Remembering Mr. Abernathy

Homelessness for Stupid People

The foibles of the most pampered homeless population in the Bay Area... 

One automatically recognizes this man. Tall and slender and wiry almost to the point of being emaciated. He wore his kinky red hair a little long, framing a face that matched his form with sunken cheeks, a prominent nose and an Adam's apple out to there... he appeared to be the spitting image of Ichabod Crane of Sleepy Hollow fame save that Mr. Abernathy's carriage had a dignified aire to it. He strode rather than shuffled, walked upright rather than hunched. And he had a sternness about him. He was not a man of easy humour, tending far more toward seriousness, though he did laugh at the occasionally forgiven crack from his students. He rarely tolerated such things, of course. When he did, it was well worth his approval.

His tenure over me lasted one year, my first at Runnymede College, a secondary school that educated children of the international expatriot community in Madrid, Spain. I was twelve years old that year, and, after two years living in Madrid under my father's care, I still could not speak the language. My brother, three and a half years my junior, was already quite fluent. But I needed something more of a push. The reasons for my inability to be a good student have much to with cluelessness, a disease I'll encourage any parent to correct if they can. It stifled my ability to learn for the entirety of my time as a student.

Mr. Abernathy taught Latin and Spanish at Runnymede College to our Lower 3^rd Form Class (roughly equivalent to 7^th Grade). I remember him reading to us with his not quite monotonous speech and accentuated Rs, which he tended to roll on his tongue whether he was speaking English or Spanish. He did not have the same talent Mr. Ballard, our history teacher did. So he could not shoot a piece of chalk twenty feet across the room and hit me square between the eyes, but his ability to get attention with a simple stern gaze was second to none, and his reluctance to tolerate any distraction kept those of us in his class focussed on what we were supposed to be learning.

If we did not turn in our homework, there was hell to pay. Mr. Abernathy would make sure everyone knew who the lazy ones in the class were. I was guilty of this more than once, and assigned extra as a result, which I diligently did rather than face his wrath again. Even so, when his wrath faded from memory, I repeated the mistake (twice)... but eventually, there was clarity in my mind of what was expected and what the consequences were.

Toward the end of that school year, I knew the name of every boy and girl living in our apartment complex, and I was becoming part of that group (you might call it a clique, but not really, Spanish culture makes groups of friends very well defined though it has little resemblance to what American's would recognize as a clique). For the two preceding years, I had been that stupid American kid that nobody wanted anything to do with. I'll never forget Pablo Caballero putting his finger on my chest and saying “Ju no in my hause!” the summer before meeting Mr. Abernathy. Pablo and I became inseparable for years later.

I have never known any teacher that had Mr. Abernathy's teaching model. He did what fit his character, and what fit his character fit very, very well. He reached me, and he has coloured my approach to the world ever since, though I did not recognize this till quite recently.

I had not thought of Mr. Abernathy for quite some time, but I was reminded of him today.

I've been collecting laundry for a few weeks, and desperately needed to get things washed. I'd meant to do it last night, but it was simply too hot to ride over to Bubble Brite. So it was this morning (Sunday, June 30) I woke at six, and made my way over there, getting my load in by a quarter to seven. I sat down to finish “Ship of the Line” by CS Forester (I did “Beat To Quarters” for LPL's Summer Reading Program... which I recommend to everyone who reads, Ship of the Line was just about enjoying the book... won't be reviewing it, it's just THAT GOOD!)... anyway, on one of the two TV Screens, this story was playing:

Fostering excellence: From underachievers to college-bound scholars

I'm not sure what it was about the image on the screen that caught my eye.... (okay, pretty girl... does it every time...) But the story was this: a couple from Novato take in foster kids, and the teenagers they take in, mostly failing in High School, graduate with honours and go on to college.

I expected some new-age explanation, but, no... Roy and Claudia Asprer don't play at that. They banned Television, Imposed Behaviour Standards and took No Lip from these kids! The latest of their kids to graduate High School was failing miserably in her freshman year.

WHAT? You mean the Asprers have Standards and give Clarity? What's that about?

Anyone who has been homeless and survived it will, in some way, express the force of will necessary to escape it. People able to self impose discipline are rare in the real world, and almost unheard of amongst the homeless. Down here clarity is elusive and standards of behaviour non-existent.

It is true that there are certain behaviours that will get one ejected permanently from any of the various programs out there. But there is little in the way of education. Who tells these people what is and is not acceptable, much less educates them? To know, one usually has to break a rule before these things are communicated. Not always, but most of the time.

What most do not understand when working with the homeless is that common sense amongst them is not so common. Very often codes that come from Prison culture are applied which are at odds with the community at large.

For instance, if homeless man steels, and another homeless man knows of it, and talks to police, or often, anyone else, that person is a snitch. That person is not looked on as a good neighbour by the community at large, but as a homeless man who has no value. Amongst the homeless, he's looked upon as the worst possible element, someone to avoid or to be punished. If I had any experience in the gang culture, I believe I might see the same thing.

The beginning of my education on this was two years ago. Rob Hamblet and Joey De La Rosa were passing a bottle of vodka between them. This would not have been an issue safe that they were doing it at a church. And it was a church where Joey's brother Johnny was in charge. After I told Johnny about it, I was immediately labelled a snitch by both of them. For me, the issue was the services given by the church. Incidents like drinking on church property tended to offend not only the pastor, but the parishioners. How many such incidents would it take before they ceased that particular program. Just an aside, that particular program did, eventually, shut down. I don't know what the reason was. Joey and Rob did not see it that way, of course. I had committed a sin against them, and should immediately pay for it. Nothing came of that save that I was never again trusted by either of them. Rob has since died, I believe it had to do with liver problems, and Joey is no longer homeless as he can no longer take care of himself. He lives with family in Modesto, who care for him. This is the first of several personal examples I could recount, but it was the most shocking to me. I had never experienced its like before.

The prison culture amongst the homeless is getting stronger, not weaker. As the homeless problem in Livermore grows, and make no mistake, it is growing, the only way to defeat this is to find a way to apply standards of behaviour on the homeless, and nobody at all is doing that. Not here, at least.

Mr. Abernathy had standards. He knew his job, he stepped up to the plate and in spite of whatever character flaws he had, he overcame those and made consistency and clarity part of his method of teaching, and I benefited greatly from his efforts. I wish I knew people like him today. I am very proud to say, that as I was nearing my thirteenth birthday on the very last day I saw him, I thanked him. He smiled his little Irish smile, bobbed his head, and walked away. I'll never forget him.