Travis would stop when he saw me on the streets and ask questions. I suggested that he begin to work with me, especially since he seemed to be so well respected by the people who needed help. Travis would shrug his shoulders and I'd yell at him about his life, telling him that he was worth more than a quick high from a cheap bottle of wine. Finally, curiosity got the best of him and soon he was spending more time working with me than he was drinking wine. He became familiar with the few available services and he helped people find their way to the clinics, shelters and social services.
When a friend told me that Travis used to play ball for the Green Bay Packers it didn't surprise me to learn that a former pro ball player was homeless. Homelessness can happen to anyone. During a phone call with Washington, D.C. homeless activist Mitch Snyder I mentioned that I'd met a man who used to play pro football. Mitch wasn't surprised either. But when I said the name Travis Williams there was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Mitch said, "I remember him; he was a hero of mine. Travis Williams was one of the best there ever was."
After years of living in poverty and a long history of alcoholism, Travis still looked like a football player. Internally, however, his lifestyle had taken its toll. He suffered from severe kidney and bladder problems and had constant pain in his lower back. His knees and feet were sore and painful. Often, after walking just a short distance, the running back once known as the Roadrunner would limp and hobble.
Homelessness is as miserable as life can get for a person. It would have been reasonable for the NFL to consider Travis Williams' situation an emergency and grant an early pensions. Travis dreamed about the day he would be eligible for his NFL pension. He would finally be able to live in a quiet place of his own. Sadly, that was another dream of Travis' that was not going to come true. Travis turned 45 in January of 1991 and applied for his pension. One month later he was dead.
In 1990 Travis was hospitalized and was given only a 50% chance of recovery. After that episode he tried to change his lifestyle, but it was too late. The damage done to his body was irreversible. The death of Travis Williams can easily be attributed to many years of alcoholism, poverty and homelessness. All of which are related to and a result of the way in which he was used up and thrown away by college and professional sports.
Travis went to a local community college and from there to Arizona State. He was only required to show up for football practice and game days. Worse, throughout his entire career in sports, no one ever encouraged him to develop another skill that would provide an income when his football career ended.
Travis Williams once described himself to me as "a young man who was talented, cocky and who believed he would be 23 forever." He was pumped up with stories about football, fame and glory. When he was injured and no longer a marketable "item" able to run and set records, he was thrown out of the only business he knew. In those days there was no Leigh Steinberg to protect the players. For twenty years Travis blamed himself as he slowly lost everyone and everything he held dear.
Most people are more comfortable with the first half of his life and think of him as someone who contributed nothing after a few years of glory. They are wrong. Travis had not been seen or heard from in fifteen years when he decided to go to Washington, D.C. with me to describe his life after football. That decision took more courage than most of us will ever have to know.
Travis had been a champion ball player when he disappeared from the public eye. He returned to the spotlight to talk about his life as a homeless man. That trip was a turning point for Travis because it made him aware of just how much he had to contribute to the homeless cause and how important it was that he had the courage to tell his story.
Travis was often invited to speak to community groups about homelessness and particularly enjoyed speaking to junior and high school kids. His message was always the same - "Go to school now and keep on going to school to learn as much as you can because no one can ever take your education away from you; the more you learn the more you earn and maybe you won't wind up homeless."
Travis and I were great friends. I expected a lot from Travis and yelled at him when he didn't come through. Because no one had expected anything of Travis in years, it took awhile for him to understand and trust the faith and confidence that I had in him. Travis used to tell me that no one had expected much from him since the Lombardi days and then he'd chuckle and say "You know Sue, Lombardi was an asshole - but you're a REAL asshole." (A Travis-style compliment.) Travis had tremendous respect for Coach Lombardi. He would always smile, shake his head and say "When that man said sit, everybody sat and no one looked for a chair."
Mitch Snyder would remind me from time to time - in that not too gentle way that he had - that it was entirely up to Travis to quit drinking and to choose to live a better way. I tried very hard to distance myself from Travis' struggle with alcohol but could never really do it. I yelled at Travis, a lot. And Mitch Snyder never stopped telling me that it was none of my business.
Travis was fragile in the early days of our work together and had a terrible time deciding which was most important, the wine or the work. I was trying to convince him that HE was. If Travis had been drinking when we were working together, he was furious when I could tell what he'd been drinking and how much by the way he walked and talked. He used to say that I could even call the brand.
