Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies

Published by: Sport and Wellbeing Press University of Central Lancashire, Preston, UK.

Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies Volume 10, Issue 1, December 2016 Getting home

ISSN: ISBN: JQRSS Article No:

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James Edwards (University of Central Lancashire)

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Clive Palmer (University of Central Lancashire)

1754-2375 978-0-9955744-0-3 (318 pages) 5/11-10-1-2016-UG3[30]-097

To cite this article: Edwards, J. and Palmer, C. (2016) Getting home. Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies, 10, 1, 127-156.

Self-archived URL link to this article: https://www.academia.edu/30978087/James_Edwards_and_Clive_Palmer_2016_Getting_home._Journal_of _Qualitative_Research_in_Sports_Studies_10_1_127-156

Advice to submitters - see JQRSS Guide to Contents & Open Call for Papers: https://www.academia.edu/3513281/JQRSS_Overview_Guide_to_Contents_and_Editorials_by_Volume__Open_Call_for_Papers

JQRSS Mapping of Articles (2007- to date): https://www.academia.edu/8827414/Mapping_of_JQRSS_articles_across_Undergraduate_and_Postgraduat e_research

Copyright © Clive Palmer and the individual authors Notice: The discussions, statements of fact and opinions contained in the articles of The Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies are those of the respective authors and cited contributors and are set out in good faith for the general guidance of student supported research and the promotion of pedagogical discussion in teaching and learning contexts. No liability can be accepted by the Editor, Advisory Board, the reviewers or the authors/submitters for loss or expense incurred as a result of relying upon particular statements made or circumstances outlined in this journal.

Online – Open Access Research Profiles: academia.edu: https://uclan.academia.edu/ClivePalmer ResearchGate: http://www.researchgate.net/profile/Clive_Palmer British Conference of Undergraduate Research http://bcur.org/journals/

Edwards, J. and Palmer, C. (2016) Getting home. Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies, 10, 1, 127-156

Getting home James Edwards and Clive Palmer (University of Central Lancashire) Keywords: Homelessness, identity, creative non-fiction, social navigation, outdoors

Abstract Getting home is a narrative of lived experiences sharing time, space and place with some homeless people in Philadelphia (USA) over three days during the summer of 2013. The story is necessarily reflective and autoethnographic in its conception but also creative and stylised in its presentation and structure. Dialogue becomes the primary vehicle to lead the reader through phases of the journey, connecting episodes and generating a sense of presence with the main characters. Through rich description it is the actions, beliefs and physical outcomes for these people which builds the learning messages from this research. In conclusion, whilst the initial motive for writing the narrative was to foster empathy for the homeless; an invitation to see life through their eyes, it is the very opportunity to tell, interpret, report faithfully and vividly James’ experiences that affords the educational sense-making. Through composing and articulating Getting home in his own unique way, James has been analysing facets of social confidence, friendship, overseas travel and a sense of being a foreigner, independence, self-reliance and decision making – all as a genuine man of the Outdoors.

Introduction The narrative Getting home is couched between a short prologue to set the scene and an epilogue to explore narrative writing in psychosocial research. Precedence in the paper is given to the story itself, which is structured around 15 episodes laden with characters, ponderings and realisations. James carefully guides the reader from scene to scene, each revealing the opportunistic entrances and thoughtful and exits that he experienced. A final realisation being that James is judged as being a hobo on the street; to all intents and purposes, he had become one the them. 1. Prologue: I have a story for you… 2. The green fountain 3. Whisked away 4. Swimming in a sea of blank faces 5. A jungle within a jungle 6. Grey man

127 ISSN: 1754-2375 [print] ISBN: 978-0-9955744-0-3 JQRSS Article No: 5/11-10-1-2016-UG3[30]-097 © Sport and Wellbeing Press, UK. Web: https://uclan.academia.edu/ClivePalmer/Journal-of-Qualitative-Research-in-Sports-Studies

Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies 10, 1

7. New found community 8. Pretzels be stitching together de fabric of existence 9. The book of magic 10. Leave surely do 11. Goodbye Geoff 12. Junk 13. A lady on the corner 14. Awake 15. Epilogue: Home

Getting home is an account of getting into, living among and emerging out of homeless culture. More than a ‘fly on the wall’, James became the ‘fly on the ground’ to tell this tale. Given that many homeless people wish to escape their plight, there are also those who do not, and James appears to have met folks with both sets of motivations on his travels. 1. Prologue: I have a story for you… Setting: Imagine the scene from Forrest Gump starring Tom Hanks (Zemeckis, 1994) when Forrest is sitting on the park bench recounting his stories to a stranger. The stranger is the Grey Man, who says to James, with a grey tinge of destiny… ‘For over 90 percent of our time on the planet, a period when we lived much more ecologically, we lived without money. Now we are the only species to use it, probably because we are the species most out of touch with nature’.

The moment this stranger finished uttering his philosophical comment, I am invigorated by memories of being in Philadelphia approximately one year ago. I pause and then reply to him, ‘There was a time when I lived without money’. ‘Go on’. In these two words this man with a grey aura disguises a million questions. I contemplate. It seems appropriate as I look around, to begin storytelling while sat on a bench for a stranger’s enjoyment. I search my mind and prepare to take myself back. Back to Philadelphia all that time ago. But where do I begin? Of course, at the Green fountain. 2. The green fountain As I sit here, not a care in the world, my deepest curiosity at this precise moment is how and indeed why, the fountain in front of me is green. Admittedly it is not unreasonable for the structure to be green, but the water itself? It is a striking and quite majestic sight. A gothic style fountain-base erupting in green liquid, with a backdrop of not-so-contemporary skyscrapers adding to the weirdness of this scene. The sound of gushing water, peoples’ voices and the shuffle of footsteps, it’s all 128

