One of the aspects of living in a large city is that you see things that just don’t happen in the rest of the country. My parents, who live in a tiny village in the Home Counties, complain about neighbourhood problems frequently, and I don’t even bother comparing their plight with the myriad social ills that you can find in the middle of Manchester.
|One of our biggest problems is homelessness. The council doesn’t seem to have control of the situation at all – there were numerous protests (read: campsites outside the Town Hall) last year, and the main result of this was the Council invested more in moving the protesters on. Social housing is difficult to find; the wait can be years. What is someone supposed to do in the meantime? And what if you have a crisis that needs to be dealt with now? Most of the shelters have closed down, and yet many of the people who need them probably wouldn’t fare well there either. Rules on behaviour, alcohol, drugs, pets, curfews etc, etc, just don’t fit with the erratic lifestyle of someone with a set of other problems that have led to their situation. And so the only place left is the streets.
We can’t solve the addiction and mental health problems by providing more homes or relaxing society’s rules. But we can make progress on homelessness by tackling those social problems that make it more likely.
There are a number of settlements around the city; along the canal banks, under the Mancunian Way, up near UMIST, and plenty more. These people live in clusters of tents, because it’s better than a shop doorway. Seeing homelessness has become so commonplace now, that if I were to give every homeless person in the city centre a quid, I’d easily blow a month’s salary in a day (and I have a reasonably well-paying job).
Living on the streets is not good for you, mentally or physically. Statistically, the homeless are more likely than the general population to have ill-health generally, to have less access to healthcare, and to die prematurely. I’m actually amazed that in the decade-and-a-half that I’ve been here, I didn’t see a dead homeless person; until last week.
I was walking towards my boyfriend’s house late at night, and up ahead of me on my route, I could see something that looked wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As I got closer, I could see a man in a sleeping bag slumped in an unnatural position against a shop front. He was lying in a way that one wouldn’t be able to relax and sleep in, and he wasn’t responding to either of the two police officers stood by him, radioing in what they’d discovered. All signs indicated that this poor chap was no longer alive.
I don’t know what he died of, and it doesn’t matter much to me. Another human has left this earth, a human who took a humble place and yet was still a part of the society that shapes all of us. As I walked home, I felt shock and sadness, and I wanted to put down what I had seen on paper. So I did what any self-respecting hipster would do, and wrote a poem about it. Here it is:
Tonight it is hot.
Hot enough for me to stroll semi-clothed through the city centre.
A shiver runs down my spine.
In front of a shop that sells kitchens for more than the value of my one bedroom flat,
A homeless man lies slumped and still.
Two doleful police officers stand watch,
Waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
This is Manchester, in 2016.
If that man lives on only in my words, then a part of him does remain. I never even knew his name, and yet he changed me.