We argued about his worth as a human being and how much he had to contribute as a person. Travis had seen himself as a failure for so many years it was hard for him to believe that someone could see him as a strong, capable individual with a great deal to contribute. I found it hard to believe that through all of his years of pain, anger, and poverty that he retained all of the good things: gentleness, kindness, humor and a rare and special insight that allowed him to understand and accept people just where they were. He was soft-spoken, direct and had a lot of pride. His manner was one of quiet dignity, the kind that comes straight from the heart. And that was Travis, all heart.
We spent our time together talking, laughing, working hard, and arguing. And I never won. When we argued I would yell for awhile and all of a sudden Trav would look down and say "Hey, Sue - are you losing weight?" And I would stop cold and say "You think so, Trav? Really?" and I'd forget why I was yelling.
When I would get lost in the pain and frustration of the people we were trying to help, Travis would come through for me with his gentle humor and special insight. If I was angry because of a politicians ignorance, the lack of compassion and foresight on the part of a bureaucrat, or anything else, Travis would gently put his arm across my shoulders, shake his head and say "Now just hold it right there, girl - THAT WAS NOT A FELONY, IT WAS ONLY A MISDEMEANOR."
Travis saved my life one night when we were working on the streets together. We were standing on the corner of 2nd and McDonald, in Richmond. A car was driving slowly up McDonald Avenue. It was a drive by shooting. I didn't have time to think before Travis knocked me down in a doorway. Bullets flew right over as Travis shielded my body with his own. When it was safe to get up I ran for my car. Travis caught up, hugged me and said "Whew, and they called me the Roadrunner. I've never seen a big lady move so fast in my life."
In the years that we worked together Travis always did it right and he gave it his all. He used to say he was "Carrying the ball again, this time for the homeless." Working with Mitch Snyder in Washington, D.C. became the "Super bowl for the homeless." My favorite Travis expression, though, was his description of his own situation by saying "Sue, I'm broker than the Ten Commandments."
Telling his story and personalizing an issue that no one is comfortable with or wants to know about was, in my opinion, some of his best work. Travis was proud of what he was doing and he did make a difference. Travis Williams lived in a world that people only dream about and then he lived in a world that no one wants to acknowledge. He was a champion in both.
The White Woman and the Sissy
On a cold January night in 1988, I was out on the streets helping people find shelter. Everyone on the streets knew me and why I was there. We always gathered near a pay phone because we were calling the UNLISTED and UNPUBLISHED NUMBER for the Contra Costa County, CA "Homeless Helpline,” set up to provide motel rooms to individuals and families who were homeless. Contra Costa County kept the number unlisted and unpublished to “keep costs down.” When I learned about the phone number and that rooms were available, I took it to the streets every night and helped homeless people get into those “secret” motel rooms.
One night, I noticed a man I hadn't seen around before. He was watching and listening to everything that was going on. I spoke to him a couple of times and asked how he was doing and asked if he needed anything. He didn't respond. I noticed that the other people, even the tough guys, seemed nervous and they kept an eye on him. He was about 5'6" with a slight build and around 40 years old. I heard someone call him Thomas.
As people were sent to hotel rooms, one by one, the crowd thinned out. At around Midnight, Thomas and I were the only ones left and he still wasn't talking. As I was about to get in my car Thomas stepped between the car and me and I noticed a straight razor, open, in his hand. He looked me directly in the eye and held it up, clicking it open and shut. I stared right back, not losing eye contact, not blinking. I held his stare for what felt like hours (I was scared). Finally, I said to him "Thomas, if you don't put that razor away I'm going to have to take it from you." Thomas continued to look me in the eye but I didn't blink and I didn't flinch. He stood there and looked at me for a minute and then began to laugh. He laughed for a long time and then he put his razor away and left without a word.
My bravado got me through the episode with Thomas but I was terrified. I went home wondering if I'd have the nerve to return to the streets the following night. It was winter, there was no shelter and without an advocate, homeless people would be denied the one-night-at-a-time motel rooms the County provided. I knew I had to go back, but Thomas and his razor had scared me to death. It's funny what kind of thoughts run through your mind in those situations. The entire time I was staring at Thomas and his razor I was thinking that maybe I didn't belong on the streets helping people, that I should have been at Macy's shopping or something.