James Edwards and Clive Palmer

blurring into one. The world is racing past me yet I notice that everyone has a purpose, some scurry, others take pictures, pointing in glee as if achieving their great purpose in life of seeing a tall building. Not me. I was sat here without purpose. Am I lost? Well, not really, I have planned to be here you see. Not at the green fountain specifically, more to just share this space, in the midst of the city. I don’t know exactly where I am, where I will stay or how I will eat. No stranger to these questions they have become quite therapeutic to me, a resonance of my own mantra for existence. When I find myself asking these questions, no other question seems to be quite so important. The usual stresses of everyday melt away and what is left behind are the primitive instincts. How will I survive? In this state life’s deepest and most intriguing questions reveal themselves like a flower opening up to the light. As I am free from the shadows of constraint, my mind is cleansed by my daydreaming and life put into perspective. I am alive, that is good enough for me. I wish I could have articulated it like that to the old man before, his words still echoing from only a few hours ago, who was that man with an aura so grey? 3. Whisked away Blank faces drifting by they smile at the wall behind me. Countless go past, all the same, all a blur, all except one. He walks by but notices me, clocking me and thinking, he walks on about five paces and then stops and turns hesitantly. I catch his eye and confidence engulfs him in preparation for the greeting between strangers that will inevitably come as he strides over with a face full of intrigue. I focus on his face. He is older than me, his hair as black as the night sky and eyes as deep as the urban jungle which surrounds us. ‘Want me to sketch ya?’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I can sketch anything’. He displays his sketch book while clutching on tightly, the connection is obvious. ‘Err.. No thanks, I don’t have the money’. ‘Whoa, where’re you from?’ ‘England’. ‘New England?’ ‘Old England’. He smiles and sits down next to me. Two others and an excited dog stand alongside him.

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‘I’m Marcus and this is my dog, Betty. That’s Stephen. Dan there is from Cali…’. ‘HEY!’ Dan outstretches his hand for me to shake, he is wearing shorts, is tanned and has a thick Californian accent to match. It is as if the bouyant enthusiasm of his speech is fuelled from winning the lottery. ‘Hey Dan, I’m James…’ Marcus quickly interrupts. ‘… he’s from the UK!’ I ask myself if he is re-assuring the others to place my foreign accent? It must be really obvious to them. ‘So Marcus, where are you and Stephen from?’ Stephen confidently replies, ‘Marcus and I are both born and bred Philly’. I realise their Philadelphian accent is moderate in comparison to Dan’s. ‘Hey there, I’m Geoff’. I turn my head to notice a much older man joining us, he looks the most content out of the four. ‘Hi Geoff... I’m James, nice to meet you’. Why had Geoff not immediately drawn my attention when the main party arrived? Geoff’s presence is easy and his mind lost in the innocence and wonder of the world around us. I can sense that his soul remains young within its aged exterior. He was a peaceful dude. I enjoy their company for a while longer and they gain my trust. They do not judge or seek to exploit my naivety of their environment. Instead it is obvious that they look upon me as a source from which they can extend their knowledge, to open up their awareness of the other people who share this Earth we all call home. My thoughts linger on the wisdom of the Grey Man and I ponder my decision to trust these people. Trust is important and I trust my own judgement. ‘Wanna come to where we hang out?’ Marcus asks the question, reflecting his leadership whilst willingly presenting himself as a possible gatekeeper for the next chapter in my story. Should I go with them to their place in this urban jungle, excepting an invitation into their community? I have to compose myself and speak with confidence, of course I am unphased by the monumental opportunity presenting itself. ‘Sure’. ‘Are these your bags?’ Stephen points to my bags, sealing the decision for me to join the brotherhood. I realise that my rucksack is much a more vibrant colour than theirs.

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4. Swimming in a sea of blank faces I follow their lead away from the green fountain and we exit the square with the fountain to immediately join the high volume flow of commuters rushing down the street. I suddenly realise that it seems we are the only ones going against this seemingly endless stream of people. People I have never seen before, and will probably never see again, such a sea of blank faces in which I am fighting to stay afloat. I am concerned that even a momentary lapse in my effort to resist the flow will result in me cascading down the street in an uncontrolled fashion, bouncing off lamp posts and finally ending up in the gutter of the street or face down in a bin. I keep a close eye on the leader. My nose faces up the flow and I avoid turning too much for fear of spinning out of control. It quickly becomes apparent that the people to whom I have entrusted my immediate destiny are no strangers to this game. They weave, they duck, the whole time involved in a full blown discussion on the meaning of life and the impending implosion of society, eyes locked on to each other’s with piercing visual agreement. This of course leaves only their sixth sense in control of navigation, granting them the ability to sidestep high-profile businessmen with only millimetres to spare. If only there was that much distance between them economically - they both smile in order to get on by. I of course am more than happy to offer my philosophical insight on this discussion of life’s meaning but this was serious multi-tasking on the sidewalks. There is however something limiting my contribution to the debate, I am a novice in turmoil and my attention is elsewhere. ‘Watch where you’re going boy!’ ‘Sorry’. 5. A jungle within a jungle The grey is becoming too much, I am being swallowed by this grey abyss. It is draining the colour from my sight, depriving my eyes of their evolutionary prize. My ears are also without auditory indulgence, it’s not even ‘white noise, it’s grey noise, I am lost in an endless unnatural hum of the city. I can taste the fumes which are invading my nose, taste and smell combining as an glutenous entrée to the dullness of what’s being sensed. I cannot bear this any longer, I need nature, I need to see something ‘normal’… ‘A Tree!’ I stop and Stephen does too, remaining by my side. ‘Yup, this is our park’. I can see his eyes flood with pride as he speaks. Marcus and Geoff walk on brimming with anticipation for their sense of place. Stephen and I follow and enter the park. A vivid green glare reaches out to me, trees, branches, leaves and grass, to soothe and cleanse me of the city I am leaving behind. I follow the path, a long dark finger stretching out into the park, the last connection to the outside grey abyss. I 131


