Feeling Something Human

When I stepped into The Church of the Holy Trinity, it was quiet. Two people were sitting near the front watching for no one in particular, and the place looked like a well-worn home to the many it has hosted and helped over the years. I found it odd that there was an art exhibit here.

Street Health Stories, an exhibit hosted by the church, was created by four women who were homeless themselves at one point. They paired up large prints of their work with audio of interviews with each of their subjects to tell the stories of how each of these people have dealt with receiving health care while living on the streets. Inside the church, just to the right of the main entrance, are three, large, three-sided pillars. On each side was a large print of different homeless subjects, lit up with a light box, and headphones to listen to each audio recording. The first thing to note is that each person in the picture does not look like the homeless guy you see on the corner everyday in Toronto. Many were cleaned up. Some smiled, others didn't. You could see their eyes, and as you listened to each one you could see their stories on their faces.

Every person I saw there was quiet while they listened to the audio, looking at the pictures. For once, in this busy city, you had to stop and listen. You heard the pain of being ignored, of fighting to live, of falling down the ladder of existence. In one story, a man talks about being gay in the shelters and the prejudice he faces in there, how he is simultaneously propositioned and rejected, all at once. And there was the story of Nancy, who has chronic pain from countless accidents over the years and a tumour that has recently disappeared.

I felt humbled to hear these stories. I felt humbled that these people felt comfortable enough to tell their stories to us. One story in particular really grabbed me. I listened as Phil ,50, said that he would go around handing out whatever extra hats and gloves he could find in the winter to other homeless people who were strung out or clearly mentally imbalanced because, as he said, "They have less than me."

When I hear him say this, I am surprised. Less than him? Who could have less than him? Isn't he on the same level, in terms of level of poverty? Don't you need them too?

As I listened to each story, I begin to feel more than just humility. I feel anger for Susan, whose guide dog was lost because the emergency services who took her to the hospital one night refused to listen to her begging request to have to dog accompany her. I am worried for Joe, whose stab wound may be infected again because he can't afford to have it looked at by a medical professional. I feel a level of familiarity with Ola, who left an abusive relationship just to end up on the streets, fighting for her life.

But the one that gets me the most is Heather. According to the dates on the light box, she died this year. And as I listen to her talk about being a sex worker, and trying to get clean of drugs, I wonder how well she succeeded. And when she says that the support worker she's been dealing with had been promising her a place to live and other support to get her off the streets, I wonder if those promises were kept. She sounded as if she didn't believe it would happen. I hope she was proved wrong.

Overall, I loved the display. It gave me a chance to stop and listen to the voices we try so hard to ignore in this city. The exhibit ends tomorrow (Sept. 27), but maybe you could ask the next homeless person you run into their story. You may be surprised by what you feel.

(Photo taken by Kristina Jarvis. Foreground: Phil, photographed by Adrienne. Background: Joe, photographed by Meghan)