HAPPY NEW YEAR * STREET CORNER & COFFEESHOP * Bill's Coffeeshop Newsletter * Vol. 8 No. 45

Happy New Year to all. Welcome back for another year. Original Bill's is still quiet, the new semester hasn't yet started. But Uptown Bill's is open every day.

 

FROM STREET CORNER

AND COFFEESHOP

SO MUCH of what I have learned about the meaning of the holiday season has come in
coffeeshops and at the street corner. Here are four more holiday stories
from recent years.

                                                  *     *     *     *     *

TIM taught me about being "stuck," about how difficult it is to break out of
the long slide into living on the street -- even when you're young.

He was 16 or 17 when I met him. He was living behind a dumpster. I was at a
street corner waiting for a friend when he came up and asked for spare change.
I gave him a few dollars and asked him what turns in his life had brought him
here. He said he'd left home after his dad beat him again. Mother? Didn't
know exactly where she was, except that she was long gone

He'd come to this town with a little money, but it had quickly run out. Now he
was on the street. I asked him about getting a job, noting that the fast food
place next to his dumpster had a sign in the window. "I couldn't get a job,"
he explained, "because then I would lose my place to live."

I didn't know what to say. He filled in the silence. "I guess you could say
I'm stuck."

I didn't know what to do either. I gave him the name of a friend at a
community center nearby -- and a little more money.

Just then my friend came. I said a quick goodbye to Tim and turned to leave.
"Thanks, mister," he said, "and Merry Christmas."

                                                 *     *     *    *     *

MELISSA taught me about how strong is the desire among young people for a
family "that works" on holidays. We happened to be in the same coffee shop one
Christmas night. She was in a corner, along, crying softly.

"She's been there awhile," the cook said. "Would you go over and try to talk
to her."

I pulled a chair up beside her. She told me to go away. I didn't say anything,
but pushed my chair back a little. After a few more minutes, she looked up
and said: "I thought I told you to go away."

"You did," I said, "but it's hard to leave when you're sitting here crying."

"You wouldn't understand," she said. "You probably have a family and
everything was fine today. My family is all screwed up. This year I thought
things would be different. I tried so hard to make everything work. Then my
dad and stepmom started criticizing my friends. We ended up yelling at each
other...and then I left. I came here because I didn't know where else to go."

I waited a minute and then responded. "Isn't it great that this place is here
-- and open. I like it because it's almost a second family. I wanted to spend
a little time with this family, too, on Christmas, so I came here tonight.

"Someone once told me a story about families. There's our family of chance --
the one we were born into. Then there's our family of choice -- the one we
create as we go along in life. Sometimes the families of choice and chance are
the same. But for lots of people and lots of reasons, that doesn't always
work out.

"You tried to make yours work. That's wonderful. And it's an inspiration for
those of us who are older and may have given up trying. Thank you."

She looked up. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

"No," I replied. One of my heroes is a woman named Jane Addams. She talked
about young people wanting to make the world a better place -- from their own
families all the way to way to world peace. Here you are tonight reminding me
that wish is still alive. Thanks. Say, can I get you another cup..."

                                                *     *     *     *    *

ANNA taught me the importance of listening. There are so many opportunities to
listen. They often come when we least expect or when we do not feel "ready."

Anna first called me one year on the second day of Hanukkah. She was terribly
depressed. She missed her family and friends and wasn't able to get to the
synagogue anymore.

Why did she call me? Her reply: I read your column in the paper and thought
you might listen. It wasn't exactly an opportune time. My deadline was two
hours away. Plus, I didn't know what to say.

But she didn't want me to talk; she wanted me to listen. So I listened.

After an hour or so, she said thank you, Happy Hanukkah and goodbye.

The next year she called again during Hanukkah. You listened to me last year,
she said, I so I figured you'd probably listen again.

These calls became a Hanukkah tradition. After several years, she told me that
she'd been so depressed the first year that she'd been considering turning on
the gas and killing herself. "But I didn't," she said, "because you listened.

Anna died some years ago now -- a natural death. But her lesson about
listening has stayed with me. I can't think of Hanukkah without thinking of
Anna. I suppose our opportunities to listen aren't usually as dramatic as
this. But one never knows.

                                                *     *     *     *     *

ONE recent year I gave a talk to a women's club about my experiences working
with young people. A theme in the talk was that young people want to be
noticed, recognized, acknowledged.

When I finished, there was time for comments from the audience. Most people
generously applauded my work with young people. But then came this question:
Tom, I wait for the bus every morning with two or three young people. There is
this one guy with purple hair and it stands up in spikes. He stands on top
of the bus bench and shouts. Are you saying that I should say hello to him?

Yes, I replied. I know that he may look a little scary. But it seems to me
that he is saying with his whole body: "Please, somebody, notice me."

Later that year, just before Christmas, the woman who asked that question
called me:

Tom, it worked, she said. What worked? I asked. She then reminded me of the
talk I had given and her question. She said she left skeptical, but decided to
see if she could talk to the guy with purple hair. One morning, she said
hello; he said hello back.

Gradually during that fall they started talking. She said she started looking
forward to their meetings at the bus stop. On occasion, they even sat
together on the bus. One, she gave him a bag of cookies.

But this morning had been special. This young man -- still with purple hair in
spikes -- had given her a flower. It was their last day before the holiday
break. "Hey," the young man said, "I just wanted to thank you. I didn't know a
lady like you would be interested in what I had to say."

"I thought you were nuts for suggesting I talk to this young man," the woman
said. "Now, I just wanted to call and say thanks -- and Merry Christmas."

     -- Tom Gilsenan

 

Wild Bill's Coffeeshop is a project of the School of Social Work at the University of Iowa. It has been a part of campus life in Iowa City for more than 30 years. You can find out more about the coffeeshop by calling (319) 335-1281. Or stop by North Hall where the coffeeshop is located.

 

Bill's Coffeeshop Newsletter is a virtual extension of the coffeeshop. Written by Tom Gilsenan, a former coffeeshop manager, the Newsletter is distributed by email. Opinions expressed in the Newsletter are those of the writers and should not be construed as representing the School of Social Work or the University of Iowa. A file of back issues can be found at the coffeeshop website: www.uiowa.edu/~socialwk/bills.