stay for a while on the path, savouring my moment of complete separation. To step off the path and onto the grass is to step out of the grey and into the green, it is a significant transition. I hesitate, take a breath and finally sever my last connection to the city and embrace the shelter of this natural space. I triumphantly stroll into the centre of the park and absorb the sight, taking it all in. I notice that I am surrounded by trees, a quiet enclave. I look straight up and all around, and notice colossal dark figures looming behind the trees of my small jungle, much larger, darker and gloomier than the trees, an unnatural presence. Their straight edges slice through the atmosphere, draining the chi from this green space which lies beneath it. I realise that surrounding my small natural jungle is the urban jungle. I was in a jungle within a jungle, a mere lily pad managing to thrive in this grey polluted sea. Swallowed in time, it has remained here only to deceive the citydwellers into thinking that they are close to the natural world, their managed segment of wilderness within an urban landscape. At least not all places in the world have to exist this way. ‘Beautiful’. Stephen’s pride is unconditional, I respond honestly. ‘It is nice to have a green space within the city. Likeminded people can be drawn to the natural energy’. ‘That’s true James. It’s why we chose this park’. ‘Yeh?’ ‘Yeh dude. It’s quite big compared to the others’. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked. ‘Couple o’ weeks’ Stephen replied. I am shocked by how recent they have become familiar with this place, so sure of themselves here, I assumed that this had been their park for years. Nevertheless I hide my surprise. I want Stephen to sense my presence as comfortable and assuring, not nervous. At heart I am one of them, if they are comfortable here, then I am too. Upon this realisation I relax, feeling secure I sit down on a nearby bench. I close my eyes to reflect on the day. ...What had that man with the grey aura said to me earlier on? ‘For over 90 percent of our time on the planet, a period when we lived much more ecologically, we lived without money. Now we are the only species to use it, probably because we are the species most out of touch with nature’. Why had he cast such a toxic shadow upon my shining spirit of freedom? Indeed it was this comment which caused me to venture off and find the green fountain, ultimately introducing me to these new friends who have whisked me away to their sanctuary. So is what he said to me actually that bad? What did he say again..? Who is he..? Who is, the grey man..? 132


6. Grey man ‘Hey you’ ‘Hey!’ ‘Hey!’ ‘You can’t be here’. My day dreaming was swiftly interrupted by an old man; he had white wispy hair forming the tentacles of a grubby cap. A beard of grey and eyes to match, he looked very much at home in this urban wonderland. ‘You’re not from around here are you?’ He had an unnerving presence, standing a little too to me close for comfort. ‘Yes, I am’. I replied defensively, unaware that my accent was exposing me. ‘I’ve seen you with your bags, you need to be careful around these parts. Are you lost?’ ‘I won’t be here for long’. His wrinkled face was without emotion yet these wrinkles told a story of the emotions in his life, scarred into the face which had expressed them. Happiness, worry, love, sorrow… I could see every emotion he had ever had, yet I had not seen any at all. ‘Ok’. He spoke as if re-assured. Then without another word he turned and disappeared into the grey abyss. Intuition maybe, prompted by a message of wisdom more likely, I had an overbearing sense that it was time to leave the temporary shelter of Grey Man’s park. 7. New found community ‘Hey James’. I open my eyes to find Stephen looking down at me; always by my side he is becoming a good friend. ‘This bench is comfortable’. ‘Yeah, that’s a good one’. As we are talking I notice that the grass in front of me is glistening in the sun. Captivated by the sight I stand up and walk over to the green, maintaining momentum whilst walking I take off my shoes and socks before stepping onto the trimmed grass. It’s damp, the individual blades caress the in-betweens of my toes and it feels refreshing, relieving my tired feet. I look to my right and see Stephen doing the same. ‘Ahhh, that feels good’. ‘Doesn’t it just’.

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I turn around to view the bench from which Stephen had greeted me. Behind this I am surprised to notice around thirty people, all connecting and thriving as if emulating life itself. Some swarm from sub-group to sub-group, others stay with their own, welcoming others into their constituency of communal expression. Within this super group I notice an array of cultural and sub-cultural backgrounds, the diversity encompassed includes but is not limited to what looks like; artists, hillbilly’s, skaters, hobo’s, hippies, Amish, Rastafarians and many Philadelphians. Of course those representing other American States are there too, verbally releasing their heritage into the atmosphere of this new place, planting their homeland’s flag into the conversation. ‘Ohio…’ ‘Jersey..’. ‘Sippi…’ I hear people shouting, even those as far south as New Orleans I can hear them telling tales of old about their life. The air is thick with the resonance of people’s homelands, histories and personalities, a hubbub echoing throughout this sanctuary of enlightenment for the connection of us all. I turn to Stephen. ‘Should I go?’ ‘Go where?’ I point to the gathering of people. ‘Oh… Well, yes, why not? … Don’t you just wanna smoke every cigarette and smell every flower?’ ‘I want to go over there and meet some people’. ‘Exactly’. I contemplate his metaphor before walking over to the crowd to be almost instantly welcomed and embraced by their community. The combined energy accepts me in for us all to grow further, the evanescence contributing to our spiritual growth. Word soon spread that there is a new kid on the block, and from Europe no less. I am faced with a bombardment of fascination, the diversity here is cherished by consensus, it is accepted and routine. This community is in flux however, constantly shifting, accepting and losing those from other backgrounds, although it is still confined to their world, America. It is intriguing, the rich difference in people one meets from this country, as the States are vast and copious, there are many different people and subcultures. I imagine a Europe united by one language and under one government. Their difference is united by the fact that they are all American. Not me. Amongst their community, there is someone who initially stands out. This due to his hair which I am sure is usually adopted by those who follow an Amish lifestyle; a mullet with long sideburns. I have seen this before, although I have never seen an Amish person without their fellow Amish companions. This Amish 134


gentleman is being absorbed into a community which seems not to share his apparent heritage, although similarities can be fathomed, for example money isn’t a principle concern for living a humble life. As I look at this man he catches my eye. I walk over to him with an open heart and a smile on my face. ‘Hi, I’m James’. He gives me a firm handshake before excitedly replying. ‘Hi there, it good to meet you sir, I’m Jacob Miller. Where you from?’ ‘England’. He squints and turns his head so as to be in direct earshot; I repeat my answer. ‘England’. ‘Ah… I can tell you’s not from around here. The accent..’. ‘No worries, I’m used to it. Where’re you from?’ ‘Ohio’. ‘What do you do?’ ‘I’m Amish’. ‘Nice’. I hide my relief, he has confirmed my initial judgement; Jacob Miller is indeed Amish. Now I can satisfy my curiosity as to why he is out here in Philadelphia, and not an Amish settlement… ‘This is my wife’. ‘Oh… very pleased to meet you’. ‘Nice ta meet you too’. His wife, twice his size, appears a little timid. However I can sense a great energy within her; she’s holding back. ‘And your name is?’ ‘Mary. Mary Miller’. I notice her southern drawl as she tells me her name. ‘Hi Mary, I’m James. James Edwards’. ‘Hiya James’. I smile at them both, I am genuinely grateful for this opportunity to extend my friendship to those from a different culture, heritage and way of life. They smile back. ‘So what brings you two to Philly?’ I ask. Mary swiftly replies, and I am graced with her inner smiling character as she discharges her jolliness, ‘Well we do looove the adventure; ta discover a new place, somewhere we ain’t been before. It’s the essence of liiife I believe’. Mary looks at Jacob for his confirmation, he illuminates her words beautifully. ‘You see it in kids. They ain’t really lived long enough to experience the world, to develop this pre-conceived idea of everything that we adults have. That’s why they look through eyes of wonderment. Their soul is pure’. Mary smiles; nodding at Jacob’s almost incantation. 135


