At the railway line by Assembly Street, Columbia’s main thoroughfare, a group of men are taking turns puffing from one crumpled cigarette. The blustery wind and afternoon heat have driven them from the roadside bench, where they usually hangout at this time of the day, to the shelter of a couple of trees outside USC’s Swearingen College of Engineering. They squat in the grass, swapping stories, sharing cigarettes and maybe even—when it’s darker—a reefer.
John Davis Floyd is catching up with acquaintances built over three decades of street living in Columbia. With his friends, Floyd is animated, acting out his sentences and more than once drawing loud guffaws from his small audience. They go silent when a stranger approaches. “What can I do foh you, suh?” Floyd asks, with an elaborate courtesy that his friends find uproariously funny. For the price of a beer, Floyd agrees to talk about his life on the streets.
John Davis Floyd has lived in Columbia for 37 years—sleeping on the streets, in bus shelters, by boarded up storefronts, anywhere he found himself come bedtime. Floyd wears the badge of three decades of street living proudly, displaying its signs in his matted hair, flowing beard and the dirty plaid shirt he is wearing.
“They don’t care much for folks like us,” Floyd declares, referring to the city of Columbia and the businesses that have been trying to relocate homeless shelters to outlying neighborhoods. “Ain’t that right, John?” Floyd asks the figure lying prone on the grass next to him. John nods his head. “They don’t care nothing for us, do they John?” Again, the nod of the head.
“John don’t hang with me much,” Floyd declares. “I like being with myself. But if person follow me around, I let him. If he gives trouble, I says ‘I got an appointment with some people I gotta go to.’”
In a way, it’s hard to roll back the years and picture this grizzled veteran of the streets as a boy of eight, newly come to Columbia. Floyd claims his father wanted him to be a mechanic. After graduating from Lower Richland High School, he went to Midlands Tech for three years before dropping out. From then on, Floyd says he has been through a steady procession of low paying jobs, while his three siblings got married and raised children. There were two stretches in jail, totaling 15 years for armed robbery and breaking and entering.
It could have been far worse for a man in my position, Floyd says. “I have got myself a real job. The bookstore, Brantley Meats and Pizza Hut, pay $15-20 dollars a week to keep their yards clean. That place is reserved for me. I go back there to eat, smoke a reefer and sleep. The cops don’t bother me none cuz they know me,” he beams. “Sometimes, I give my brothers some money, they need it badder than I do.”
Over the years, Floyd has built a network of acquaintances among Columbia’s homeless. Through it he learns where the best free food can be had, where odd jobs may be available. He talks about the respective merits of free dinner at the local Salvation Army (in exchange for attending a one hour sermon that Floyd would rather not go to) and the sardine sandwiches and pie he can buy at Dollar General. Before his incarceration, Floyd used to share a room with eight other guys at The Army, “but things are changed,” now he says. “Old days, they never bothered people like us much. We could go to a store and drink some beer. The storekeeper says to me, drink a whole case if you have to, as long as you drink it in the store. Now they want us to leave,” he says.
When asked how he fell on hard times, “Time on the streets ain’t no hard time, man. Fed time, is hard time. They don’t give no time off for good behavior. Columbia, man, it pretty good on the streets here. Not like New York, where cops are jumpy on homeless people.”
Floyd reckons time has mellowed him. “I am unhappy about the way I used to be. All that’s changed now. I don’t wanna hustle no more. I don’t wanna sell drugs. I am happy with my life, right. I ain’t sad about lost opportunities anymore.”
He shrugs, as if to shake off long suppressed memories. Trudging along the railway line, bottle of beer in one hand, the other hand outstretched to maintain a tenuous relationship with gravity, Floyd has one parting shot, “I got an appointment with some people I gotta go to.”
The following is a true story about a woman who fled to a battered women’s shelter with her children after being a victim of domestic violence from her boyfriend of three years. Domestic violence is the leading cause of homelessness among women, according to local business and civic advocacy groups. The victim in this story requested anonymity, because of concerns about her personal safety.
She vividly remembers that day 14 years ago. She had reached her breaking point and there was only one thing left to do. Get the kids and get out.
At the time, she was a full-time student, a mother of two and a dedicated girlfriend. She had been with her youngest child’s father for three years, but they did not live together.
Her eldest child, a 5-year-old boy, was suffering from the chickenpox, and she had been taking care of him all day.
She and her boyfriend had always playfully fought each other, and she was used to winning. He had been teasing her all night, trying to start up a fight, but she was tired and wasn’t in the mood for his games.
This particular night, though, she noticed that something was different about his aggravating tactics. The yelling and cursing seemed a bit crueler. The look in his eye seemed a bit less playful. But it was the blow to her face, while she was holding their 2-year-old daughter, which scared her most.
It was the first time she hadn’t fought back.
Then, he clutched a lock of her brown hair and slowly wrapped it round and round his hand. With one quick jerk, he had yanked out a section of her beautiful, long hair. A bare, bloody section of her scalp was revealed that was big enough for her to place her fist in the open area.
She waited until he left her apartment and packed a bag for herself and her two children. She could only tell her kids that they would be going somewhere safe for a while. At least until her son recovered from the chickenpox or until she gained the strength to face her boyfriend again – whichever came first.
She sought medical treatment for her scalp and was referred to a battered women’s shelter. While at the shelter, she was forced to sign a contract ensuring that she would not tell anyone where she was staying and that she would find a job.