When I left work the following evening, it was cold and rainy and I knew I couldn't go home. When I drove up to the pay phone, everyone was waiting. I looked for Thomas but he wasn't around. As we made the calls to the "Homeless Hotline" people started to tell me stories about Thomas. They were talking about him because they were surprised that he was out of San Quentin "so soon." They called him "treacherous." The tough guys were glad he wasn't around and everyone seemed to have a story about him. They said he would get out for "a minute" and then get sent right back for parole violations. The last time he went back to prison, I was told, he had been picked up walking up McDonald Avenue cutting people at random with a straight razor.
Before we were through for the night I noticed Thomas hanging around. He didn't talk much but was there, watching and he stayed close to me. When it was time for me to go, he walked me to my car without a word. Every night after that, when I was out, so was Thomas, to make sure that I was okay and to let people know that if anything happened to me, they answered to him. It was unspoken, but the message was loud and clear. I had earned his respect by staring him down and telling him I would take his razor. He knew it was ridiculous, but he admired my courage.
After a few days we began to talk. He talked to me about prison and he would gently pet and talk to my dog, Barrymore. He told me that he thought I was crazy to be on the streets, doing what I was doing. One night I had a new sleeping bag in the car and, when I learned he was living outside, I gave it to him. The next night Thomas came back to talk again. He told me that no one had over given him anything. I told him he probably never gave people a chance, that he probably robbed them before they had the opportunity to give him anything. He threw his head back and laughed from his toes. He couldn't believe that after he had shown me his razor had tried to bully and threaten me, that I wasn't afraid of him.
Every night that I was out on the streets to help homeless people, Thomas was around. Sometimes we talked, sometimes he would just hang out to make sure there were no problems. We talked about a lot of things. I explained that weapons and threatening gestures frightened me and asked him not to have weapons when he was around me. (Of course, that didn't mean he didn't carry any weapons, it just meant he didn't show them to me!)
A short while after Thomas and I first met, I began to hear a story about how I took his razor away from him. Many people told me that it was "the hottest news on the street." They said the word was that I was a pretty tough lady and not one to mess with, especially since I had "disarmed" the most treacherous man around. I'd been around long enough to know that if that was the story that was going around on the street, not to change it because it could keep me safe. I also knew that it must have been Thomas who told the story. He was sending a message to the streets and keeping me safe in the only way that he knew how.
By telling people that I took his weapon, Thomas made it possible for me to go places and do things I would not have been able to do otherwise. He was considered "treacherous" and "dangerous" by the other people on the street - and he let people know that I had earned his respect. In his own way, using the only means that he had, Thomas was trying to keep me safe so I could do the work that needed to be done; even if he did think I was crazy to be out there alone, helping people no one else would.
Thomas talked a lot about his grandmother and it was evident that he loved her very much. One night he showed up very upset, yelling and pacing. When he calmed down and was able to talk about what was going on, he told me that his parole officer and police officers had gone to his grandmother's home looking for him. They went in with guns drawn and a search warrant and turned her house upside down. He was angry that his grandmother had been disturbed and frightened, and insisted that they knew he wasn't staying there. He also said he had done nothing that should have caused a search like that. But he hadn't been checking in with his parole officer and sometimes that's what they do to make a guy they are looking for surface.
Thomas yelled and paced and cursed and finally told me "Well, they did find my guns in her house." That was a very serious parole violation and I was sure that discovery would have intensified any-search for Thomas. He kept talking and asking what he should do. I suggested ho give his parole officer a call. He thought I was crazy, they would pick him up and send him back. When I couldn't think of anything else I said "Well, Thomas - lie. Tell them that he guns belonged to your grandmother." Thomas stood there and stared at me like as if I'd just committed a horrible sin. I was delighted that he reacted that way to my suggestion of a lie, until he said, with disgust, "So what's an 80 year old woman doing with a sawed-off shotgun?"
After several weeks of working full-time during the day and on the streets at night I was exhausted and ill. Thomas noticed how tired I was one night and, without any discussion and in spite of our agreement about his weapons, he took out his straight razor and made an announcement to everyone who had gathered for help with shelter, food and clothes. "Susan is not going to be around here again until Tuesday. She'd taking four days off because she is real tired and sick. And if anyone has a problem with that they can see me about it - outside." No one voiced any complaints about my time off.
Thomas was trying to apply for SSI (Supplemental Security income). Once the application was in, it was still a long wait and hard to get, even with a county social worker trying to help him. Thomas thought that he would be able to get a small place to live and maybe, for once in his life, he would be somewhat stable outside of a state prison.
