I DEPENDED ON research to help me understand the world when I was growing up. During my late teens and early twenties, I practically lived in libraries. Whenever the grit of my days got to be too much, I found peace in the stacks, where there was material to help quench my raging thirst for knowledge.
I was ashamed of many aspects of my life in those days. I was a high school dropout, I had few practical skills and I knew next to nothing about who I was as a cultural or tribal person. Libraries offered me both escape from my feelings of inadequacy and entry into realms I never knew existed. I learned to interpret the world through what I read. Back then, it was achingly difficult for me to talk to other people, and books were my haven.
I’m thankful for all those libraries. The books I devoured made me employable. They let me build the enormous frame of reference that enabled me to become a writer. They helped me to discover the larger world that life and circumstance had deprived me of.
But book learning can take you only so far. Eventually, you need to step beyond the pages. That was illuminated for me again after Deb and I started running the rooming house. Even though I’ve been on the streets myself and have firsthand knowledge of what a struggle it can be just to survive, I quickly found out I was no expert. I’ve read sociological tomes, textbooks and research papers on poverty. I’ve audited university lectures on the subject. But when I came face to face with the people who inhabit the streets and alleyways and missions of Kamloops, I found I still had lots to learn.
Take a lady I’ll call Shirley.
The agency that sent Shirley to the rooming house told us that she had a mental illness. They said she could be difficult. But they didn’t share her diagnosis with us or give us a picture of what we could expect. They seemed to believe, as many agencies do, that the mere knowledge Shirley was incapacitated would enable us to provide secure, predictable shelter for her. But that wasn’t enough.
At first, Shirley was quiet. She took her time moving in and getting acclimatized to the rules and the sense of order we work hard at maintaining in the house. Gradually, she stepped out from behind her own door and began to interact with the other residents. That’s when things got difficult. As long as she was insulated, stayed private, Shirley could be fine. But when she stepped into the community, things got weird.
She phoned Deb and me at all hours of the day and night to tell us who was doing what and how disruptive it was to her sense of security. She complained harshly about the actions of other people. She yelled and screamed. She ranted. When we went over to our house to talk to her, she was usually bitterly angry. Sometimes she refused to open her door to discuss the situation. Instead, she screamed at people and insisted that we evict them, have them arrested and jailed.
Shirley’s anger was toxic. Even when she was sullenly silent, her cold rage was palpable. Often, the events that had precipitated such vitriol were insignificant. Some had not happened at all. It seemed to us that Shirley sought out reasons to rant. We wondered both why that was and how we could help her. As the months went by and the explosions continued, we considered the possibility of having to evict Shirley for the sake of the other tenants.
Then, one day, she confided in Deb. Shirley is an Aboriginal woman in her late fifties. She’s a grandmother. One of her sons had died from ingesting bad cocaine, and it was her overwhelming, inconsolable grief that allowed a crack to appear in the wall she’d built around herself. My wife went into Shirley’s room and sat on the edge of her bed, holding Shirley’s hand, comforting and calming her. Shirley told Deb that many years earlier, when she was seven months’ pregnant, she’d been viciously assaulted and raped by three members of her family.
The story that came out of Shirley that day changed everything for us. We were horrified by what had happened to her, and after that, when we looked at her, we saw a totally different person. Shirley raged because she had to. Any slight allowed her to open the valve just a little and let out some of that stoked resentment, pain, fear and sense of betrayal. That anger was her only outlet. She’d never had a chance to heal. Most professional people had just tagged her as mentally ill and done nothing to help her find peace.
Now, when Shirley ranted and raged, we knew where it came from, and we sought ways to bring her long-lasting peace and calm rather than merely pacifying her in the moment.
Shirley eventually moved on, and she took her rage with her. She was too proud to face what she perceived as the indignities of therapy or professional help. The street had made her that way. When you’re out there, people apply tags to you all the time. You’re an addict, a drunk, crazy, violent, lazy, stupid, difficult, chronic, hard to house or beyond help. After a while, you start to refuse all of the labels, even if some of them might mean getting help.
Textbooks, degrees, work experience, shared life experience and even compassion can’t give you someone’s whole story. Only listening—reaching out from one human heart to another—can help you understand why someone is marginalized, impoverished, traumatized, wounded, addicted, drunk, isolated or chronically homeless. We are all created equal, and only circumstance and history make us what we appear to be on the outside.
My life would not have evolved the way it did without the world of books. Without this book knowledge, I could not have become the man I am today. But you also need to step outside the stacks and make contact with those who inhabit the world.
We all have stories within us. Sometimes we hold them gingerly, sometimes desperately, sometimes as gently as an infant. It is only by sharing our stories, by being strong enough to take a risk—both in the telling and in the asking— that we make it possible to know, recognize and understand each other. No book will ever be a substitute for that.