When you can’t go home
Marlo Campbell spends a night on Winipeg’s streets to experience homelessness
Marlo Campbell
photos by Schledewitz



For most Winnipeggers, homelessness exists on the periphery of our lives. It’s relatively easy to ignore — until you’re forced into it.

As part of an event organized by Resource Assistance for Youth (Ray), a support agency for street youth, I agreed to spend 24 hours — from Nov. 14 to Nov. 15 — with a group of young people who have lived most of their lives on the streets.

This was my day.

• • •

I arrive at Ray at 195 Young St. and am paired up with Kristy, 24, and Adam, 21. They’ll be my guides for the day. Both left home when they were in their early teens, and both are now ‘transitioning’ off the street.

I’m not permitted to have any ID, contact numbers, supplies or extra clothing. I’m given one loonie and a bus ticket. I have nothing else except for the clothes on my back.

As of 10:30 a.m., I am officially homeless.

• • •

We walk for hours downtown with no destination and no real game plan. We cross the same intersections several times in different directions. This, I’m told, is a typical day.

Kristy and Adam expertly navigate the maze of downtown skywalks and underground corridors. So long as you keep walking you won’t get hassled by security, making the skywalks appealing places to stay warm on cold nights. My guides point out heated parking garages where they’ve slept in the past.

As we walk, we talk about how they ended up on the street.

Kristy left home when she was 14. She said she didn’t fit in and felt like a burden to her family. Adam’s mom died when he was little, and his dad was a drug addict, which he says “makes everything harder.” It’s both cryptic and insightful. When Adam was 13, his dad left and never came back. Just like that, Adam was on his own.

I ask if he had ever considered tapping into Winnipeg’s social safety net. CFS comes up and both Kristy and Adam look at me like I’m crazy. I’m told it’s far safer on the streets than it is in a group home.

By 2 p.m. my knees and hips have started to ache. I’m told that a lot of street youths have joint problems. Apparently the trick is to keep moving.

• • •

We loop around the Convention Centre on a butt run, scouring the ground and the concrete ashtrays for butts that still have some tobacco in them. These are dropped in a Ziploc bag.

The youths I meet smoke constantly — it suppresses the appetite, calms the nerves and keeps you warm, they say. They scavenge butts, buy cigarettes from strangers or barter. There’s a store on Main Street that will trade one bus ticket for two smokes or a full sheet for a pack.

• • •

Around 3 p.m. we decide to try and get me on welfare.

Because social assistance affords some people a residence but little else, having a home doesn’t necessarily mean an end to poverty. I’m told about a scuzzy rooming house on Furby that has crammed 28 individual rooms into an old three-storey with one stove and two bathrooms. Even there, rooms start at $260 a month. To me, it seems unfathomable.

Kristy once lived in a rooming house that was so unsafe she literally nailed boards across her door every night. Now she has a two-bedroom apartment. After rent, she has $200 left to live on for the entire month, but she’s says it’s OK because she doesn’t eat much.

Other people I meet have never been on social assistance. They support themselves mainly through panhandling, squeegeeing or flagging (holding up a sign). Some feel they don’t need assistance, and some are against it on principle. Others have trouble complying with the various requirements.

The Rorie Street welfare office is where all intake appointments are made. Inside, there’s a long counter with wickets. I step up and explain that I don’t have a place to stay. I say I haven’t had work in a year, but I draw a blank when asked how I’ve been making money. I’m sure the clerk knows I’m lying, but she stays polite. When I bring up the fact that I don’t have any ID, I have to lie to her again.

She asks me a series of questions, including whether I have any addictions. Given that this women stands between me and money, the only appropriate answer seems to be no. I’m given an appointment for two days later — not for an actual intake but for a consultation with the job bank. The implication is that I’m employable, not destitute.

The whole process takes about 15 minutes, which amazes everyone. Usually, it takes hours just to talk to someone, I’m told.

We’re also impressed by the clerk’s respectful demeanour. According to my guides, some welfare workers are great, while others are by-the-book but “not assholes about it.” Some are downright mean — how you’re treated depends on who you get.

They think the way I’m dressed has something to do with my treatment. I’m teased that my pants are too clean and my scarf doesn’t look like I’ve been wearing it for weeks.

• • •

Later on, we meet up with the others and head down to the Union Gospel Mission on Princess Street for dinner. We’re a group of 15 people and two dogs, which makes me feel safe.

North Main Street feels grim. It’s now dark, and groups of people are gathering outside the various homeless shelters on the strip, waiting to be allowed in.

Winnipeg’s homeless community is not a homogenous group. It divides itself by neighbourhood boundaries and along racial lines. Adam says he rarely crosses Portage Avenue. As a young white male, he’s not welcome north of Portage. He’s also not welcome in the suburbs, where he says he’d be hassled by jocks.

Some members of the group depart because dogs aren’t allowed at this mission, but there’s another catch — before we get fed, we’re required to sit through a half-hour church service.

Rows of folding chairs are set up in a room decorated with posters of Bible verses. The majority of people fit the stereotype of a homeless Winnipegger — they’re male, aboriginal and rough-looking. I count six women in a room of over 50.

