This essay is a Cover Story selection, a weekly feature highlighting the top picks from the editors of America Media.
I’ve been in the “homelessness business” for 40 years. This includes nine months of what I call “hardcore time” on the street, but I have spent most of the rest of the time living or working in shelters. Other than being employed in security, working with the homeless is the only job I’ve ever known.
That surprises people sometimes. They like to think that there’s a nice, thick line separating “homeless” and “employed.” There isn’t. A basic misperception about homeless folks is that they are lazy, or that they are drug addicts. But in my 40 years being homeless and working with the unhoused, I have learned that there is no one major reason why people become homeless.
I have met homeless people who had college degrees and careers and all that. Often they had bad luck, or made a bad decision somewhere, or lost a family member and couldn’t cope. Or they simply couldn’t pay their rent and got tossed out of their living space. The challenge when you’re working with the homeless is how to peel back the layers of that particular onion, so to speak, without bruising it.
In my case, alcohol dependency and some personal trauma first led me to the homelessness arena. Feeling obligated to give back is what’s kept me working there. Also: I’ve got a big mouth. I don’t mind telling my story. That has gotten me placed in leadership positions surprisingly quickly. When I went into treatment for alcohol a few years ago, they made me the door monitor the second day I was there. That’s the kind of life I’ve had.
Over the past couple of years, though, it’s felt like I have turned a corner. I share my story with you in the hope that it will influence the way you approach the problem of homelessness.
In 2023, I moved to Louisville after a couple of decades in Atlanta. I wasn’t doing well. I’d lost my job, my health was poor, and I wanted to live near family. When I got there, I went to a place for the homeless and they sent me to Ozanam Inn Men’s Shelter, run by the Society of St. Vincent de Paul.
It was the first shelter I’d ever stayed in that had no curfew. You could come and go within a 24-hour period, and you’d still have a bed if you returned within 24 hours, no questions asked—as long as you were in some sober and sensible condition.
You might think that policy is ill-advised. You might think that if you’re helping people (like myself) who struggle with substance abuse, it makes sense to impose a curfew. But let me tell you, being treated as a person who has the freedom to take responsibility for himself is a very powerful thing.
Giving people responsibility isn’t the same as indifference, either. The Society of St. Vincent de Paul actually listens to the people they serve better than any other organization I’ve been involved with. They try their best to get to know the individual person and understand their struggles—again, to peel back the layers of the onion. It makes a huge difference.
You say you want to help the homeless? Here’s a crazy thought: Why don’t you ask somebody who’s homeless what they want, and listen to what they have to say? What a concept, right? But paternalism seems to be the default approach in interactions with folks who are homeless. Plenty of times I’ve had people who don’t even know me tell me what I need or why I’m homeless. That, I think, is part of the problem.
Homeless people sometimes like to blame others for their mistakes, which is a temptation for anybody. But at some point you have to look in the mirror and say, “Well, maybe I’m the person who did that.” Some people figure that out. Others spend their entire life playing the blame game. But it takes a lot of motivation and hard work to get out of homelessness. You won’t make it by sitting back and having a pity party.
So, the no-curfew thing, combined with really being listened to—those were big for me. I was also able to take advantage of the case management and mental health services offered at the Ozanam Men’s Shelter. I got counseling for my post-traumatic stress disorder, which helped a whole lot.
Now, I wasn’t “resident of the year” at the shelter. I had my own problems like everybody else. But they worked with me within the framework of what I gave them. It wasn’t long before the Society of St. Vincent de Paul invited me onto their program committee and advisory board. I was at Ozanam Inn for nine months before moving into a place of my own, where I live today.
Scripture tells us that “when much is given, much is required.” And serving on the board of directors at St. Vincent de Paul Louisville is a great honor because I want so badly to be part of the solution—to help folks who are in the shoes I have worn myself. I view it as a calling. Some people exit homelessness and resolve never to darken the doors of a shelter again. Then there are people who are grateful and feel obligated to give back.
But working with the homeless population is difficult. You’re going to suffer from burnout if you’re not giving of yourself in a spirit of love. And people can tell when someone genuinely cares or when they don’t. When you encounter genuine love as a person who’s homeless, it makes you want to better yourself.
You’ve heard the saying “pull yourself up by your own bootstraps.” For homeless folks, the problem with that theory is there aren’t enough straps. You need help to make it—and most people who are homeless suffer acutely from what the homelessness advocate Kevin F. Adler calls “relational poverty.” They don’t have family or friends. They’re starving for relationships. Housing is a good first step, but they’ll only stabilize by building stable relationships with people who care about them.
There’s no cookie-cutter solution to homelessness. There are basic reasons for the problem, of course (mental health problems, addiction and the like), but once you peel back that onion, you begin to see trauma and particular challenges that require a deep, relational understanding of the individual.
We do a terrible disservice to people in this country when we stigmatize and criminalize people who are homeless or have issues with mental health or addiction. When you meet me, I want you to see me as Bill Smith, from the board of directors of St. Vincent de Paul Louisville. Not with the stigma of “homeless man” or “alcoholic.” We have to normalize the conversation around homelessness, to destigmatize it before we can treat it. I want you to know my name and define me by my character, not by my situation.
Editors’ note: The National Alliance to End Homelessness estimated that 653,104 people experienced homelessness on a single night in January 2023, an increase of 12.1 percent from the previous year. Many states and cities conduct a census of the homeless in late January; in New York City, the 2025 census will take place on Jan. 28.
