it gets cold, we have to let people in,” she says. “We have to make room for people.”
Before returning to her office she addresses the challenges of her job. The men who stay at the Dorothy Day Center and at Branch II are aware of the expectations that have been set before them. But she insists on implementing and maintaining a standard of behavior that admits no variance. “I believe that if you raise the bar—what you expect from people, what you demand of them—they will meet it,” she said. “And if you lower your standards, they will descend to meet it.” She believes that the right person is in charge.
“I’ve never hesitated one bit,” she said. “I’ve never been happier. I was intended to do this job.” ||
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