Two Films on Homelessness

I have served in homeless shelters for over three decades, the most current being Daybreak in Joliet, Illinois, a shelter started by distinguished advocate for the homeless Diane Nilan in 1988.  State mandates during our pandemic have restricted the number of people who can be housed there, and as I look out at the barely half-filled dining hall I wonder where all the others have gone.  Homelessness and hunger are only increasing in the U.S.  In the richest country in the world, 1.5 million children are homeless.

The Netflix short documentary Lead Me Home by directors Pedro Kos and Jon Shenk is a gorgeous film to start a journey towards understanding homelessness.  (Go to the film’s website.)  Beautifully filmed, filled with dramatic aerial drone shots, expertly edited with smart cuts and overlaps, it’s a visual feast which strikes you hard and keeps you riveted for its entire 40-minute length.  It’s got soul, and you’ll feel homelessness viscerally, something of tremendous value.  Yet it won’t necessarily give you an understanding of how the people we see actually got there.  Early in the film an interviewer asks a homeless man how he became homeless, and through an embarrassed smile and laugh he says, “Well, that’s a long story.”  But we never get that story, and only glimpse other stories.  “If I have to choose between paying the rent in two weeks, or feeding my kids tonight, I’m going to feed my kids,” says one mother.  Later we find that her ex-husband raped her, which is why she’s pregnant with her fourth child.  Of course, we can fill in much of her story but are only given, total, about a minute of her actually speaking with us.

I would recommend this beautiful film for, as I said, starters. For a deeper understanding there’s Diane Nilan’s on the edge: family homelessness in america.  It was shown across the country on PBS on or around Mother’s Day 2012, and we played some small part in getting this done.*  You can now watch the whole film on YouTube.

I remember the day Diane called me to announce her intention to sell her condo, buy an RV, and travel through the U.S. filming stories of homelessness and eventually making a film.  I was so thunderstruck I fell silent, coming to only when I heard her saying, “Richard, Richard, are you still there?”  “Well, have you ever filmed before? Do you have a good camera?”  These might have been the first words out of my mouth.  “No,” she replied, “know where I can get a good one cheap?”  When her first film, My Own Four Walls, came out, I was astounded. Now also available on YouTube, it was focused on homeless children.  on the edge widens out to show mothers and children and how they actually got to be homeless.

There aren’t any aerial drone shots or fancy cutting, but the shots are good, and they’ve been directed and edited together expertly by Laura Vasquez, a professor at Northern Illinois University who volunteered her time and effort.  What Nilan and Vaquez have created is a film that sometimes moves too slowly, but over its hour length Vasquez uses that pace to slowly unwind the stories of seven women.  Talking head shots give us experts putting the homeless crisis in perspective, but it’s that slow descent into these women’s pasts that remains central.  Finally, we arrive at the traumas that led them to become homeless. Perhaps the most dramatic moment is when one of them finally says, “My mother was murdered.”  Another mother was mentally ill and just couldn’t take care of her child, who then spent 10 years in homeless shelters.  “The first time he hit me” is the almost casually delivered phrase that leads to a story of domestic violence.  “There was so much love,” says another, whose injuries led to pain pills, which led to losing her job, her apartment, then her son, and all that love.  Another was sexually abused by her step-father.  She then delivers the news almost casually, but with such a strong undercurrent of astonished betrayal, that her own mother sided with him and actually bailed him out after he’d been arrested for the crime.

You might question the choices some of these women have made, but the slow revealing of the traumas that led to them also make us question ourselves.  Would we have made better choices if we had suffered likewise?  Another question is, How big is our homeless crisis really?  At the end of Lead Me Home, and in the graphic on the film’s website shown above, it says that 500,000 people suffer homelessness every night.  That’s a figure than enrages Nilan, from whom I got the figure I ended my first paragraph with: in America 1.5 million children alone are homeless.  The 500,000 figure applies to what we stereotypically think of as the homeless: men and women on the street or sometimes in shelters.  But add to that families constantly on the move, living in hotels, very temporary apartment situations, holed up with friends and families, or just one paycheck away from losing where they’re living now, and that number swells into the millions.  What were the choices that we as a society have made to get us to this point?

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Part of the answer to my ending question can be found in Diane Nilan’s book Crossing the Line: Taking Steps to End Homelessness. Diane is now founder and president of Hear Us, which you can find out more about at links above.  * Go to the call to action and congratulations posts for the PBS campaign for on the edge.  Go Here for the on the edge page of the Hear Us website.

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Beauty in the Time of Pandemic

Below is a 3:30-minute video of a small but momentous occasion.  My son Aaron—a wonderful musician and talented teacher and conductor—leading the Gage Middle School orchestra, Riverside, California.  He’s been teaching there for 20 years and thousands of students. When he first got to Riverside it seemed they wanted him everywhere, and actually had him teaching both high school and middle school during a head-spinning set of years before he settled down at Gage, his first love anyway.

It’s a young and small orchestra playing in the combined middle and high school Christmas concert that didn’t happen last year for an obvious reason.  Strings are the hardest to master as individual instruments and it’s harder yet to get them to play together well, so there are errors here.  But now as 2022 begins with some of our largest surges yet, we reflect on how the pandemic has created lots of small but momentous occasions like this one.  Who knows what will happen next?  On this night, though, Live Music Was Back!  Despite the masks everyone was so excited to just be there, listening, live.

After the orchestra there’s 1:30 minutes of a group playing Larry Daehn’s arrangement of “Barbara Allen” at a festival.  It’s one of the best groups he’s ever had, Aaron says, and the sound is glorious. It’s a band, much bigger and more polished, but his small orchestra at this year’s Christmas concert will always carry that special, momentous mark the pandemic has left on so many people and occasions.  They’re playing “In the Bleak Mid-Winter,” and while I doubt many Southern Californians know much about bleak winters, this group did fight through bleak pandemic challenges and played—together—for us all.

