I Just Want to See My Son
Tonight at St. Ben’s, there’s a sort of mad rush of people pushing past the serving line and heading toward the exit door where the free bread is. I haven’t seen anything quite like this since my mom took me to Kmart as a kid and suddenly there’d be a Blue Light Special on aisle seven. The guests at the St. Ben’s meal program aren’t supposed to do this – to leave the line and come back to it- because it causes bottlenecks and often results in agitation when they squeeze back into line. I can’t figure out what’s going on until I see a fellow proudly carrying a whole box of doughnuts. Security steps in to stop this.
“Miss? Miss?” A tall man gets my attention. He’s moving down the serving line, but his attention is on the fray. “Can you please help a brother out? Please?” Usually this is where people ask for money, which also is not allowed at St. Ben’s, but this fellow asks instead, “Can you please go get me some of them doughnuts?”
I’m so taken aback that I laugh.
“Aw, now you gonna laugh at me. That ain’t nice. I’m serious. I really want me some doughnuts.”
Perhaps to assuage my conscience for upsetting him, I walk calmly toward the frenzy that is just winding down. People are digging through the loaves of bread that had been neatly stacked, hoping beyond hope to find some doughnuts. Someone says, “They gone,” and the remaining crowd trudges back to the line. I find the fellow who made his request and he knows right away that he missed his chance. I’m amazed that people want doughnuts so badly they’re willing to risk getting kicked out without eating dinner. I go back to helping out, pouring milk for some kids.
As I’m heading back to place the pitcher on the freezer case that doubles as a serving station, I pass a young man who asks for some milk. I fill his red plastic cup and he asks, “How can I repay you for the kindness you’re showing me?”
I say, “Well, you can talk to me.” I check out the serving line. It has dwindled, so I tell the young man “I’ll grab some dinner and join you.” I return the pitcher, go down the serving line, and sit beside this newcomer.
The young man smiles. “Oh, I’m honored. The people here are so kind. First everyone gives me food, and now you sit with me to have a conversation.”
The man across from him is Hector. Everybody knows Hector, it seems. He’s been a regular at St. Ben’s for thirty years. He was once homeless, but now has an apartment and works at Repairers of the Breach, an agency that helps people who are living on the streets. He’s walked the walk, having been homeless himself. He has very few lower teeth left, a fact that is revealed by his frequent wide-open mouth laughs. Hector says, “Yeah, some of them will sit with us and talk to us. Some of the volunteers are that way.”
I feel odd being called “them.” I have begun to feel like “we” at St. Ben’s, and this reminder of the dividing line pricks at me.
Hector’s comment seems to be all it takes for this young man to trust me. I take in his chocolate brown eyes, long eyelashes and neat beard as he shakes my hand and introduces himself as David. When I tell him my name, he – like many people- thinks he’s misheard me, and calls me Joan. I tell him it’s Jonnie, like Johnny Cash.
Hector bursts into loud laughter. “See. I could tell you was money. You Johnny Cash.”
David laughs too, and soon launches into his “current situation.” Articulate, possibly well educated, his manner is polite and warm. “I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth, and I wanted to see him. I want him to know his father, because I didn’t know mine.”
There’s an accent and cadence to his speech that makes me ask, “Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“When did you get to Milwaukee?”
“August sixth. I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth,” he repeats, “and I just wanted to see him. I think a boy should know his father. But his mother won’t even let me see him. I came all this way, and when she heard my voice on the phone she said- he scowls and takes on a suspicious tone- ‘Where are you?’ I told her, ‘Milwaukee.’ She said, ‘You aren’t coming near him.’” He splays a hand over his chest. “There’s no restraining order, there’s no custody dispute. I have a right to see my son. She’s the one who decided to relocate.”
“You didn’t tell her you were coming?”
“No. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
I’m thinking this maybe was not such a nice surprise somehow. I glance at Hector, who is uncharacteristically quiet. I say to him, “I suppose you’ve heard this story already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I took him to my place. He came into The Breach and didn’t have nowhere to stay. He can stay with me for free as long as he needs to.” Hector does this a lot. He once told me that when he “got out of the life” and got into an apartment, he vowed to help his brothers out. Forever.
“How did you get here?” I ask David.
“Amtrak. That cost me a lot. But I didn’t even care. I just wanted to see my son. He’s in West Bend. I never checked how far that was in relation to Milwaukee. I thought I could take a train out there.”
