So I volunteered to work with a newly instituted social service agency established in December of 1993 for the sole purpose of providing outreach to this unseen segment of society in order to provide drug education and HIV peer education. From this modest beginning grew an organization that found itself trying to meet the needs of the homeless youth of Austin. These ranged from hot meals to groceries from the food bank; from Band-Aids to sleeping bags; from hand-me-down clothing to HIV testing and counseling.  After a couple of weeks, the faces begin to coalesce into a core group of regulars. It was these regulars on which I focused. These youth are extremely circumspect and untrusting, so my interaction with them had to be equally circumspect. Initially, I kept a journal in which I noted any relevancies, but as time went on these journals were supplemented with direct observation, active participation, and some discussion with other young people that had been on the street and had returned as volunteers to their younger “brothers and sisters”. One young lady that is also volunteering asked me how I came to be associated with this agency.  So I told her briefly about my oldest son’s time on the street. I described the pain I felt trying to find him weekly so I could feed him and the different kids I had met through him,  like the boy called “dragon”. It turned out that she had been out on the street at the same time, knew dragon and had crashed at the same squats. She asked my son’s name, but didn’t know him, that is until I told her his street name. It turned out that he and she had spent a lot of time together and knew each other well.

   Each time I spent time with the children, I wrote in my journal. These writings became the heart and soul of this story. Here I noted any oddities, any commonalties, any specific occurrences that had caught my eye. As a volunteer, I was of necessity outside of the loop, so to speak, so my  role was bound by the work I did. I saw my role as being a kind of “surrogate mother”, attempting to establish a feeling of trust and acceptance among the kids. I made myself available to each young person, making a point of remembering names, and offering care as needed. I picked up trash from their meals, circulating among them, touching their shoulders, petting their dogs, asking if they needed anything special we hadn’t thought to provide I bandaged cuts, offered juices, advised them about the best cereal to get, the way to make corn bread (when they had access to an oven), treated infected piercings and tattoos, and reminded them of the right way to clean needles (both for the piercings and for using a syringe). I cautioned them about having safer sex and handed out condoms by the gross. I talked about books and boys and babies and periods with the girls. I talked about girls and tattoos and the merits of “Doc Martin” boots and the newest edition of Elfquest with the boys. And I listened to anything and everything they wanted to say to me, with interest and patience and unconditional acceptance. My first difficulty was minor. I had to overcome the smell of unwashed, dirty bodies. It took almost two weeks (four visits) before I learned to turn off my nose. The next obstacle I had to overcome was the general sense of mistrust the youth had of someone that looked like an adult, a mother, an old lady. My way of handling his was easy. I had to make myself seem like one of them, only older. So about the third visit, I wore my oldest blue jeans and a tank top that showed all of my tattoos. The tattoos gave the children and I something in common, a topic to talk about. From that point on, I began to be more of a guest than a stranger and the talk came more freely. The distrust of the “citizens” is so high among the street youth that I was unable to reach more that a guest level.

   The young people accessing services appear to have a strong tie with one another. Over and over, I observed them greet each other with physical affection. The males and females enjoy an equitable relationship, with the feeling of emotional support seeming to flow in both directions. There is very much a feel of “care-taking” on the part of the youth for those that are “one of their own”. Physically, their posture is tentative and non-threatening when making contact with most of the volunteers, yet in relation to each other they acquire an aura of confidence and familiarity. Their conversations with each other tend to be the conversations of any other adolescent. The talk centers around music, pets, and food. A few of these young people have children of their own, and although it is obvious who each child belongs to, their care is also very much a community affair. The infants know and are known to all of the street youth and are watched over with a great deal of protectiveness. An example of this is a baby girl named Isis. Isis is perhaps 14 months old and is a beautiful little girl with cafe-au-lait colored skin and huge deep brown eyes. Her hair hangs in soft baby ringlets against her neck. Already though her mom has begun to do “dread locks” in it. Isis is always very dirty, but appears healthy and well cared for. The first time I met her, she was also very hungry. Riding on her mother’s back in a carrier, she literally almost came over her mom’s shoulder when she smelled the soup we were serving.  Later, after she had eaten, she ran from group to group of the older kids, playing with their pets, getting a bite of bread here, a piece of fruit there, and a hug and a squeeze from almost all of them. I perceive a definite feel of kinship here. These young people appear to value the infants, look out for the babies’ welfare before their own, and care about their .safety. Another common characteristic among these youth is the ownership of pets. Almost without exception, each owns a dog or cat. There is even one or two rat owners among them. Like the babies, the animal’s welfare is given priority. They eat before the youth eat. This was explained to me, by some of the more seasoned volunteers, as a matter of protection as well as companionship. As I was told, “when you sleep on the street or in a “squat” a dog will awaken you before anyone else (police, etc.) can get near you.” Repeatedly, I was reminded of the hippie movement in the ‘60’s. There is the same air of community, the same sense of a life-style choice. The street youth are identifiable by their common attire, numerous tattoos, multiple piercings, and hair style (or lack thereof). Most of them have their hair done in “dreads”, including the infants. The clothing could be referred to as “early dumpster” and the parts of their bodies that aren’t covered in tattoos, are pierced and hung with silver loops.

   One of these street youth is called “Blu”. Blu is lanky and lean. His head is shaved in patches and where there is hair, it is dread-locked like everyone else’s hair. Blu is quiet, with an air of serenity about him and, although he is dirty and unkempt, one overlooks this due to his physical carriage. What drew me to Blu was his eyes. Blu has extremely, blue eyes that look at the world and miss nothing. They are filled with intelligence and peace. I get the impression that Blu sees, not onlythe facade, but what is behind it, also. When he looks at me he sees my soul.  Blu and his lady, Missy, live in a treehouse in someone’s back yard. They tell me they pay $35 per month for the privilege of staying there. They are from Virginia and last week came in to get some clothes from the clothing closet because they are going home to visit Blu’s parents for a while and needed some things for the trip across country. I ask if they will be coming back and Missy states it depends on how the visit goes. When I tell them I’ll miss them, they seem pleased and promise that they will check in with the agency when and if they get back.