‘Jacob’s riiight. That why we travel, ta keep that sense of wonder…’ ‘That’s beautiful. I completely agree with you, it’s why I taught kids. In the Outdoors back in the UK, you really notice their wonderment and awe. Teaching them was very rewarding’. Mary leans forward, eager to hear more; her eyes speak for her but Jacob verbalises, ‘What, you taught kids in the Outdoors?’ ‘I taught them canoeing and climbing, activities for team building, that sort of thing’. ‘How old are you?’ ‘Not long had my 19th birthday. Why?’ ‘19? You’s so young, and you all the way out here’. ‘I like travelling, maintaining the wonderment; just like you two. How old are you?’ ‘32’. ‘And what were you doing at my age?’ ‘Sorry?’ Jacob squints and I know why. I speak again, clearer this time. ‘Like, when you were 19, my age, what were you doing?’ ‘We Amish have a set lifestyle up to ‘bout 18. Then every pre-adult Amish is allowed three to six months of free time to find themselves, before they decide to become fully Amish. After their free time, if they still choose to live within the Amish community as an adult, they’s accepted for life’. ‘So what happens in free time?’ He sighs. ‘When growin’ up we’s aloud to make money, but ‘cause we’s not allowed to spend that money on worldly possessions it just saved up, right?’ I nod and beckon for him to continue. ‘Well in free time that money can get spent, and it usually a lot o’ money saved up from a whole childhood of work. A lot o’ kids go wild and buy cars, race them, smash them up. Some do drugs and blow all their money. But, if they’s make it through tha’ and still wanna be Amish? Then it comes official’. ‘And is it official for you and Mary?’ ‘Sort o’…’ I overhear a conversation between three other people only a few metres to my left. ‘…Man I love Philly…’ Judging by their accent and topic of conversation they’re Philadelphian. They look younger than the Millers, around my age. I decide to converse and share experiences with people my own age for a while. As much as Jacob and Mary Miller

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are retaining my curiosity, leaving me still eager to ask a thousand questions, I bid them farewell. ‘Well Mary, Jacob; it was nice meeting you two’. ‘Bye-bye James’. I nod at Mary. ‘Goodbye James’. I shake Jacob’s hand. ‘I’ll only be over there anyway’. I point at my intended destination for Jacob and Mary, before confidently walking that few steps through the crowd to the three people I had overheard talking about Philadelphia. ‘Nice to meet you guys, I’m James’. The three turn to look at me. Silence, their eyes widening in anticipation, they grin. I smile back and proceed to shake their hands, one by one. They all shake back and introduce themselves. ‘I’m Isaac’. ‘Jordan’. ‘And I’m Mathew’. I take a step back and the four of us form a circle, our own sub-community within the crowd around us. ‘So you’re all Philadelphians?’ Jordan hesitantly answers, ‘Yeah..’. His initial pride for representing his hometown is quickly followed by an wave of nervousness. He is awaiting my response. This is his whole life, his home, everything he has ever known, and I am about to cast my judgement on it in a single word greeting. I look at the others and they are doing the same. I smile. ‘Sweet!’ The three Philadelphians instantly ease up, I have given them the gift of acceptance and appreciation. In an instant we are brothers of humanity and I feel welcome in their presence, as they now do with me. ‘Philly is a cool place. I can’t imagine what it must be like to grow up here’. ‘Philly is old man. It used to be the capital of America’. Isaac’s response opens up a door for my imagination. I see through the eyes of a dweller of this fare city hundreds of years ago. A time when Philadelphia is the capital, America’s society is being created and people are emigrating here from all over Europe, all over the world. I see so many diverse cultures coming together in the streets of the city, the high density populous naturally establishing social boundaries and encounters. Here I can see the people beginning to build the foundations of their society, each person offering their own unique heritage to be absorbed by the developing culture that is Philadelphia. Like a snowflake each 137


person is unique, when the snowflake lands and connects with the other snowflakes on the snow laden floor, they become one, the snowflake becomes the snow, and the snow becomes the snowflake. I see each city, flourishing into a beautiful snowflake in its own right, with its own distinctive character. All these people, all these cities, all these snowflakes, I can see them all like a wonderful blanket spreading from the east coast. I blink once, twice, I am back in Philadelphia as it is now. I look around at the crowd of people in which I am immersed, these snowflakes still contributing to the snow of Philadelphia, bringing with them their distinct experiences from their own States. No two people are the same. I consider myself from England, possibly the snowflake which has drifted the furthest, all the way over the Atlantic to this far off land to become a part of its snow. ‘Philly’s old, but it ain’t as old as England’. Mathew draws me back into the conversation. ‘Isn’t as cold as England either’. My sentiment seems to amuse the three of them. ‘How do you know I’m from England anyway?’ I ask already knowing the answer, Mathew confirms this. ‘It’s obvious, the accent’. I change the topic of conversation back to one I am more confident with in these polite exchanges with new faces, greetings and social inquiries, ‘I can tell Philly has experienced a lot, as you say it was the capital. It’s obvious the Philadelphian culture has been exposed to the development of America from its earliest stages. The people of Philadelphia have real cultural maturity. Isaac responds. ‘That’s nice man. You really think so?’ I answer Isaacs question with the utmost honesty. ‘Yes, I love it here’. 8. Pretzels be stitching together de fabric of existence ‘Who wants pretzels?’ I’m startled at the sight of a middle aged woman holding a box of some of the largest pretzels I have ever seen, they are a world away from what I am used to in England. I remember only a few months ago being offered some small, crispy and salted pretzels in Manchester, England. These ones in front of me now in Philadelphia are much bigger, much doughier and definitely not as salted. ‘Whoa, are they pretzels?’ I bellow my question for all to hear. ‘What! Mon, yah never try a pretzel?’