I shake my head. “Milwaukee is behind the times on that. Our public transit is pretty limited, especially outside the city.”
He agrees. “I’ll take a cab if I have to, even if it costs a hundred dollars. I want to see my son.”
I take a bite of turkey. It’s my favorite St. Ben’s meal. “Where have you been staying?”
“I was in hotels at first, then on people’s couches. I spent over $1700 just since I got here.” He leans in and says yet again, “I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth. See, I bought a phone with a 414 area code. That way, she would take the call, because she wouldn’t know it was me. She won’t pick up if she knows it’s me. I told her, ‘I didn’t just show up at your door. You’re in West Bend and I’m in Milwaukee. I’ll meet you at a mall, or wherever you want.” Then, he repeats nearly everything he’s already told me.
Now I’m starting to suspect that his son’s mother may have good reason to refuse to let him see his son. I can’t quite put my finger on it. As this is crossing my mind, I glance at Hector. He gives me a quick face that tells me more is coming. And it is.
“See, I have a felony, but it isn’t related to my son in any way. I had two DWI’s.” He splays his hand over his chest again, and says, “I know I did wrong, but I wouldn’t have served any time if I’d had money. I didn’t have $5,000 for a lawyer.”
“So you had to plead.”
“Yeah. Now I got the felony. I have friends who have similar situations, but they had the money for a lawyer, and they don’t have the felony. Now I’m on paper.”
‘On paper’ is a term the people I meet at St. Ben’s use to mean being on probation. When you’re ‘on paper,’ you can’t vote, you might have restrictions on where you can work or live, you might have to comply with conditions such as drug testing or court appearances – there are differing levels of interventions, and it seems, for everyone I’ve met at St. Ben’s who’s ‘on paper,’ there are also numerous barriers thrown up because of these restrictions. It’s hard to get a job because you have to ‘check the box’ on application forms. In many cases, being homeless is connected to the problems arising from being on probation.
I study David. He’s gentle in demeanor, and candid. The fact that he repeats himself might be due to stress, but it could be a sign of a mental illness. What do I know? All I know is I see before me a young man who traveled to see his son, and now is homeless in Milwaukee. Filled with a million questions, I poke around in my head for something to say that might shed a little light.
“You were jailed on two DWIs? I’ve heard of people having multiple DWIs and still just getting tickets.”
Hector says, “Not if you black. Black person gets pulled over, they ain’t gonna get but one chance, if that.”
David continues. “I know I was at fault. I shouldn’t have been driving like that. But I didn’t hurt anyone, and I never committed any other crimes.” He smiles ruefully. “I’m facing the consequences. I’m not messing up again.”
There is plenty of data to back up what David and Hector are telling me. Milwaukee is particularly known for incarcerating disproportionately more African American men than other major cities. I don’t know the statistics of New York.
I try to go on a different tack. “When was the last time you saw your son?”
“It’s been two years. She moved away with him two years ago.” David has hardly touched his food. “See, my son’s mother is Caucasian. She came to West Bend because her family is there. He’s got her fair skin, but he’s got my facial features.” He smiles. “He looks just like me, only white.”
“He must be a good looking boy,” I say.
David smiles. “And he’s smart. My family in New York keep telling me to come on home. They say I need to go back and we’ll have to take her to court for custody rights. She’s playing games with me. There’s no restraining order, there’s no restrictions. I have a right to see my son.”
Hector finishes his meal and pushes his tray aside. “You don’t want to be going to no West Bend. You got to be careful out there.”
David says, “I know. Everybody tells me there’s no black people in West Bend. Some people said there’s Aryan supremacist organizations out there. What was she thinking taking our son to a place like that? You know, any child of mixed race is considered black under the law.” He taps the table in time with under the law. “That place could be dangerous for our son. That’s why I’ve got to see him.”
I want to say that I’m sure there’s no danger, that David would be safe in West Bend, that I’ve never heard of any racial incidents there. I’ve been to West Bend many times. It’s a pleasant town with a great art museum. But I am a white woman. It’s easy for me to be in smaller towns where the population is primarily white; no one treats me with bias. And I recently saw a map that tracks hate groups in the United States. There are some in Wisconsin. I don’t say anything because I have lost my Pollyanna point of view. I’d love to believe that we are all equal, all welcome in anywhere in America. But it just isn’t true.