   Like all adolescents everywhere, the young people here complain about the food, leave their trash for the adults to pick-up, and appear to take any gains totally for granted. There are a few that don’t and these stand out because of their intensity. Oliver is one of these. He is about fifteen and dresses like a character from a Dickens’ novel, complete with top-hat and “ditty bag”. He is well-spoken, polite and scrupulous about cleaning up his trash. When Oliver eats with us he devours his food, fast and methodically. Eating is all business with this boy. Oliver has been on the street about 3 years and occasionally picks up spare change by selling the drawings that he does on every scrap of paper or cloth he can find. He has a self-professed love of comic art, especially the art style of Richard and Wendy Pini, the creators of Elfquest. Oliver’s hands graphically illustrate the world he lives in and do it with a technical accuracy that is breathtaking.

   Overall, this community of street kids is a sub-culture, well-defined and with rules and expectations that everyone knows and abides by. Occasionally, I find myself almost envious of their life-style. It triggers the gypsy soul of an old hippie that has sold out to the establishment and makes me wistful for their freedom. Then reality sets in and I see the hardships that these kids endure and realize, that like people everywhere, these young people long for a human connection and would probably trade all of this freedom for some security and a place to call home. I found that they are predominately homeless in the truest sense of the word. Most have no roof over their head at night. A case in point is the kiddo called “Friday”. A 20 year old from Arizona, he made it as far as Austin before his V.W. van chugged it’s last chug and became his home. Few, if any have a secure place to keep their meager possessions. Six of the kids live in a cave out by Barton Creek Square Mall. These kids are hyper-aware of the dangers associated with needle sharing and indiscriminate sexual intercourse, yet this doesn’t appear to act as any kind of a deterrent. The AIDS awareness is in direct contrast to the information published in relevant professional literature regarding youth in other areas of the country. Whether this is because Austin is by nature so aware or whether it is because of something else is unknown. There is a strong concern that runs throughout the group regarding health issues. A substantial percentage appears to be vegetarian. They willingly submit to HIV testing, immunizations, and other health related opportunities when offered. And although their personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired, they are concerned about it and often request soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and other toiletries in an attempt to maintain some semblance of cleanliness.

   Another commonality that seems to run through out the group is a tendency to self-mutilate. Girls and boys both exhibit multiple scarring on their arms. Although there are a few that state they are from abusive home situations, most claim this lifestyle is a choice and say they have amiable contact with their families on a semi-regular basis. The slicing of their arms, however, belies this claim and indicates to me pent-up rage and frustration. This is best illustrated by a young lady called Michelle. She dresses as a  typical “punk rocker”. Michelle has a very affected English accent and appears high on something. Her clothing consists of lots of leather and chains; torn T-shirt, well worn leather biker’s jacket, and a very short, red skirt. Dirty white bra straps hang from her shoulders and black garters are attached to strategically ripped black stockings. Finishing off her fashion statement are beat up combat boots. Like most of her contemporaries, Michelle has multiple piercings. The left side of her nose is pierced, each ear has an average of 8 piercings running up the lobes to the top of her ear. In addition, her right eyebrow has a small loop through it and from the right corner of her lower lip hangs another ring. Color is a repeated theme among the youth also. A number of the kidlets have colored hair, as does Michelle. Her hair is shaved in rows and where it has been left with any length, it is spiked and alternately colored primary green, blue, and red. All in all, she presents a bizarre picture and the general consensus would be that she couldn’t possibly have family. Yet when asked, she stated that, “yes, she had a very close relationship to her people.” In fact, she spoke lovingly of her new nephew and said she was going home in a few weeks to attend his christening. Her conversation was animated and coherent when discussing her family and showed a real connection to them. Yet, when her arms are viewed they are covered with slash  mark shaped scars, some old, some freshly healed and still purple and puckered, a few are new wounds.

   Although I have enjoyed the work with these kids and perhaps found some sense of absolution for my own son's life among them,  I think that this has been an emotionally draining experience for me as well. How can I explain the attachment to people like Blu and Missy, Wolf, Friday, Iron Elvis and the numerous other children that have touched my life? Friday loves books and is an avid reader of science fiction. We share a favorite author in Robert Heinlein. He wants to go home, but has no money to get there. Blu’s eyes light with pleasure when we meet and I call him by name and remember to ask about his dog. One little girl without a name seeks me out to treat her aches and pains every time and hovers around me as if craving contact. How can I explain the pain I feel when, treating her for heat exhaustion, I push up her sleeves only to see a chaotic mass of slash marks and cigarette burns up and down her little girl arms? Do I tell about the nights when the thunder booms and the rain pours down in torrents and I walk the floors, worrying about these “street kids” that have become mine?  Do I tell you of Andrew, black as coal, effeminate and silly, who strives so hard to survive on the mean streets that are his home? The agony of being faced with the fact that one young man hopes he has AIDS, because then he would die and that would be better than living like he does? The helplessness of not being able to take care of each of these children in all the ways they need is overpowering.

   So the next time you are down on the streets, look around. Chances are, like fallen leaves that gather in windy corners, you will see our kids gathering also. These are the children of the streets, these are your sons and daughters and mine. Eventually society will have to be held accountable for these “throw-aways”, for this is the generation that will inherit our world and I fear they will be ill-prepared to do much with it. They are truly “Generation X”, an unknown generation. Unknown purpose, unknown goals, unknown reason to go on.
 
 
 

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