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With an accent hard to not recognise, I swivel 180 degrees to the source of this Jamaican emphasis. Having been standing only metres behind me I am greeted by a rather confused looking gentleman, his dreadlocks confirming my initial judgement of his race. I take a step a forward to answer his question. ‘I thought I’d tried Pretzels before, but they’re nothing like that in England; apart from the shape’. ‘Rhaa… You from England mon?’ I nod. ‘Pleased to be meetin’ ya sir. This is Teresa my wife; I am Cameron’. I shake Cameron’s hand. ‘I’m James’. I turn to Teresa sitting by his side and shake her hand, she doesn’t verbally introduce herself. As she is wearing sunglasses so I cannot see her eyes to guage any connection, she merely smiles and nods. I can sense that her presence is true and that hers and Cameron’s relationship is strong. I take a step back in appreciation of them both and gesture openess with my hands, ‘I can’t believe they are just giving free food away. That’s so kind’, pointing to the woman with the box. Cameron laughs. ‘Love be stitching together de fabric of existence’. As the words settle in my heart I feel from here a really sincere welcome, a warm sensation spreading throughout my body. I cannot help but smile. ‘I appreciate the love metaphore, I think it helps us understand complicated things in a simple way’. ‘Dis is true mon’. Cameron speaks to his wife and as he does so I notice that one of his dreads is considerably longer than the others, this being an admirable feat when one considers that the length of the smaller dreads are still worthy of respect. I wait for him to finish speaking to his wife before confronting him. ‘Yo man, how old is that dread?’ ‘Hmmm, ‘bout 19 year’. ‘That dreads as old as me!’ ‘Rhaa! No way ya’s 19?’ ‘I am’. ‘Yah should be home with yah momma’. I compose myself. ‘Age is just a number; I moved out young and I have experienced a lot. I’m here for life, for culture and to meet people’. I tailor my argument for Cameron’s sake. ‘To share those positive vibes man’. He smiles. 139


‘Testament to that is me being all the way out here, speaking to you, thousands of miles away from where I live, having come alone. And yes, I’m only 19’. ‘Yah have a good heart James. You’ll do fine. Just remember out ‘ere; ya ‘ave to watch out for two tings; cops and crack-heads’. ‘Cheers Cameron, I’ll bear that in mind’. We are joined by the woman carrying the box of pretzels. ‘Hi Cameron’. ‘Bless yah Liz’. Cameron takes a pretzel from the box and offers some to his wife. I realise that I am not surprised Cameron knows this woman offering pretzels. I noticed while talking to Cameron that she had already conversed with most of the community’s sub-groups. It seems more and more that I am slowly being welcomed into a somewhat established community, one in which people know and look after each other for this warmth of belonginess in return. Liz prompts my introduction from Cameron. ‘Well Cameron, are you going to introduce us?’ ‘Dis be James. He is a good man’. Liz turns to me; she has an overpowering smile on her face. ‘Hey, good to meet you, I’m Liz’. ‘Good to meet you too Liz, I’m James’. ‘Oh my god, you have a British accent’. I nod without emotion. ‘Oh, would you like a pretzel?’ ‘I haven’t actually tried one like this before’. ‘Well you gotta try it!’ I take one from the box and bite off a chunk to chew, it is dry and tasteless but I am hungry so express my gratitude. ‘Thank you Liz. It’s nice’. Peering through my rouse Liz responds. ‘It’s usually flavoured’. She laughs before walking back into the crowd shouting free pretzels for all to here, and they do. I continue eating and quietly observe the community in which I am accepted, I notice the density of the crowd seems to decrease and eventually fade out at the outskirts. The people of this outer rim were usually alone. I decide to leave the core of the group to speak to one of these apparent outsiders of the community, drifting on its edges with no sub-group to call their own. It is here that I meet a curious fellow.

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9. The book of magic ‘Hello there!’ The person does not respond at first, looking down at a book, his cloudy eyes slowly finding their way up to me. A quiet but raspy voice follows. ‘Hi. I’m Frank. You’re the one from England’. ‘That’s right, nice to meet you. My name is James’. Frank is older than me and not very striking by appearance. The presence of his energy is intriguing; he converses and appears to commit to a stereotypical hobo identity, however Frank is different. Frank is bound by a book, wherever he goes this book goes too. I remember Marcus back at the fountain clutching his sketchpad, obviously proud of his artwork, and rightly so. Frank is different. He does not hold onto this book, this book holds on to him. A book of power. A book of triviality it is not. To bereave Frank of the Book is to bereave the Book of Frank, they are conjoined and coexist, or at least that’s the picture I made from this almost unfathomable circumstance. ‘It’s a book of magic’. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I caught ya lookin!’’ ‘Oh… ummm…’ ‘Are you interested?’ Am I interested? Well, due to this book’s now apparent eminence I do not hesitate to study it as he holds it in his hands. It is thick, old and leatherback with no writing upon its encasement. Mysterious it may be to look at, but of course the true mystery lies within, do not judge a book by its cover, the proverb spookily floods my mind. The true mystery seems to be instead in power this book has over Frank, the invigoration he so obviously feels from it as he clasps it in his hands while staring into my eyes, waiting for an answer. ‘You have my interest Frank’. ‘Would ya like to read it?’ For a moment I ponder the question, does this person in front of me actually possess a book of magic? Supporting the forbidden knowledge that the reality we individually perceive may just be an illusion, constructed by our minds in an attempt to formulate what we may feel in our hearts. What is real? The five senses? The six senses? What about what we cannot sense but which we know is there; electrical impulse, ultraviolet, Ultra High Frequency, only with the benefit of technology do we know these exist. Let us not forget though that even without technology, other life forms have naturally acquired these senses that would otherwise be oblivious to us; the electrical impulses felt by sharks while hunting, the UV detected by birds soaring high in search of prey, or the echo-location of the bat to navigate. In their natural element and using their primitive instincts, they draw upon these senses to survive, senses which we humans do not possess. Are there animals who use their 141


