Chicago is my first home. That’s where I was born in 1932 (yes, during the Great Depression) and that’s where I stayed until I was past 30. Since then, I’ve gone back at least once a year. I have family and many friends there. It was my first city in the “Hungry Neighbors” book project. I knew about the rich and the poor folks in the Windy City, and the Daley political machine, the struggles with unions, the evolution of public education and more. It was easy for me to get anywhere. I had friends who would give me rides and I knew the bus, El and subway routes.
But I didn’t know about Street Wise, (the street newspaper) until about five years ago, when I became interested in street newspapers. I knew about skid row and the projects, and the poverty. I had been on welfare and knew about the social services, and I had enjoyed a few good-paying jobs and knew about life in the fast lane. But I didn’t know about homelessness, or sleeping in the train station. I knew about the violence of some police as well as the kindness of the men in blue.
I had seen the force of the police during the anti-war demonstrations in Lincoln Park. I knew folks who had been beat up by the police and folks who had been rescued by them. I knew about the opera, theaters, Chicago Symphony, the churches, blues joints, jazz joints, Chicago Art Institute, other museums and loved them all. I went to public school, earned my teaching degree, taught public school, and sent my young boys to public school. In other words, tell me about city life, and I’ve been there, done that, in Chicago.
This time, I was coming back to new turf, to learn about Street Wise. We toured their facility, met with the executive director, the editor and a board member. We enjoyed lunch together and shared Chicago stories. The second day there I met Greg Pritchard, coordinator of the vendors. He shared his story with me, and I tell it here with his permission, because I hope someone will begin to understand what vendors are made of and how and why they are who they are.
Greg grew up in Chicago. He had a good, loving family and eventually his grandmother left him the family house. Somewhere in his youth he took the wrong path and made poor choices. He was drug addicted and involved in the crimes of use, possession and theft that usually go with that lifestyle.
At the age of 30, he was incarcerated for two and a half years for a non-violent crime. He served two years (90 days in solitary) at the state penitentiary in Mount Sterling, Ill. In 1998 he was released with $20. His house was gone because he had been unable to pay taxes. His address was a shelter. He had just one friend. His family and other old friends didn’t want anything to do with him because he had hurt them all by the bad actions and attitudes of his years of drug abuse. Actually, he had dried out in the two years in jail. Not because of any rehab program, not because he couldn’t make any old connections to buy drugs, but because he had hit bottom.
Greg was physically and emotionally drained. He had spent a lot of time looking at his life and the choices he had foolishly made. He was determined to win back his family and friends, and most of all his self respect. The last two weeks of prison provided a release program that advised him to tell the truth when starting a new life. So he bought all the newspapers, prepared a resume, and answered ads.
His spirits were lifted as he scheduled six interviews. Each interview followed the same pattern. He was cheerfully greeted and led to believe he had a real chance at the job that was advertised. Then when they got to the paper work and the potential employer noted that Greg‘s last address was the state penitentiary, the interview abruptly ended. Greg had tears in his eyes as he told me his story. “Ruth, it took the air right out of me when an interview was going well and as soon as they knew my last address, the interview was over.”
Another task facing Greg (and most released folks after serving time) was getting appropriate ID documents. The state had “lost his ID.” He went to the Secretary of State Office, stood in line two hours, and was told they couldn’t help him. His records were “lost” and maybe in six months they’d be able to establish ID credentials if he “had a permanent address.” No, not a shelter.
Looking back, he said he knew his sister was probably there for him, but his pride wouldn’t let him go to her until he had a clean, honest, independent life to report. He wanted to “earn” the respect of those he had hurt.
Finding out that there’d be no ID for months was a critical moment and reduced his focus to just one thing -- getting a fix. He was depressed and undernourished but he had not had drugs for two years. Instead of remembering the mess drugs had made of his life up until now, he only remembered the pleasure of the high. His body and mind could almost feel the exhilaration — but not quite. He had to get a fix.
When he made the connection, it resulted in such a strong affect that he was found lying under a table and rushed to emergency. When he came to, he pulled the tubes out of his arms and took to the streets for more drugs. “That was the first day that might have been the rest of my life,” Greg told me, shaking his head. He spent nine months panhandling to get enough for his daily fix, sometimes a place to crash. Sometimes his favorite corner was occupied by someone selling Street Wise. He usually handled that by insulting, pushing, shoving — what ever it took to get what he thought was “his” space. He remembered that they tried to encourage him to come to the paper for coffee, rest and maybe even a few papers to sell. Even in his most irrational condition, he could feel vibes of compassion from the vendors. But it wasn’t important. His priority was getting a fix.
But the vendors finally got to him. They continued to encourage him to try to sell papers. He went to the orientation and heard the stories of men and women who had been “around the block more times than he had” and now were finding their way back to sobriety and family. He was given food and a welcome community that were really “a bunch of do-gooders who believed in their program.”
“I told myself ‘this is a good angle to play’ for a while. At least it may help me get my fix and maybe even a few dollars for a place to flop now and then. I can play this game of good vendor.” Winter months in Chicago are cold. Greg took his first papers and went to his favorite corner. As soon as he sold a few papers, he found his connection and headed to the $4-a-day room. He stayed high until morning. The place was three floors of the depths of depression. But now he had a new routine and it worked fine for a while.
One day he realized this life was killing him and he, for some unexplainable reason, wanted to live. He found himself at a rehab service center crying, “Help me.” But the wait would be 90 days and 400 people were on the list ahead of him. The lady said, “Call me in 30 days.” He couldn’t wait. He called in two weeks, then in 3 days, then every day. “So actually one month, two weeks 3 days and two hours later the lady put his name in front of 175 folks,” and he entered the 26-day program.
After detox, Greg knew he had to do more than sell papers. The vendors knew him as a bully — but once he started really working with them, he became part of the vendor family. He spent all his time that he wasn’t selling papers at the computer. He learned a lot about addiction and the prison system and the welfare system and food banks, and more. He shared what he learned with other vendors and encouraged them and helped them get their sales up and raise their personal goals and standard of living. After a time he became vendor coordinator and has introduced programs for the vendors. They now have the opportunity to learn to read, use the computer, send and receive emails so they can re-connect with friends and family and pursue a life off the streets.
At a vendor meeting, the day after our conversation, I saw Greg in action with folks. He was fantastic. He is socially aware, street smart and works constantly to share himself with those who are struggling to start over.
Greg learned the hard way. He is grateful, as he says, to “have it together,” and endeavors to pay the community back for getting him through his crisis period. We talked about many things. We shared our poetry. We are friends.
