The reason I am working in the homelessness sector has a name: Earnest R.
People like me who have worked for a long time in the homelessness sector and have not experienced housing insecurity in their own lives, often have a personal story of why they got involved in this field.
Not too long ago, I shared the story of how Earnest shaped my entire life’s path with members of The Contributor’s vendor leadership team. They immediately encouraged me to write about it and share it on these pages.
In the late 1990s, a former Metro Police sergeant befriended a man who experienced chronic homelessness in the Vanderbilt area. She recruited several of her friends, including me, to form a support group around him. We all used to hang out at Café Elliston, later known as Café Coco, which was one of the places where Earnest sold his pencils to patrons. And let me tell you, Earnest was a salesperson.
Earnest loved his pickup truck. And even though the car’s registration was expired and his driver’s license was either missing or out of date, he drove that thing around everywhere. My friend had to bail him out multiple times and made him promise to stop driving it until he could do so lawfully again.
Once she got to know Earnest better, my friend discovered that he not only suffered from a severe and persistent mental illness hearing voices but also had some serious physical health issues that we eventually learned would only give him a few more months to live. He often slept in an abandoned home without electricity and running water somewhere off Clifton Avenue in North Nashville, the part of the city that was cut off by Interstate 40.
Rather than watch him die on the streets of Nashville or be forgotten in a neglected house, we organized a fundraiser to pay for his rent, utilities and other needs. Then we rented a place for him on Louise Avenue, a stones-throw from Café Elliston. While I had barely enough money to pay for my own rent, I agreed to sign his lease. The landlord knew what we were doing, and thanks to working with a rather stubborn police sergeant, he sanctioned our approach.
Once Earnest was in housing, we worked as a group with my friend being the main coordinator. We took rotations to check in on him, help with doctor’s appointments, assisted with household chores, grocery shopping, meals, etc. In short, we did Housing First before it was a nationally adopted best-practice program.
Earnest knew where to get the best furniture out of dumpsters, and he could read people like no other. He was a philosopher, a raconteur and a keen observer. I remember sitting on the stoop of the Café one day and listening to the wildest story he clearly made up in an attempt to shock me. In hindsight, he used that time to learn more about me.
I don’t know what he learned about me. He never shared. But one thing was for sure, he knew I had zero street smarts and would drive him to just about anywhere in the city he wanted to go to — especially those areas that the police officers of our group would have denied him.
Soon after Earnest passed away, I took a job as a daily news reporter and as part of the beat I developed, I felt I had a responsibility to help ensure those folks had a voice somewhere. I made it a habit to write at least one article per month about homelessness.
Eventually I covered the task force that created the Metropolitan Homelessness Commission. I penned a story about the lack of voices with lived experience on that commission and covered the protest of a now defunct advocacy group of people with lived experience called the Nashville Homeless Power Project. Thanks to making their voices heard, the Nashville Homeless Power Project ensured that three members with lived experience were appointed to the new Metropolitan Homelessness Commission.
While that was considered a great success, over the years, especially when I worked for Metro government myself, I have found that we generally don’t know how to truly integrate the voices of people with lived experience. We listen, we clap, then we move on with the agenda. We created more seats on commissions, built consumer advisory boards and took it upon ourselves to talk on behalf of the people we served. While this is part of elevating voices, the truth is, I still always felt that we are resorting to some form of tokenism with these governmental efforts that strive to appear inclusive.
Even today, when it comes down to truly listening and solving an issue brought to us that may be a little inconvenient for governments, boards, and other mainstream groups to implement, we push back and move on.
Many can speak sensibly about the homeless — and sorry, I am supposed to write “people who are unhoused” and use person-centric language — but when I go outside and listen to folks, I have never heard anyone say, “I am experiencing homelessness.” Ever.
It’s great that we have become more sensitive in our use of language. But we have still not learned to listen to people, especially when they tell us an inconvenient truth.
One current example is the fight of a consumer advisory board to get paid for their time, advising the community and government on homelessness approaches. Our government spends hundreds of thousands of dollars for homeless consultants — and even pays to fly them into town — but when it comes to paying people with lived expertise $20, they claim it is against the law.
Rather than finding a path for people to be heard, we squash them when they become inconvenient and demand that they are paid like anyone else. We claim the people in overpaid positions know better what’s best for them. We are arrogant, and we keep supporting that arrogance.
In the past few months, I spent a lot of my time listening to the stories and experiences of people who were trying to obtain housing. Some have become friends, but all of them have become my teachers. I seek their advice when something I read does not seem right.
We work on projects together to elevate each other’s voices and try to tell stories from the “unseen” perspective. Granted, I am the one who comes in with government facts, while my friends and advisors then counteract and teach me about what life on the streets really looks like.
Listening to the people who invited me into their encampments, their communities and their homes, has reminded me once again that having a voice is hugely important for all of us. If we do not feel heard, we lose a part of ourselves.
Earnest was a man of no means. He was the stereotypical homeless dude whom you saw frequently around the neighborhood. Yet, one thing about Earnest is that he knew who he was. He didn’t take himself or any of us too seriously. He gave us lectures on life — sometimes in chest, other times in all earnestness.
It was through Earnest that I learned that without building relationships none of us have a voice. And without a voice, we feel lost — unheard and unseen.
That’s why it means the world to me when someone thanks me for helping them find their voice again. I think that was a gift that Earnest bestowed on me on the short path of life we did together. He taught me the importance of seeing people and hearing what they have to say.
Earnest was a man our society had thrown out onto the streets because, ironically, he heard voices in his head. Yet, once I listened to him, it changed the rest of my life.
You never know what happens when you learn to hear the voiceless.