His name is Gregory.
He’s of indeterminate age – maybe in his 60s, maybe younger. It’s very cold in downtown Toronto, so Gregory wears a ragged overcoat on top of two heavily patched sweaters, torn jeans, mismatched thin socks and mittens most people wouldn’t wear on a cool spring day.
Skinny to a fault, with long unkempt grey hair and a scraggly beard, he’s a common site at the northwest corner of Yonge and King streets, below the building where I work. He makes his bed over a subway grate for the bit of warmth it may produce. Gregory is one of the estimated 5,000 homeless people living outside this winter in the city.
His story isn’t unusual. Gregory has mental health problems, which have made it nearly impossible for him to work and to understand the social welfare net, and, sadly, like so many others, he just gave up on it. Living on the streets became his only option.
Tragically, the situation is getting worse. During last month’s cold spell, which dropped evening temperatures to -30 C with the wind chill, four homeless people were found frozen to death. As chair of the wonderful organization Ve’ahavta, the Jewish response to homelessness and poverty, I’ve become more acutely aware of our homeless tragedy in Toronto. We operate the “Mobile Jewish Response for the Homeless,” where night after night, volunteers and staff drive the frozen streets providing food and drink, essential clothing, hygiene supplies and various referrals to self-improvement and counselling facilities to literally thousands of clients.
On a very cold February evening recently, with temperatures dipping to -20 C, I volunteered to ride in the Ve’ahavta mobile outreach van. It was a lesson in love and humanity that I won’t soon forget.
That night was a roller-coaster of emotions. I saw despair, hope, strength, courage, love, loss, fear and life. Amit, the indomitable van driver, demonstrated what real love and compassion means. Travelling the streets where our “clients” live, Amit knew every spot they could be found. Our work was more than just handing out warm clothes and food, we spent hours simply talking to each of those we served. “People have a tendency to see the homeless as one large group of people with no name. It ‘invisibilizes’ them,” Amit said.
Indeed, Amit helped me understand that each person had a story, a life, and that despite their present circumstances, each was due love, dignity and respect.
James was one of the younger men on the streets. He made his sleeping area in a large crevice under a bridge. During the day, he goes to the library to use the computer or to read. He’s hoping to enter the Ve’ahavta learning program as a way off the streets.
Sebastian was brought up in Rosedale, but that night, he made his home in the hollow of a building entrance. He needed a warm pair of socks.
William set up his sleeping bag at Queen and John streets. An epileptic, he depends on his wife for care. They fought last week while at a rundown flop-house, and he was forbidden from returning there. We saw his wife Christine soon afterward. She has forgiven him and is worried he won’t take his medication.
Before ending our shift, our distinctive van pulled into the St. Felix warming centre, a non-profit community house that helps look after people on the street. Nancy, one of the occupants who knows the van by sight, let the others know we have arrived. “The Jews are here! The Jews are here!” she shouted with love, not hate.
I couldn’t get over how cold I was. I fear for those I met this night.
It’s been more than a week since I last saw Gregory. When this happened before, he told me he had bad lungs. I’m worried about him. I keep hoping to see him tomorrow.
