To Contributor vendor Lyndon Vetetoe, there’s nothing so potent as a small kindness. Whether a wave hello, a brief smile, or something more altruistic, well-meaning gestures can ease the mind like nothing else.
For those surviving on the streets, this is doubly true. When self-reliance is key to survival, the luxury of friendly company is never a guarantee, Vetetoe said. But that doesn’t affect the desire to be acknowledged.
“We’re out there selling the papers to make money. That’s the bottom line of why we’re out there, to make a dollar. But I’m as uplifted by the ones that never give a dollar, but will smile or roll their windows down, ask ‘how are you today?’”
“It’s about more than the dollar. You’re accepted as somebody, as a real person,” said Vetetoe. “Then you’ve got the ones that do give, to where I can pay a phone bill, to where I can put gas in my tank. This world’s all about people. I realized a long time ago – and this is from when I was first homeless a long time ago – never ever underestimate the power of a kind word.”
After all, any kind word may be the only kind word someone hears for that day, that week – or much longer.
“You don’t think about that if you’ve got your friends all around you, or your family all around you,” Vetetoe said. “But what about all the people that are alone?”
Vetetoe just moved into his first apartment in 13 years. But when he first became homeless – aside from brief stints in motels or staying with relatives – he did so alone.
“I got to workin’ a decent job, then the job kind of fell, so first thing, I lose the place. Then I’m drinking more and more, and not making good decisions. The depression, a little bit, set on me. I just wasn’t handling things right.”
His struggles with alcohol denied him a stable life for years, but life outside was too harsh for even the habit.
“Anytime I was out and about, I never did do any drinking. I always felt like, whether at the mission, or out on the street, or in the van, I need to be as much aware of my surroundings as I can be. I couldn’t be that way if I was intoxicated. I could go inside a motel room and lock the door, I’m protected from the outside world. I’m not protected like that outside. Being on the streets, if it didn’t do anything, it kept me sober.”
Through it all, the small kindnesses he was shown made a “world of difference.” After all, he had family he needed to pass them on to.
“Survival is something everyone’s got to do in their own way, I suppose. But I’ve got granddaughters I’d like to live a little while longer for.”
But despite what he’s overcome, there are no fewer challenges in 2023 than when he first struck out on his own.
Vetetoe has seen Nashville change from a small, historic town into a sprawling, tourist-hungry metropolis. He’s also seen the city become increasingly hostile to its unhoused citizens, with benches sheared into thirds and public camping outlawed by the state.
“That stuff isn’t easy to do anymore. You used to could pull up in a Walmart parking lot and rest, relax. You can’t hardly do that anymore. There’s very few places you can park. There’s a lot to it, but yeah,” Vetetoe recalled.
When Vetetoe first signed up for the Contributor, he hoped he could get away from it all. When he came up on a housing waitlist several weeks ago, that same hope flickered.
When he moved in, it was a victory 13 years in the making.
“My feeling was elation. That’s one of those things where I’m sitting back last week, last month, the month before. Phew, I hope things can work out like that. Things don’t ever work out like that for me, it seems like. But I’d like for it to work out like that! And it worked out. So yeah, elated.”
As he settles into his new apartment in the city, he’s hoping to hold the lessons he’s learned close and pass them onto his grandchildren as they grow older.
“This opens up so many possibilities. I can get up in the morning, I can take a shower. I can be clean. I can brush my teeth … this opens up an opportunity for me to, well, I’m 62, to live the rest of my life. I’m very thankful.”