On Berkeley's Streets
The Paths Are Different, the Destination the Same

Jacqueline started a family while living on the streets of Berkeley. Charlie says he is homeless because of government shortcomings and conspiracies. And L.A. just wants a warm place to sleep and watch television. But for now, all three are stuck in the same place-on Berkeley's streets.

It's been called a mecca for the more than 800 homeless people, who together create a community born out of individual experience.

Yet many say they often feel pegged as simply "homeless" and subsequently ignored by residents and students. Instead of a uniform people, the homeless see a diverse population, and say the differences they embrace are ignored by others.

"People stereotype you, so when they see you or meet you, they expect you to be this way," L.A. says. "So if you try to come out of the mold, they'll do what they can to resist it, or they'll ignore it."

But according to them, the definition of homelessness changes with every person living, sometimes literally, right outside the front door.

Jacqueline

One year ago, Jacqueline Davis got married in People's Park. Two months ago, she gave birth to a son in Seattle. Today, Jacqueline and her husband Ryan Dougherty are back on Telegraph Avenue, asking for food, cigarettes and marijuana.

Their son William lives in Seattle with Ryan's brother. Jacqueline says she hopes to play a role in her son's life, but as with most of her life, the future is uncertain.

"I try not to plan things," she says. "They always fall through."

She's content now to spend her time on Telegraph where she sits everyday outside Raleigh's Pub with two signs-one that reads "I'm protecting this spot from terrorists," the other that asks for "spare weed."

For the 23-year-old Seattle native, who has been homeless for 10 years, Berkeley is a welcome change of pace.

"There's been a lot of tough times," says Jacqueline, who left home because of childhood abuse and found comfort in the charity of strangers.

"When I was pregnant, I would sit down for three or four hours and make 60 bucks," she says. "We don't really ask for money, we ask for food and cigarettes and weed."

And yes, sometimes people do drop marijuana off, she says. And this week someone paid her $25 for her sign asking for spare weed.

Charlie

Charlie Spangler blames his homelessness on corruption in government services and has made it his mission to reform agencies addressing health care and homelessness.

"I am out of home due to lawlessness in government and healthcare," he says. "I'm lucky to be alive."

Two childhood head traumas, a bout of epilepsy and being struck in 1994 by a speeding car left Charlie temporarily comatose and with pain that he says years of medical treatment will never alleviate. After spending years in clinics and transitional housing. Charlie finally took to the streets just after his 50th birthday in July 2004.

Now Charlie says welfare agencies owe him thousands of dollars, and promises a revolution if major government reform doesn't come soon.

"I'm going to fight to the death as a payee here. If it gets that bad, knife in the heart," he says.

But for now, Charlie seeks care at local clinics, sleeping under a tarp near Shattuck Avenue and preparing for his new radio program "Against All Odds" on Berkeley Liberation Radio.

"I can't think of a better name," Charlie says. "Once you're on the street you are against all odds, every minute of every day of every week of every season of every year."

L.A.

A 25-year heroin addiction, a dying sister and unstable musical profession brought L.A. to the streets of Berkeley in 2001.

After four years of hard times on the streets, the 55-year-old Washington D.C. native, who declined to give his last name, says he has learned not to judge people as he feels others judge him.

"People look at homeless people kind of weird," L.A. says. "A lot of homeless people, they just kind of lay around. I don't like that. I don't like being homeless."

For L.A., the first several months on the streets were painful as he tried to maintain pride and dignity.

"I was spare-changing, which was really embarrassing," he says. "I felt funny even asking for a quarter."

L.A. is now proud again, selling Street Spirit, a charitable newspaper about homelessness in the Bay Area.

Standing Out

"Being on the street is a common bond that just can't be explained," Charlie says.

Yet he, Jacqueline and L.A. all emphasize how they differ from people's perceptions of the community.

L.A., who gets angry when treated like a beggar, drug user or thief, thinks the complexity of the culture is not understood by people outside of it.

"(I want) to let people see we're not all alike," he says. "Some of us do care. Some of us are good people."

A correction to this article can be found here.

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