As we clear our trays to leave, I tell David that I hope he gets to see his son. “Maybe I’ll see you here again before you go back to New York.”
Hector jumps in. “Oh, he’ll be here for a while.”
“Miss? Miss?” A tall man gets my attention. He’s moving down the serving line, but his attention is on the fray. “Can you please help a brother out? Please?” Usually this is where people ask for money, which also is not allowed at St. Ben’s, but this fellow asks instead, “Can you please go get me some of them doughnuts?”
I’m so taken aback that I laugh.
“Aw, now you gonna laugh at me. That ain’t nice. I’m serious. I really want me some doughnuts.”
Perhaps to assuage my conscience for upsetting him, I walk calmly toward the frenzy that is just winding down. People are digging through the loaves of bread that had been neatly stacked, hoping beyond hope to find some doughnuts. Someone says, “They gone,” and the remaining crowd trudges back to the line. I find the fellow who made his request and he knows right away that he missed his chance. I’m amazed that people want doughnuts so badly they’re willing to risk getting kicked out without eating dinner. I go back to helping out, pouring milk for some kids.
As I’m heading back to place the pitcher on the freezer case that doubles as a serving station, I pass a young man who asks for some milk. I fill his red plastic cup and he asks, “How can I repay you for the kindness you’re showing me?”
I say, “Well, you can talk to me.” I check out the serving line. It has dwindled, so I tell the young man “I’ll grab some dinner and join you.” I return the pitcher, go down the serving line, and sit beside this newcomer.
The young man smiles. “Oh, I’m honored. The people here are so kind. First everyone gives me food, and now you sit with me to have a conversation.”
The man across from him is Hector. Everybody knows Hector, it seems. He’s been a regular at St. Ben’s for thirty years. He was once homeless, but now has an apartment and works at Repairers of the Breach, an agency that helps people who are living on the streets. He’s walked the walk, having been homeless himself. He has very few lower teeth left, a fact that is revealed by his frequent wide-open mouth laughs. Hector says, “Yeah, some of them will sit with us and talk to us. Some of the volunteers are that way.”
I feel odd being called “them.” I have begun to feel like “we” at St. Ben’s, and this reminder of the dividing line pricks at me.
Hector’s comment seems to be all it takes for this young man to trust me. I take in his chocolate brown eyes, long eyelashes and neat beard as he shakes my hand and introduces himself as David. When I tell him my name, he – like many people- thinks he’s misheard me, and calls me Joan. I tell him it’s Jonnie, like Johnny Cash.
Hector bursts into loud laughter. “See. I could tell you was money. You Johnny Cash.”
David laughs too, and soon launches into his “current situation.” Articulate, possibly well educated, his manner is polite and warm. “I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth, and I wanted to see him. I want him to know his father, because I didn’t know mine.”
There’s an accent and cadence to his speech that makes me ask, “Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“When did you get to Milwaukee?”
“August sixth. I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth,” he repeats, “and I just wanted to see him. I think a boy should know his father. But his mother won’t even let me see him. I came all this way, and when she heard my voice on the phone she said- he scowls and takes on a suspicious tone- ‘Where are you?’ I told her, ‘Milwaukee.’ She said, ‘You aren’t coming near him.’” He splays a hand over his chest. “There’s no restraining order, there’s no custody dispute. I have a right to see my son. She’s the one who decided to relocate.”
“You didn’t tell her you were coming?”
“No. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
I’m thinking this maybe was not such a nice surprise somehow. I glance at Hector, who is uncharacteristically quiet. I say to him, “I suppose you’ve heard this story already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I took him to my place. He came into The Breach and didn’t have nowhere to stay. He can stay with me for free as long as he needs to.” Hector does this a lot. He once told me that when he “got out of the life” and got into an apartment, he vowed to help his brothers out. Forever.
“How did you get here?” I ask David.
“Amtrak. That cost me a lot. But I didn’t even care. I just wanted to see my son. He’s in West Bend. I never checked how far that was in relation to Milwaukee. I thought I could take a train out there.”
I shake my head. “Milwaukee is behind the times on that. Our public transit is pretty limited, especially outside the city.”
He agrees. “I’ll take a cab if I have to, even if it costs a hundred dollars. I want to see my son.”