senses in ways we cannot yet comprehend? Whale song and dolphin clicks? What about that which even technology cannot provide a suitable medium for? Does this mean that it is not real? Was ultraviolet light not real before the falcon mastered its use? Were radio waves not real before we managed to transmit them? What is real? Real to who? I keep an open mind. ‘Well Frank, do you trust me with this knowledge?’ ‘Well James, do you consider yourself open-minded’. ‘I do’. ‘Do you believe in magic?’ ‘I believe that anything is possible’. The seed has been planted, the flower is now growing. My eyes grow wide and I reach towards the book without another moment’s hesitation. He pulls it away… ‘Ya should be careful reading this book if you wish to do so James, as you are open minded, ya may progress too fast for this book of magic. This would bypass certain stages set by the book, however these stages are necessary for everyone. If ya do progress too quickly for the book, ya would acquire the knowledge and power too fast and it would be too beyond ya comprehension or control’. ‘Can I read the first page and then decide whether or not I want to read it?’ Frank looks down upon his book of magic as if waiting for a response. He gently caresses it before handing it over to me. I feel a hesitant grip loosen as I take it from his hands. I open the book and read the first page, all that’s written is; You are judged in this world by your intentions and deeds. That sounds familiar, I am sure that the Qur’an teaches this. I remember back to conversations I had with an Islamic friend, he definitely recited an extract about intentions and deeds to me from the Qur’an. Although now I think of it, I also remember him saying that magic is unholy. ‘This sounds deep Frank’. ‘Are you sure that this is the book for you?’ Frank holds out his hands for the book. As I hold it in my hands I look down at it and ponder the implications of me reading further. This pondering only lasts for a few seconds, the book quickly feels heavy and begins looking alien in my hands. I close its leather encasement and feel that it is cold. My heart cowers and I trust its judgment. I swiftly hand it him back. He swipes the book back and they instantly reenergise their strong connection. ‘I think your right Frank. That book is not for me’. ‘I know. Goodbye James, good luck out there’. Before I could reply, Frank gives me a nod, turns and heads to the city from whence he came.

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10. Leave surely do For some time after the curious incident with Frank I sit here on the backbone of my green space; an old wall, waist-high, which runs through the park. It is used by the community of my new friends who congregate along it for many reasons. For one it provides a convenient seat during those long conversations which are still to reach their end before your legs fall asleep; or it may be those free plug sockets which prove such a convenience for charging a phone which has been dead for some time, or it might even just be for sleeping against. As I sit I look outside the park, I notice a walled edge on every side but I can easily see past this. This line of sight stops abruptly when the perimeter wall meets the roads outside where there are copious shop fronts, windows and people. I suddenly remember that there is a city bustling all around the green sanctuary of this park. They are as unaware of our community as we are of theirs. I draw my attention back into the park to see Stephen asleep in the sun lying down on some nearby grass. He is lost in a dream for the whole world to see as they walk past and take no notice. I feel a tap on my shoulder and look right to see Geoff, smiling as usual. ‘Hey dude, how are ya?’ Before I can reply he continues speaking, ‘I saw you talking with Frank’. ‘I was’. I look straight into Geoff’s eyes to pour in the experience I had with Frank. ‘Don't take much notice of what he says. He's kinda crazy’. ‘That book..’. ‘He's consumed by that book’. His slightly raised voice and concerned look tells me that there is nothing more to say on the matter. I have already been feeling quite uneasy after the incident with Frank, at least speaking to Geoff has confirmed this dissonance. ‘Don’t worry kid, you'll be fine’. Sensing my mood Geoff offers me stability for which I am grateful. This quickly bolsters my confidence and triggers the park’s now decaying connection with me. The friendly warm space which provided so much sanctuary and welcome begins to melt away like it has been infected by acid. Through this blur I fixate on Geoff to voice my concern. ‘Can we go Geoff, away from here? I want to explore’. With a smile he satisfies my request, ‘You’re speakin’ to the right dude James. We'll go somewhere good’. We hastily leave the park as its beauty collapses behind us. I step out onto the street to be greeted by a cold slap of wind in the face. This icy air dances around my body raising every goose-bump until I am overwhelmed by a tingling sensation as I 143


succumb to the grip of the low temperature. I stop fighting it. I stop fighting the cold and as soon as I do it ceases to be unpleasant and instead becomes invigorating. I look down the endless Avenue perpendicular to the park and realise why the wind is so strong, the long roads are criss-crossing the city and channelling the wind. As Geoff and I walk down the road and headlong into the wind I feel alive, the air is thick and requires some effort to walk through because of its force. I embrace the wind and by doing so I embrace life. I consider life in all its forms. Humans built this city, humans are natural, so surely the city is a product of nature. Yes, that’s right, it’s beautiful and everything is working together in perfect harmony. I am surrounded by love, I see people everywhere smiling and talking to one another, the essence of life captured in their one moment of shared laughter and happiness. I see green in the form of weeds reaching out from cracks in the pavement to absorb the sun, just as the other life forms in this city are reaching out for their sustenance. The weeds look animated, breathing and shimmering so clearly in my sight. We keep walking and the impossibly tall buildings open out and I smell the unmistakeable aroma of fresh air, filling my nostrils as they suck it up. Realising the source of this freshness I am struck with awe, here before me flows a great river through the city. The pulsating currents are visible at the surface, tell-tale signs of the momentum in this deep conveyor belt of water. A massive bridge lies in front of me stretching out over the substantial width of this river. I turn to Geoff and thank him for his choice of venue. ‘What a great place Geoff, cheers, I love rivers, I especially love to canoe them’. ‘Me too, but I ain’t canoed since I was a kid’. ‘One day we’ll go canoeing together’. He laughs heartily. ‘That will be an adventure’. We continue down the paved bank towards the river and I hear the faint sound of guitar strings being plucked, it is coming from beneath the bridge. Geoff and I look at each other and nod, non-verbally agreeing to discover the source of this musical serenade. We soon find ourselves beneath the vast structure of the bridge on the banks of this great river. Under the bridge we see the guitarist who had wooed our ears with his plucking, sat crossed-legged he shows no distraction from our sudden appearance and continues softly playing his guitar. He has long curly hair ending at a golden medallion hanging from his neck, too big to be authentic. We introduce ourselves, I speak first. ‘Hey man, we heard you jamming from up there. Wondered if we could join you?’ ‘You’re more than welcome gentleman’. 144


