KEY POINTS:
My father is a homeless man.
He is quite probably the type of man Councillor Goldsmith wants moved on, considers a nuisance and an embarrassment to decent society. Councillor Goldsmith may well be right.
My father is ill-kempt. He remains unshaven, as he has been for years, fails
to keep regular work, hides or carries his belongings with him in large and unsightly bags, spends as much of his time as he can in and around municipal buildings, taking advantage of their warmth, shelter from rain or wind and clean, accessible toilet facilities.
He will not readily engage with strangers, he doesn't often sustain polite conversation. He is also deeply and cripplingly ashamed.
I am too. When I see him, when I spend time with him, passers-by look at us sideways, the generous with a quizzical glance. Some grunt their disapproval; more stare in disdain.
I'm often surprised when in company or conversation with my father, how many people feel free to voice their disgust, at us and him, at his dishevelment and inability to maintain an appearance acceptable to their entirely reasonable standards.
My shame though, perhaps unlike that expressed by Councillor Goldsmith, is not of my father. I feel no shame at his very visible difficulties, his poor health and weather-beaten skin, his inability to cope and maintain the social standards he once and for many years managed with ease.
When he (rarely) accepts my embrace, I am not ashamed by the unpleasant odour or fetid, clammy down and musk that clings to me long after he has gone.
I am ashamed by my inability to house him, my failure to give him a home.
He has a family. His parents and siblings live within a few minutes' range of the library, shelter, social centre and (to my mind) a surprisingly hospitable pub that make up his routines and community.
He will rarely allow interaction with family. When he does, he has thus far proven unable to maintain it. He acts up, or explodes, insults or assaults. In quieter, reflective moments, usually after extended periods alone on the street and over a beer outside the aforementioned pub, he describes these incidents and behaviours as "implosion". I call them self-destruction and sabotage. He calls them puzzling and his cross to bear.
If we could, my father's family and I, we would do as Councillor Goldsmith desires. We would move him on. In fact, we would move him in. Every family member has tried to move him in.
That we can not keep him in, that something inside him implodes and drives him out, distresses us all. That distress doesn't seem to diminish, with time or with "implosions" and with the wounds, the accompanying damage, physical, financial or emotional, that they bring. We keep trying and he resents us for it.
Bringing his Kiwi grand-daughter to meet him in Salisbury, England for the first time was a challenging time. I had to hunt him out first. Find his new safe routines. Where was he sleeping?
The mobility that defines the transient, from my view as one who had tried to trace such a man, is largely energised by a desire for safety. The homeless city is a competitive environment. Warm, dry spots are rare and sought after. Safe ones almost unheard of. Routines appear built around the selection, protection or seeking thereof. Shelters, sites and solace also appear to be cyclical.
So time has shown me that, unless assiduously moved on by legally empowered authorities, the homeless have their homes - temporary, cyclical and unsightly though they may be.
I had a maturing daughter, who wanted to know her grandfather. I had, in my mind, a dilemma. He is dirty, he is ashamed.
He avoids interaction and is aware of his own potential to distress and alarm. She, among many blessings, is loved and housed.
I was afraid of a shock for my child and another nasty assault to the shred of esteem my ageing father maintains.
I wish you had been there, Mr Goldsmith. I would like to discuss it with you and see what we can learn, you and I, from the eyes and the insight of that young girl.
They laughed, they talked. They shut me out as a moko and grandparents do. I wish you'd seen it, by a bridge over the River Avon in Salisbury, a picture postcard southern English town, the love and light. Meeting her English grandfather, my privileged Auckland child smiled, she laughed, she loved.
She talks about him freely with enthusiasm and affection. I admit that I do not know if she smelt the scent of his shame, saw the street grime, the beaten bend to his body and the yellowed taint of his beard.
She talks of him readily, of his voice, the rich warmth in his tender tone. As her dark, brown eyes look into the distance and sees him again, she comments on the pretty piercing blue of granddad's eyes.
I wish I could see his eyes like that. When I look, all I see is pain. All I feel is shame. Maybe I just need to move on.
* Timothy Giles lives in Auckland