I take a bite of turkey. It’s my favorite St. Ben’s meal. “Where have you been staying?”
“I was in hotels at first, then on people’s couches. I spent over $1700 just since I got here.” He leans in and says yet again, “I came here to see my son. His eighth birthday was on August eighth. See, I bought a phone with a 414 area code. That way, she would take the call, because she wouldn’t know it was me. She won’t pick up if she knows it’s me. I told her, ‘I didn’t just show up at your door. You’re in West Bend and I’m in Milwaukee. I’ll meet you at a mall, or wherever you want.” Then, he repeats nearly everything he’s already told me.
Now I’m starting to suspect that his son’s mother may have good reason to refuse to let him see his son. I can’t quite put my finger on it. As this is crossing my mind, I glance at Hector. He gives me a quick face that tells me more is coming. And it is.
“See, I have a felony, but it isn’t related to my son in any way. I had two DWI’s.” He splays his hand over his chest again, and says, “I know I did wrong, but I wouldn’t have served any time if I’d had money. I didn’t have $5,000 for a lawyer.”
“So you had to plead.”
“Yeah. Now I got the felony. I have friends who have similar situations, but they had the money for a lawyer, and they don’t have the felony. Now I’m on paper.”
‘On paper’ is a term the people I meet at St. Ben’s use to mean being on probation. When you’re ‘on paper,’ you can’t vote, you might have restrictions on where you can work or live, you might have to comply with conditions such as drug testing or court appearances – there are differing levels of interventions, and it seems, for everyone I’ve met at St. Ben’s who’s ‘on paper,’ there are also numerous barriers thrown up because of these restrictions. It’s hard to get a job because you have to ‘check the box’ on application forms. In many cases, being homeless is connected to the problems arising from being on probation.
I study David. He’s gentle in demeanor, and candid. The fact that he repeats himself might be due to stress, but it could be a sign of a mental illness. What do I know? All I know is I see before me a young man who traveled to see his son, and now is homeless in Milwaukee. Filled with a million questions, I poke around in my head for something to say that might shed a little light.
“You were jailed on two DWIs? I’ve heard of people having multiple DWIs and still just getting tickets.”
Hector says, “Not if you black. Black person gets pulled over, they ain’t gonna get but one chance, if that.”
David continues. “I know I was at fault. I shouldn’t have been driving like that. But I didn’t hurt anyone, and I never committed any other crimes.” He smiles ruefully. “I’m facing the consequences. I’m not messing up again.”
There is plenty of data to back up what David and Hector are telling me. Milwaukee is particularly known for incarcerating disproportionately more African American men than other major cities. I don’t know the statistics of New York.
I try to go on a different tack. “When was the last time you saw your son?”
“It’s been two years. She moved away with him two years ago.” David has hardly touched his food. “See, my son’s mother is Caucasian. She came to West Bend because her family is there. He’s got her fair skin, but he’s got my facial features.” He smiles. “He looks just like me, only white.”
“He must be a good looking boy,” I say.
David smiles. “And he’s smart. My family in New York keep telling me to come on home. They say I need to go back and we’ll have to take her to court for custody rights. She’s playing games with me. There’s no restraining order, there’s no restrictions. I have a right to see my son.”
Hector finishes his meal and pushes his tray aside. “You don’t want to be going to no West Bend. You got to be careful out there.”
David says, “I know. Everybody tells me there’s no black people in West Bend. Some people said there’s Aryan supremacist organizations out there. What was she thinking taking our son to a place like that? You know, any child of mixed race is considered black under the law.” He taps the table in time with under the law. “That place could be dangerous for our son. That’s why I’ve got to see him.”
I want to say that I’m sure there’s no danger, that David would be safe in West Bend, that I’ve never heard of any racial incidents there. I’ve been to West Bend many times. It’s a pleasant town with a great art museum. But I am a white woman. It’s easy for me to be in smaller towns where the population is primarily white; no one treats me with bias. And I recently saw a map that tracks hate groups in the United States. There are some in Wisconsin. I don’t say anything because I have lost my Pollyanna point of view. I’d love to believe that we are all equal, all welcome in anywhere in America. But it just isn’t true.
As we clear our trays to leave, I tell David that I hope he gets to see his son. “Maybe I’ll see you here again before you go back to New York.”
Hector jumps in. “Oh, he’ll be here for a while.”