‘Cool, I’m James, this is Geoff’. Geoff greets him. ‘Yo’. ‘Hey man’. ‘So what’s your name?’ I ask his name aware of the premise that for him to reveal to us his identity is allowing the barriers of us being strangers to be stripped away. That’s what is nice about meeting new people in these situations, you can always ask someone their name and gain that little insight into their life on which a friendship might develop, however fleeting the encounter. If there is one thing everyone has on this earth, it is a name, and no one can take that away from us. ‘Tony. I’m a musician and this is my spot’. ‘It’s a nice spot’. I proceed to sit down cross-legged next to Tony. I do this to express my comfort in his environment by mimicking his relaxed pose. I had realised the inappropriateness of Geoff and I standing over Tony while he was sat on the floor. Geoff then joins me and so we form a circle, creating a bubble for ourselves away from the outside world. Here we sit for hours sharing stories, laughing and living. I learn of Tony’s children and his abandonment of his home State of New York, I learn of Geoff’s craving to finally find true love. Inevitably I once again confirm to Tony that I am indeed English and I express to both of them the tediousness of this repetition. They apologetically understand and tailor the conversation away from my British heritage. Here in this bubble we can all voice our troubles for the others to offer advice, presenting their vast and unique experiences as qualification of their opinion. A bubble of self-expression and development of character, a microcummunity that’s what we have created, and this bubble can be created anywhere with anyone. Then a question from Tony which would predictably tip the balance in this serene situation. ‘Anyone wanna smoke a duppy?’ Geoff’s reply is almost instantaneous. ‘A joint? I will’. Their enthusiasm tempts me but I decide to avoid illegality and continue my journey to the water’s edge. I stand up. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I haven’t been down those steps yet to see the river’. ‘There’s nothing really down there dude, it’s actually kinda dirty’. I decide Tony’s disapproval is a product of his familiarity with the river and I decide to make my own judgement. ‘I’ll just take a quick look, won’t be long’. ‘Ok man’. Tony replies without looking at me, he is focussed for now on escaping sobriety. I look to Geoff, he returns my gaze. 145


‘Be careful down there James’. ‘I will’. 11. Goodbye Geoff I walk over to the steps leading down to the water’s edge, standing at the top I can see the last few steps disappearing into the water. I walk down them and at roughly the half way point I realise that I am out of sight of Geoff and Tony. Paying close attention to the fluctuating water level, I reach the last step where I am comfortable my shoes will not get wet. I look up from my feet and across the river. I notice factories littering the bank on the other side the majesty of the river starts to dissolve and I track the progress of a plastic bag floating past me downstream. Looking back to my feet I realise the steps I am stood on create a physical barrier in the river flow. I peer over the side of the steps facing upstream and what a sight. Junk! Grime, dirt, plastic, rubbish and filth. All the atrocities of convenience living were festering here and I know it’s not just on this river. Like a plague the cities are infecting the rivers, like cists along vital archeries. Startling this visceral realisation may be, I am no stranger to the selective ignorance of our society, only seeing what we want to see. Watching all this detritis swirl around reminds me of a toilet bowl, it is so easy it is to forget about the man-made destruction of our planet. Many times I have been lost in the natural beauty of a river as I canoe along it, only to see a shoe float past me. Well, Tony was right, this place is dirty. I grudgingly know he will ask me to confirm this, I just had to check. I compare my stubbornness here to experiences I have had with locked doors. I remember on many occasions going to open a door, only to hear a friend explicitly tell me it is locked, before I check it anyway, succumbing to the agony of intrigue and what if? Without warning a rush of cold invades my shoes. The shock immediately takes my breath away and I look down just in time to glimpse a wave momentarily submerging my feet. Struck with bewilderment that my shoes are now saturated with river water, I take them off and tie them to the back of my rucksack using the now slimey laces. I then take off my socks, ring them out and stuff them in a pocket I reserve for used plastic wrappers. As my wet-feet shock evolves into annoyance, I begin to trudge the stairs back up to my friends. While I am walking back up I begin to see the heads of Geoff and Tony over the lip of the top step, they are no longer sat down and are accompanied by two stern faced others. These two new people look serious and one is speaking on a radio. I duck back out of sight. I slowly peer over the top step again to inspect the situation. I already know what has happened. I can see my friends with their heads down and hands behind their back, the other two I know, are policemen. How this could have happened? I ask myself while crouching only a few steps down from the deteriorating situation. I stay hidden for five minutes until my 146


anticipation forces me to take another peek. I catch Geoff’s eye, he shakes his head before breaking eye contact, I duck back down. A few more minutes pass before I hear the police finally leave with my friends in tow. I wait, heart pounding. After counting to ten to make sure the police aren’t coming back I finally emerge up the steps. I walk over and stand in place of where Geoff, Tony and I had conversed in a circle only a few minutes ago, the concrete where we had all sat is still warm on my bare feet. I had felt safe in their company. Nostalgia forces me to re-adopt the position I was in when we were all together, I sat cross-legged, although this time alone. Geoff had been a good friend and now he was gone. I have no dry shoes and I do not know the way back to the park, my green sanctuary lost somewhere within the city. I try to put my wet shoes back on but the friction won’t allow it. I try again and again wearing myself out in frustration. I decide it’s physically impossible and give up. I cannot help but laugh sarcastically at the series of unfortunate events which has just unfolded. I remember Cameron and his words of wisdom from earlier on, I am to watch out for cops and crack-heads. Well, he was half-right, and this was not the half I was expecting! I feel alone, I feel exposed, I do not know how to get to the park and it’s getting late. It’s cold and with a deafening crackle made by the wind rattling through the city it starts to rain. Trembling I hug myself to conserve heat. For the first time I feel afraid. I decide to stay under the safety of the bridge for now, leaning back against one of the huge pillars which support the bridge. I harrowingly realise my insignificance. I sit in this position for an hour, disheartened and believing I am without hope, my brightness dwindles in the darkness under this nameless bridge. Then, what’s that? In the shadows I notice someone, they are getting closer, they are walking towards me. It’s a woman, through blurry eyes I try to make out her face. 12. Junk Water I am given food I do receive with her shelter I am content in my life she does believe. ‘Are you ok?’ I try to reply but my throat is dry and the vibration of my vocal cords forces me to cough. ‘Would you like some water?’ 147


