It’s tragic that our nation decades ago normalized homelessness. In 1978, as Christmas approached, I was employed as a reporter at the Stockton Record, a small daily in California’s Central Valley. An editor assigned me to write a Christmas story. He said it was up to me to identify, report and write the story.
Any sort of story would be fine, he implied. So, off I went in search of a Christmas story. At the time, it was common for down and out alcoholics to live in cheap hotels. Typically, they were in a bad part of town. Downtown Stockton was such a place.
Much like today, the men panhandled to buy cheap alcohol, usually rot gut wine. Unlike today, they usually had enough money to avoid sleeping on the streets; they moved from one flop house to another.
Here is the story I wrote:
THE HOMELESS: CHRISTMAS IS JUST ANOTHER DAY
A feature story by Ricardo Chavira published in the Stockton, California, Record on December 24, 1978
In the morning chill, the knot of men at Sutter and Market streets herds closer together. One man pulls a pint of 69-cent wine from the pocket of his thin windbreaker. He passes it around. In minutes, the bottle is empty, and the men drift apart.
Some search for a new bottle, others to a different corner, different companions.
So begins the day for Stockton’s transient and outcast men, downtown denizens.
For many, Christmas Day will be no different from the others. Instead of dinner with family, aimless hours will be spent in a downtown hotel lobby. Some men will loiter on cold street corners, lost in an alcoholic haze, stumbling along street walks.
Alvin Porras is one such man.
The sun burns through the fog, warming him slightly as he goes on crutches from St. Mary’s dining hall, where people in need get free meals. He is dressed in dirty corduroy pants, an army fatigue coat, and one shoe. A stench of cheap wine and vomit fills the air around him.
Asked about his Christmas plans, Porras seems puzzled. “Lend me 25 cents first,” he stammers. Quarter in hand, he explains he will spend the day “here and there.”
“I would like to spend it with my kids,” Porras adds. “They live in Fremont with their mother,” he says, pulling color photos of seven children from his wallet. “But I’m an alcoholic, and my wife has put things into their heads, and they don’t want to see me.”
Suddenly animated, Porras exclaims, “Do you know the world will end someday?” Referring to the Jonestown Massacre that killed more than 900 people, he says, “Those people who killed themselves in South America, that’s a sign it won’t be long now.
“We’ve all done bad things,” says Porras, “including me. So, we should forget Christmas and worry about the end of the world.”
He leaves, bound for “here and there.” Before he goes, Porras extracts another “loan” for 13 cents.
Bill Anderson squats near the free dining hall, puffing the last of a grimy cigarette.
“I’ll tell ya, buddy, I just might be working on Christmas. I work all around here.” He gestures with a sweep of a heavily tattooed hand. His boast draws a smirk from a companion, a slender man with greasy white hair.
“Really,” Anderson insists. “I’m a heavy equipment operator, and I can make good money when I need to.”
Three men at the corner of Sutter and Lafayette streets are starting the day’s drinking early. There is a festive, drunken air where they stand. Asked about their Christmas plans, they break out in guffaws.
“I don’t have definite plans,” says Darnell, a wiry old man in overalls. “I guess I’ll most likely share a few short dogs (pint bottles of wine) with my partners here. I wish Christmas could be something special—it used to be—but now it’s another day to me.”
A young man leaning against a building, his arms crossed, says, “You want to know my Christmas wish? A bottle, a little something to eat, and a good place to sleep.” Another man wearing wing-tip shoes that are too big says with a wry smile, “I might be at my cousin’s, or I might be out here. But I know I’ll be drunk.”
R.C. Fant sits in the lobby of the Hotel Clark. He lives on East 7th Street, Fant says, but he likes to visit friends who live at the hotel, so he stops by often. At age 68 and beset by diabetes and a heart condition, Fant says he will be glad to see another Christmas. He chats with a man he identifies as a friend. Curiously, Fant does not know the man’s name. “I chat with the gentleman,” Fant explains, “but I can’t call his name, and he can’t call mine.”
Across the room, a toothless black man says that this Christmas, he will be “sitting right here, just like I’m doing now.” He stops more questions by saying, “I don’t know anything else about Christmas.” Noon approaches. A new cluster of men gathers on Sutter and Market near a window adorned with Christmas decorations. Before long, a Stockton Police Department paddy wagon creeps up. With their heads down, the men shuffle off in different directions.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 