One night Thomas saw the social working talking to me and he stopped by to ask some questions. He said "Hey, how long is it going to take me to get this money?" The social worker replied "Oh, probably 3 to 6 months to process your application and a year to get the SSI started." Thomas looked absolutely shocked and stood there with one hand on his hip and yelled "What?" "You mean I got to keep robbing and stealing for a YEAR?" Once again, I patiently explained that the purpose of my work with people on the street, in particular all the work and time I had spent with him, was to encourage him to change his lifestyle and behavior. I reminded him that the point of his application for assistance was to change his behavior now, not just when the money came in. But he had a good point. How was he going to live when the "help system" took at least six months to one year, and possibly, if there were any complications, sometimes as long as five years to kick in?
Thomas listened, much to the amazement of the social worker, and then he looked us both over very carefully. The social worker was a big man, in his early 40's and openly Gay and well-respected on the streets. Thomas shook his head and said "You know, this is really sick, really really sick." I said "What is?" Thomas looked at us again and snorted "We got two people who come down here to help us, two people that we trust - and it's crazy. Who helps us? A white woman and a sissy. People like you shouldn't last ten minutes down here!" The social worker and I roared with laughter. Thomas was surprised at first, but then joined in.
Since we first met, Thomas had been sent back to prison many times, usually for a short stay. When he disappeared for a long period of time, I asked if anyone had seen him or knew where he was, thinking he might be ill or hurt. In unison the guys said "He went home." Thomas had been sent back to San Quentin for a parole violation. This time he'd be in for two years until his time was complete. I called San Quentin and they gave me is State Prison ID number and address and I wrote him a note. Thomas wrote right back and sent a visitors form. Thomas corresponded with me for a long time. He could not spell or write very well, but it was evident that he worked hard to write those letters and keep in touch. That was new for him, too.
As soon as I was approved I went to visit. I waited for more than 30 minutes to be admitted, passed through three security checkpoints, and took a seat in the visiting room to wait for Thomas to come down from his cell. After half-an-hour I asked the guard where he was. They didn't know why he hadn't shown up yet. After 45 minutes Thomas finally arrived. When the guards told him he had a visitor he didn't believe them because he never had visitors. He refused to leave his cell because he thought someone was setting him up.
Finally, they talked him into going to the visitors room but Thomas was certain that they were just playing with him and he was sure that he would be turned around to go back to his cell as soon as he arrived. When he entered the visitors area, Thomas was surprised and happy to see me. I bought him some "real" cigarettes and we talked and laughed.
It had been five years since our first meeting on the streets of Richmond and Thomas had been back in San Quentin three times since we met. He said this was the hardest time he'd event done because he realized that he was too old to be there (he was 48). The youngsters called him "Pop's" and wanted to fight with him. Prison had always been "home" for Thomas and time was something that he could do whenever he had to. Now, he had aged and the prison population was full of youngsters. It was no longer comfortable for him on the inside.
I'd seen the streets change drastically in five years. They were much more violent and dangerous than when I'd first started my work. “Crack” was new on the streets and almost as soon as it introduced, the violence escalated. It was reasonable to assume that prisons would change accordingly.
Thomas told me that I'd changed a lot since I first started going to the streets. No more "sweet and innocent" he told me. Now, he said, I was real tough. He'd heard about me chasing a guy who took my purse, catching him and taking it back. He laughed a lot about that, saying that the poor guy must have died when a white woman chased him down 10th street at 10:00 at night! Thomas laughed and told me "that guy must have thought you had a machine gun with you."
We finally talked about the night we met when Thomas pulled his razor on me when he asked “Hey, remember how we met?” I told him I sure as hell did and how scared I was. I thought he was going to kill me. He looked surprised and said, "No, I was just going to take your purse and scare you a little bit. I thought you shouldn't have been out there." Thomas laughed and then said "You know, when you looked me in the eye and told me you were going to take my razor from me I put it away because I thought - "Shit, this bitch is crazier than I am!" We both laughed.
I tried and tried to convince Thomas that he needed to change his style when he got out. But along with any desire to change, he needs programs that will help him make those changes. Thomas says that he doesn't want to go back to prison again but he has no skills and the only things how knows how to do to make money will send him right back to San Quentin.
What is there for him out here? And what is there for him in there? He's not comfortable in either world. Thomas needs structure and support, a literacy program, job training, and a lot of counseling when he comes out. He's not alone in that. All prisoners who are released need those services. When his time is up, Thomas will be released to the streets without housing or employment and left to his own devices to survive the only way he knows how.