As the minister launches into an a cappella rendition of Amazing Grace, a man starts convulsing in his chair. The person sitting behind him reaches out and rubs his back until the convulsions pass. It’s as surreal as it is disturbing.

Tonight’s sermon is about idols. The couple in front of me can’t sit still, and they talk through the entire service, earning a few hostile looks from those trying to listen. Other people sit completely motionless, staring at nothing.

Despite the encouraging words and the small act of kindness I have just witnessed, there seems to be very little hope here. I feel like I’m in a room of lost souls.

When the service is over, I get in line for my first meal of the day. It’s 8 p.m.

I receive a bowl of something that’s half-soup, half-stew. It has ground beef in it, as well as potatoes, spaghetti noodles and vegetables. It’s served with a bun, an apple and water, and it’s warm and filling. No one at my table talks.

• • •

At 9:30 p.m. I’m sitting on the corner of Broadway and Osborne, watching Kristy and Daniel (not his real name) squeegee.

A white guy in his 20s makes his way over from the bus shack across the street and chats with us for a minute before handing Kristy a $10 bill. It’s our first profit of the night.

Daniel is a tall 29-year-old aboriginal guy. Bouncing into traffic, he tries to look non-threatening and engage the drivers with humour. Kristy smiles less but gets more takers. They tell me it’s because she’s a girl.

Most drivers say no. Some won’t even acknowledge that someone is standing outside their car. One woman turns on her wipers when Kristy taps her window with the squeegee.

There are loose rules of conduct on the street. When panhandling, you don’t approach people with children, old people or people with disabilities. When squeegeeing, you only jump on a car — start washing without asking the driver — if you’re desperate for money. Expect nothing, I’m told, or you’ll go crazy.

Not everyone follows the rules. A man shows up with a sign and starts flagging while we squeegee. This is bad etiquette because we’ve already claimed the corner. I’m told he’s a crackhead, and I’m told crackheads will do anything for drug money.

Most of the people I’ve been hanging out with drink and smoke pot, and some have kicked serious drug habits — crack, heroin, meth. Drugs are a way to forget about the past and escape the present.

Despite their own personal experiences with drug use, Daniel and Kristy show little pity for addicts. Crackheads and meth-heads ruin things by perpetuating stereotypes, I’m told. Nowadays, people are less inclined to give street youth money for fear it will be used to buy drugs.

An hour in, a police car pulls up to the light. Kristy can’t hide her squeegee fast enough and the officers call her over to the cruiser. I can tell by Kristy’s body language that the conversation is intense. For a moment I think Kristy’s about to get into the back seat but finally she turns and walks back to us.

She says the cop yelled at her about being in the street, saying that he was going to have to scrape her off the pavement. She argued with him and was told to leave, which we decide is a smart decision. In all, we made just over $20.

As we walk down Osborne, the police cruiser passes us three times.

• • •

I’m cold and my legs hurt so much that I’ve started to limp. I give my loonie to Daniel and we order a tea and a coffee at the Second Cup in the Village. Kristy insists she doesn’t want anything — an act of self-denial I see repeated throughout the day by everyone I meet.

There’s a lot of sharing and communality on the street. Daniel always carries extra gear with him, knowing that someone will need it (in fact, Kristy has been wearing one of his hoodies all night). Hand-rolled cigarettes are shared between eight people. Processed cheese strings, handed out to us as we left the mission, are later distributed to anyone who wants some. My sense of reality is rocked again when Dug, 24, calls cheese “rich man’s food.”

Those who have apartments open their doors to those who don’t. Currently, Adam has two people crashing in his bachelor pad. It’s a good survival strategy, but one that gets people evicted.

Despite the love these people show each other, trust is an issue. Survival is top priority and sometimes people get screwed over by friends. Then again, the same people who steal from you might save your life next week. Of necessity, people are given many second chances.

Relationships are complicated and I’m told that the camaraderie found on the street should be taken with a grain of salt.

• • •

At 1 a.m., we’re allowed back inside Ray to sleep. Technically, this is cheating, but for me the point of the day has been made. After 14 hours of being outside, I’m grateful for the warmth. I fall asleep around 3 a.m. on a padded bench.

• • •

We get up at 8 a.m. and make our way to Agape Table, a soup kitchen run out of a nearby church.

Breakfast is remarkably similar to last night’s dinner — soup, raisin tea biscuits, toast and coffee. However, the atmosphere of the room is completely different. People seem in good spirits and there’s lots of chit-chat. After we eat, we head back to Ray, where we say our goodbyes.

• • •

Homelessness is a complex issue. Collectively, the young people I met during my hours on the street have experienced abuse, abandonment, addiction, daily insults and humiliations, the deaths of their friends, and a host of other physical hardships and indignities. For a variety of reasons, they have ended up on the streets. They’re not perfect, and they’ve made some mistakes.

But they’re also survivors. The people I met were — like any other Winnipeggers — individuals with unique personalities. Adam loves fixing up BMX bikes. Kristy has a cat with an attitude. Speck snores louder than anyone I have ever heard. Casey writes poetry.

I’m impressed with how much of their lives they chose to share with me during my day, and I’m rooting for all of them.