After living in the shelter for about three months, something finally clicked in her mind. She had lost herself in the relationship, but had found herself again. Despite the disproval of the shelter’s staff, she prepared to return home.
It was too soon, they warned her. But she knew that she was ready to face him. No longer would she be his property.
Shortly after she returned to her apartment, her boyfriend furiously came knocking at her door. How dare she take his child away and not tell him where they were for months?
This time she was waiting for him though, with his things packed and sitting at door.
She remembers staring not only at him, but through him. Never again would he lay a hand on her. The message rang clear through her ebony eyes. One look was all it took.
Throughout the next two years, he continued to verbally abuse her. He was the father of her daughter, so she had to deal with him the best she could. However, he never touched her again.
Many women are not so lucky. The South Carolina Bureau of Justice Statistics estimates that during the six months following an episode of domestic violence, 32 percent of battered women are victimized again. Organizations such as Sistercare of Columbia offer shelters and various services for battered women. Unfortunately, Sistercare annually turns away more than 300 victims due to lack of space.
Quick facts about domestic violence
How is domestic violence a contributing factor to homelessness?
Woody wakes up in Five Points to an uncommonly cold morning in May and walks slowly, slightly shivering, towards a nearby park. He waves the same white hand towel that he was coughing into the night before to get my attention.
“I could have frozen to death last night,” the 53-year-old says.
Luckily, local merchants gave Woody old tablecloths to use as sheets to keep warm on a bed that he created from layering wet cardboard on a bus stop bench.
“That’s usually where I sleep and no one bothers me because everyone knows I won’t bother them,” he says.
I first met Woody the night before as he leaned on a chain-link fence to catch his breath before he continued walking. I showed my concern for him and he disclosed that he was recently released from the hospital because of health problems related to his anemia. He said he would be fine, and I asked if I could take him out for breakfast the following morning. He enthusiastically agreed and we set a time.
“I’ve lived in Five Points all my life,” he said. “I was born right up the street from here.”
Woody was born to a Columbia family that was forced to give him up for adoption for financial reasons. Woody’s adopted father died when he was six, leaving him fatherless for the rest of his life. Woody said he was an excellent student throughout his school years and had big dreams of attending college. At the time, the University of South Carolina did not accept African American students, so Woody was forced to pursue other options.
After graduating from high school, he joined the marines. He was stationed in Saigon, Vietnam for two years in the early 1970’s before returning to Columbia in 1974.
Woody held various jobs upon his return home, including 28 years at Frank’s Hot Dogs. When Frank’s closed 3 years ago, Woody was left looking for employment and in poor health, a situation that would render him homeless two years later.
Though he has not heard from his family in years, and most of his older friends have abandoned him, Woody is constantly surrounded by people, most of whom look after his well being.
Woody’s close relationships with local merchants and police officers have allowed him some luxuries that other homeless men do not have, such as his arranged sleeping area. As heightened security becomes a bigger issue in Five Points for the businesses, many homeless men and women have been removed for aggressive panhandling and other minor crimes. Woody is not one of these people.
“I don’t have the heart to steal or rob and I seldom ask people for money,” he said.
When Woody does ask for money, he only needs small amounts to pay for bus fare. Woody, who is unemployed, likes to ride the bus on rainy days and is perfectly clear with the bus driver that he is homeless and only needs to get out of the rain. This honesty has helped him keep his head above water.
Occasionally, Woody will work for local bars after closing hours for money. He assists employees with taking out the trash and other menial jobs. And unlike other homeless men that he has encountered, Woody only spends the money he earns on necessities—primarily food.
Woody adamantly avoids crowds of other homeless people that said he believes are up to no good.
“Crowds cause trouble,” he said, shaking his head.
Many of these groups, Woody says, often aspire to make drug deals and drink alcohol. Woody, who doesn’t drink alcohol, does not want to put himself in the kind of situation that might make him guilty by association, and he usually walks away from anyone that he believes isn’t a good influence.
Aside from the occasional nightly job, Woody usually spends his day in the park, reading the newspaper and other free literature. He uses the bathroom of a nearby gym.
Woody’s days are simple. Rarely does he plan any of the coming day’s activities.
In the winter, he spends his nights at the Lou and Beth Holtz Winter Shelter, though he prefers not to stay at shelters on a regular basis because he does not enjoy the atmosphere, which often involves smoking and drinking, he said.
Woody appears to be most comfortable in Five Points. Aside from rainy-day bus rides, Woody has only left the area twice since he has been homeless.
The two of us ate breakfast together outside of Five Points and Woody saw some of the changes that he missed in Columbia. As we turned each corner, Woody smiled and noted what restaurant, bar, or shop used to occupy the buildings.
Woody noticed what was missing and what he missed. What he missed most of all, he said, was the dam at Lake Murray. And off we were.
During the drive, we gabbed about television shows, movies, high school love, and everything else. He became increasingly anxious as we passed more and more fishing supply stores on Lake Murray Boulevard.
We finally rounded a corner and rose over a hill to the lake.
The formerly chilly morning was now a beautiful, sunny afternoon and the lake was filled with sailboats.
“Good God almighty,” Woody exclaimed, peering out of the window like an excited puppy.
With a slow stroll across and a slower drive back, Woody’s visit to the dam was over. He fell asleep on the drive back to his turf in Five Points and startled only slightly at bumps in the road. Carrying only a bottle of water and a white towel, Woody headed off for his bench in the park.
“I always keep a smile on my face,” he said. “Sometimes when I see the crowds drinking and partying and having a good time, it gets me down, but I don’t let anyone see that.”