Last year NPR’s 1-A did a show called “Music Education in the Pandemic and Beyond.”  Hear the podcast and read the transcript at this link, and look at the show’s main graphic just below.  It conveys some of the challenges of teaching music during these times, a theme echoed by many, including the hosts of the Rose Parade broadcast Linda and I watched this morning.  Imagine getting a marching band ready, much of it virtually.

The transcript also links to a USA Today article called “Why music education remains essential even during Covid-19 pandemic,” a very brief summary of what reams of studies have shown about the positive effects of music education for decades.  Aaron’s union work made him a voice for these facts for several years.  It makes students better at every subject they take, promotes teamwork and better group dynamics, increases self-esteem, builds skills which span a whole lifetime, enriching us clear through old age. Etc. Etc.  Yet, of course, when budgets get tight the arts seem to suffer first.  They’re seen as add-ons to supposedly more essential things.

In 1974 the future Pulitzer Prize winning author Alice Walker wrote “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens,” an essay which would become the title essay of her first collection of non-fiction prose.  Though poor, her mother made luxurious gardens wherever they lived, and Walker connects these to the arts practiced by other black women, artists who sang and wrote.  The essay helps us realize that as the arts bring to us and develop in us a sense of beauty and spirit and endurance, they aren’t add-ons at all.  They help us to survive, to be, in the first place. Without that, nothing else can matter.

It’s New Year’s Day, and this is the first article I’ll post this year.  As I do, I reflect that I list the arts first on this site’s tag line: “Arts, Diversity, Social Change…Faith.”  Yet I too struggle to find a balance.  Is there enough arts and arts education on this site?  I think not.  It’s time to resolve to do more.  The arts, and the education that leads to them, need more highlighting because the arts not only stand on their own as they bring beauty into our lives, but are also a strong, swelling undertone which builds courage in us, and a conviction that diversity, inclusion, justice, even faith, are worth struggling for because they, too, are beautiful. Thanks, Aaron and the orchestra, for a small momentous moment reminding us of all this.

Go to the main pages for Arts, Music, and Media and for GuzMusic.  My “Art, Rhythm, Intuition, and Social Change” highlights the role of art in social change, as does my talk at the memorial service for the great poet Carolyn Rodgers.  In my “Ralph Ellison: Survival Blues,” I highlight what this great writer said about how art, here the blues, is a “technique” for survival.

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Everything Is Cool, Everything’s OK

Bryan Emmanuel Guzman

It’s the Christmas season, but of course loss does not stop.  People lose their jobs, their health, their marriages.  They lose their lives or the lives of those they love.  This year I didn’t want to let a milestone anniversary go by without comment:  this will be the 15th year we spend Christmas without my son Bryan, who died on December 9, 2006, just days after his 21st birthday.

I think of him many times a day, first as a Dad who misses his son, and as a grandfather, knowing none of my grandkids ever met him and have missed out on all the love he would have showered on them. He’s also tied up intimately with my work on race and inequality issues, especially because his oldest brother Rick and his wife Desiree started Bryan House, which became Emmanuel House, then The Neighbor Project, touching first five families, then 30, and now thousands of people, and along the way being named one of the “100 Most Innovative” social change organizations in the world. Readers of this site know lots about these.

When I preach, Bryan usually comes up.  In a Baccalaureate Sermon I gave just six months after his death, I ended with my experience of sitting with his body for a long, long time at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, saying, in part:  “I understood well the physics, the chemistry, the biology, the what of death before me, but I also still felt Bryan’s person, I still knew him and felt he knew me, and I still treasure every second of that time alone with him.  When I sank again and again into my deepest grief his soul said clearly to mine over and over, ‘Dad, this is OK. This is OK.’  But more than he and I, I also felt the presence—the person—of God there, caring for us two mere mortals, keeping us—despite the cold fact of death—connected to the universe as persons.  Bryan and I felt loved.”

Because he was a wonderful musician, when I watch his brother Daniel perform, or watch his brother Aaron conduct, or listen to most any kind of music, he’s there again.*  And what his soul said to mine—“Dad, this is OK. This is OK”—ties me closely to my second favorite Christmas song, John Prine’s “Everything Is Cool.”  The first lines are “Everything is cool, Everything’s OK. Why it was just before last Christmas, My baby went away.”  He was speaking of his wife, because, as he says introducing another song, “I got an unusual present for Christmas. I got a divorce.”  When I sing the song, I’m literally talking about my baby, because Bryan was the family’s youngest.

John Prine was one of the first celebrities we lost in the Covid pandemic.  His second verse to “Everything is Cool” is: “I was walking down the road just, Looking at my shoes, When God send me an angel, Just to chase away my blues.  I saw a hundred thousand black birds, Just flying through the sky.  They seemed to form a tear drop, From that black-haired angel’s eye. Well, the tear fell all around me, And washed my sins away, Now everything is cool, Everything’s OK.”  The version I like best is on his great Christmas album A John Prine Christmas, but click on the link above the picture below and watch another version.  It’s one of his most reflective.

My first favorite Christmas song?  “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” especially the lines: “Through the years we all will be together, If the fates allow.  Hang a shining star, Upon the highest bough”—or, sometimes, “Until then we’ll, Muddle through it all somehow.”  Of course, for us, with family spread from coast to coast, we’re rarely all together, which is one reason I cling to the song.  The shining star is the hope that we will be.  But until then….

 

Go Here for that reflective version on YouTube.  *And hear Bryan play and sing with Daniel on “But It Was” and other Hypnotist Collector tunes.

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