Campus home to those without

Written by John Miller
(jmill201@mscd.edu)
Photos by Dawn Madura
(dmadura@mscd.edu)

Auraria is the urban destination for knowledge-hungry students but the campus is also an oasis for many of Denver’s invisible residents ­­— the homeless.

Behind the Central Classroom Building, a lonely stretch of alley serves as a sanctuary for Denverites who’ve fallen on hard times, a place where they can grab a meal and some momentary respite.

It’s particularly cold and windy today, a condition that attracts more people than usual to the sandwich line at St. Elizabeth’s of Hungary Roman Catholic Church. Most are dressed as warm as they can afford, in clothing they have obviously been wearing for days. Standing in line with them, it’s clear that showers are not a daily ritual.

Some seem in good spirits as the prospect of a meal has lifted their mood. But others appear desperate and miserable. One has curled up into a ball next to a fence, shivering as his vacant eyes search the skies.

A voice behind me has been rambling on inaudibly, when suddenly it clearly says “the birds have tape recorders.” As I turn to address this statement, I see a tall black man, about 6 foot 4 inches, gazing into the distance, mumbling. His face is angry, tired and empty. I realize he’s not addressing anyone in particular. “They listen to you, and then…” he says, and his voice trails off into an indistinct mutter.

The area on the north end of the Central Classroom Building serves as a de facto dining section for many who have gotten their lunch from the sandwich line. Although there are a few pairs eating together, most stake claim to a bench and eat alone. The visual is poignant — like little islands of humanity, distrustful of their surroundings and of each other.

As students and faculty walk through this area, no greetings are exchanged, and eye contact is minimal. It’s as if they don’t exist; the islands are left as they are.

It’s no coincidence that they prefer their solitude, says Lauretta Proulx, pastoral associate at St. Elizabeth’s. Proulx has been in charge of the sandwich line for the last six years, collecting volunteers to help run it and procuring food to distribute.

Of the 100 to 120 homeless who frequent the line every day, Proulx says the majority of them are what she calls “toughened homeless.” They don’t like interacting with others, and they don’t like to be indoors. Fearful of being robbed or abused, they refuse to frequent shelters, preferring to camp under the viaducts and overpasses that surround the campus.

Proulx’s affection for them is apparent, evidenced by her frequent references to them as “my guys.” She says when they are in the sandwich line, they do a good job of policing each other if someone is disrespectful. They are all aware there is no panhandling allowed on campus; they will be escorted off if they try.

Saint Elizabeth’s of Hungary Roman Catholic Church was founded in 1878 by a handful of German families who lived on the west bank of Cherry Creek. The current church, dedicated in 1898, started the sandwich line in 1983, continuing the tradition of its namesake, who was known for feeding the hungry in her village.

Of the three churches on the Auraria campus, St. Elizabeth’s is the only one that remains a sanctioned place of worship and conducts regular masses. Auraria Higher Education Center long ago purchased the St. Cajetan’s and Emmanuel churches and converted them into a meeting hall and an art gallery, respectively.

St. Elizabeth’s also owns the land the church lies on, including the alley behind it where the sandwich line forms. The college was essentially built around it and the other historic landmarks that grace the campus.

Proulx says there have been “some conversations from the college” about the homeless population using the restrooms in the library. She also says that some parishioners feel intimidated if there are homeless people in the church when they go to worship. But she also seems protective of “her guys,” and it’s probably safe to say that as long as St. Elizabeth’s remains a church, there will be a sandwich line to feed them.

Dino is not the average patron of the sandwich line. An upbeat and gregarious guy, he chatters to those around him while they wait in line for lunch. Forty-something, with long, stringy hair and a slight build, he seems unaffected by his current plight, talking about a life he left behind many years ago.

“I used to have a little apartment over on 12th and Sheridan back in 87,” he says. “Had a job making $9 an hour. Left me enough money to party with. I was doin’ pretty good.” Someone commented that in 1987, $9 was good money. “Yeah we smoked a lot of dope,” Dino says.

He talks about having a wife and kids, how easy his job was and about all the dope he smoked. But none of those waiting for lunch really seemed to care. When asked what happened to it all, he simply says “I don’t remember.”

After a moment, he says Kathy Brisnehan portions out beef stew, Feb. 24, for the final people forming the sandwich line outside the St. Elizabeth of Hungary Roman Catholic Church at Auraria. More than 100 people were served lunch Tuesday in the alley between the church and Central Classroom. “boy, I’d sure like to get a hold of some more of that white stuff.”

“We are the custodians of the campus,” officer Sam Maes of the Auraria Campus Police Department says. Since the campus is public property, “everyone’s a visitor,” Maes says. The only prerequisite is that people need to keep moving. Sleeping for long periods of time is not acceptable.

This can be problematic for a couple of reasons. Since many of the homeless stake a claim to the numerous freeway underpasses and viaducts that surround the campus, they wander the campus having been up all night, particularly in the winter, because if they try to sleep they could freeze to death. Most are simply looking for a place to rest, Maes says.

The library and the Tivoli are also public property where any visitor is free to roam. Coupled with the fact that many students like to take naps on the lawns or in the lounges of the Tivoli, it can be confusing as to who is taking a break in between classes and who is not.

There are a small number of regulars who frequent the library daily, says Rosemary Evetts, archivist for the Auraria Library. Most stay at least a few hours a day.

“There are always some waiting for the doors to open in the morning, and probably some that need to be herded out at closing. Many of them are waiting for lunch. While they are waiting, they mostly read,” Evetts says.

Some members of the library staff are intimidated by the homeless visitors, and there are occasionally some problems. Students and faculty sometimes have a problem with the space they take up because it is one less seat for someone who pays to be there.

“For awhile there was a ‘regular’ who one day complimented an exhibit, and in talking with him I discovered that in a previous life — before homelessness — he had a Ph.D in marketing from DU. I said, in a stupidly incredulous tone of voice, ‘Really?’ To which he replied, ‘Well, things change.’ I felt like a total dolt — talk about judging a book by its cover,” Evetts says.

Maes said officers are familiar with most of the homeless visitors, and their main concern is checking on their welfare. The police respond to complaints made by faculty and students — most common are violations involving drinking on campus, intoxication, urinating in public and confrontations with students or faculty, or with each other. Depending on the severity of the offense, infractions such as these can produce what is called a “banning letter,” prohibiting the offender further access to the campus.

As for the sandwich line, as long as the campus is public property “there’s no getting rid of it,” Maes says.