A long time ago, Tasha told me that she felt like she wasn't doing enough. Doing enough to save the homeless - to end homelessness. At the time I thought she was crazy, because she does so much. Through The Contributor, she's got 398 people on their way to being formerly homeless, and many, many of them already in housing. They're earning themselves a steady income, providing food, and often shelter for them and their families, and helping prove that not all homeless are drunks and druggies. Through NASNA (National Association of Street Newspapers), which she's now the President of, she's teaching and providing the necessary tools for other cities around the country to begin ending the homeless epidemic by starting their own Street Newspaper.

I thought she was crazy. That she was just saying that. Because from what I could tell at the time, she was doing more than any other individual in the city. It didn't completely make sense in February when I started volunteering with The Contributor a few days a week. And it has only started to make sense in the month of March as I've been there every morning, and started to recognize a handful of vendors before I see their badges.

Something happened yesterday. And it didn't fully click until I crawled in my bed late last night. After a good dinner, and a warm bath, after I gave my kitties some cuddles, and got a drink of water. After I turned up my heat, because it's gotten cold here again. After I laid my head on my 6 pillows, and pulled the covers up to my chin. While I listened to Azure Ray whisper lullabies to me.

There is [still] so much more need.


Andrew H. got beaten to a (literal) bloody mess the other morning. A group of people beat him up, kicking and punching him in his face, head and ribs until someone finally called the police. They took him to the emergency room but they released him shortly after. He came into the office to buy papers, because the dollar that he makes is a matter of life or death. His life is in jeopardy for nothing more than being homeless. He was beaten and attacked because he doesn't have a permanent physical address.


Dillyn W. was in a head on collision with the other car at fault. They took him to the Emergency Room and then realized him, despite swelling in his brain and severe trauma to his face and eyes. When he walked in, I couldn't help but exclaim "Dillyn! What happened to you?! Are you okay?!" He pressed his lips together and closed his swollen purple eyes and tried not to stammer as he told me the story. His chest heaved and jerked as he tried to fight back against the need to cry. The other vendors, who are his closest friends, gave him a reassuring pat on the back, and begged him to please go back to the ER. He whispered that he didn't know if he was okay, and that if he didn't feel better in a few hours, he'd go back up there. I recommended that he go now, as opposed to later. I told him he'd be in my thoughts, and that if anything changed, to call us, and I gave him one of the business cards. I wanted to hug him, but I didn't know if it was appropriate.

Terri W. who sleeps in the car with her husband in an abandoned parking lot, came into the office in tears yesterday, and through sobs asked us to please keep her in our thoughts or prayers. Her husband had taken the little bit of money they'd set aside to take a bus to see his mother who was dying. While asleep in her car the previous night, someone had pounded on her doors and windows screaming horrible things at her, and calling her names, for being homeless. She had only $3 to buy papers, and was hoping that it'd make her enough to get a hotel for the night. Three papers, on average will earn you $12-24, depending on tips. Even the shadiest hotels that alot of our vendors stay at, cost more than $24 a night. I asked her if I could hug her, and she said no, that she'd just start crying more. I wished her the best of luck as she walked out into the rain, papers carefully protected in layers of plastic bags.

Geneva O. who is determined to sell in ritzy Brentwood, is constantly approached by police and told to leave because "we don't want you here". As if it's up to police to decide who can and cant work in their little bubble of blindness where they exist unaware of what's happening in the real world. Where they drive their expensive cars to work, and wear their power suits. They drink their lattes, and buy fancy bottled water. They walk around with their heads held high, to prove they are better than every one else - that they are above you and I. They are above Geneva who stands on the corner, doing nothing illegal, selling papers to earn a living, to keep herself off the street. And then she gets on the bus, for the hour commute back to her 'rat hole apartment' where she has to defend herself against a sleazy landlord soliciting her for much more than just rent. When she gets inside, she doesn't turn the heat on, because that would create an additional expense. She eats the pack of peanut butter crackers that we gave her for dinner, and lies down on a sleeping bag to sleep.

Here's what gets me.

Alot of our vendors, are now considered 'formerly homeless' and this is fantastic. This means, that they've generated enough income to house themselves, atleast temporarily, and then found people willing to rent to a 'bum' who is technically 'unemployed' with no solid proof of income. So, a homeless man or woman moves into a home - they become housed. They get off the street.

Congratulations, shake their hands! Good work, son. You did it!

But it's not over.

They now have a home. They have somewhere to lay at night. But they don't have all the things that make a home functional. They are basically moved into an empty box that while it has 4 walls, and a roof to keep them from the elements. It doesn't mean they have food to put in their refrigerator. It doesn't mean they have a bed to sleep on, or even a pillow to put under their head. It doesn't mean they have a shower curtain or soap to use in the shower. Or toilet paper. Or clean clothes to wear.

It also means that they have to work harder as they continue to sell papers. Because they have monthly bills that will come in. They have to continue to pay rent each month. They have to pay an electricity and water bill. They have all the regular monthly expenses that you and I have, but they have no promised income. They depend fully upon the kindness and curiosity of strangers who catch a glimpse of their newspapers carefully folded in half - and wait to exchange it for a single dollar.

There's so much need. And I'm such a small piece of this huge deal.

Anytime I'm asked the question of what I want to do with my life, or what my passion is, I've always come up unable to answer. It seems as though I've found something.