I manage to reply this time, throaty as it is. ‘..Y…Ye…’ She smiles as she passes me a bottle of water. I can sense she is genuinely grateful for being able to help me, she doesn’t even know my name. ‘You look cold’. ‘I am’. My first clear words prompt a stark revelation for her. ‘Hey I’ve heard of you, you’re that new British guy right? I’ve heard your name about’. How has news travelled so fast? People must really talk. I’m genuinely scared to comprehend my lack of privacy by confirming that I am indeed who she has ‘heard about’, nevertheless I decide to be honest. ‘That’s right’. She sits down next to me and begins to rummage through her bag. Out of it she pulls a blanket. ‘Here, take this’. ‘You sure?’ ‘You’re cold. You need it more than me’. ‘Thank you’. She nods and a few seconds of silence pass… I decide to ask her what her name is. She is kindred and asks me the same question before I finish asking it to her. We laugh. ‘You go’. I am eager to know her name. ‘I’m Sara’. ‘Pleased to meet you Sara. I’m James’. I smile and shake her hand to a weak response. ‘That’s a nice name’. ‘Thanks. So my name isn’t being spread around as well?’ ‘No, just that you’re the British one. I guess that’s more important to people’. We laugh and a few more seconds of silence pass. ‘Sara, why are you helping me?’ ‘I think you have yourself to thank for that’. ‘How do you mean?’ She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye, leans back against the overbearing pillar holding up our dark concrete ceiling and prepares to share some words of wisdom. ‘Have you heard of the law of attraction?’ ‘I think so’. ‘I can tell you are positive, so you have attracted positivity’. ‘Thanks for the compliment’. 148


‘Do you want some jerky?’ ‘Yes please!’ I take one of the many sticks of jerky she shows me living in her pocket. ‘You know James, choice has power. You cannot be affected by the universe, you need to be the effect of its cause. Once you have made a choice the universe will move out of your way, I mean, it wants to, it flows like water’. I sit quietly as she speaks, I’m hungry but I can’t eat the jerky she has given me. I’m satisfied, just gauging on her words for the moment. ‘You are who you choose to be’. ‘You’ve got to protect your dreams, right?’ ‘And you can dream anything James, two plus two isn’t four, two plus two is whatever you believe it to be’. ‘You’re deep Sara’. She laughs. ‘Ironic as it is I’m the one who probably most needs to abide by those words’. I am intrigued to know more but also losing a battle with unconsciousness. ‘I’m tired’. ‘This place is safe, I know it well’. Not doubting her judgement, I lie down and relax, listening to the dull rumble of traffic muffled by the underside of the bridge. I yawn and begin talking sleepily. ‘I felt safe at that park earlier’. ‘Which park was that?’ ‘The one with the plug sockets in the wall’. ‘Is it that park with the wall which runs right through it?’ ‘Mhmm, yes that’s the one’. ‘You’re lucky you left that park when you did’. ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Someone got stabbed their earlier’. Too tired to really process these words I nevertheless ask the easy question. ‘Who got stabbed?’ ‘Someone called Stephen I think…’ …Stephen. Stephen... Did she say Stephen? Surely it’s not my friend Stephen. He was sleeping on the grass… Am I awake..? Yes. I must have fallen asleep. This bloody rustling has woken me up. I open an eye to see Sarah sat with her back to me. She reaches into a crack in the wall before pulling something out. I hear the strike of a match and I see its glow surrounding her silhouette. What’s that she’s sticking in her arm? She throws her head back. I close my eyes. 13. A lady on the corner I was walking down the street on my way somewhere, I can’t really remember where. I was happy nonetheless and optimistic to be going along on my own again, I 149


was eager to meet and talk to new people. I then walked past a petite blonde standing on the corner of a busy street, from the periphery of my glance her face was blurred apart from a smile which I returned before carrying on walking. Suddenly from behind me I heard her shout. ‘Oi you!’ Surprised, I turned around. ‘Me?’ ‘Yeah you. You know how to get to the freeway?’ Her attitude was the opposite of what I expected from my original judgement of her. Her request could have been more polite but I could tell it wasn’t out of spite, I knew this from her genuine smile. It was hard to not notice though, all those gold teeth on a girl, which looked so natural with her lips closed. ‘Sorry, I don’t know how to get there’. ‘Oh, ok. Thought you would’. By then we were standing opposite each other. I could clearly see the inky tears running down her face, those gold teeth and facial tattoos looked like they were on the wrong person. This was a kind lady, I knew it in my heart, but a lady on the corner? I whispered in my head. So freely uttered were her next words, jolting me from my self of freedom, I was about to become labelled. ‘Yo… so how long you been living on the streets?’ I wake up. 14. Awake Warmth, I feel it before I open my eyes, my first point of reference for the day. The sun is out and pushing the coldness of the night from my stiff body. It disappears with a shake but is trapped on my left side. I feel pressure on this side too. I open my eyes to a sideways world to remember I am lying on concrete, my bed for the night, it was a ‘big one’. By comparison, a harsh lesson I’d learnt from using grass for a bed, was the wetness of the dew which stays with you until it’s time to sleep again. A white flash passes my eyes, I struggle to focus, shapes on the ends of legs with running shorts connected to a torso, decorated with a bright sports top. I crane my neck even further to see this body has a head with a face expressing blatant displeasure at seeing a dirty hobo gawping up at her, rudely blocking her scenic jogging route with his invisible bed. I close my eyes, it sure was better yesterday morning waking up to Stephen on that comfortable bench, oh what a comfortable bench that was… “STEPHEN!”

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I cannot help but shout. Like a vice squeezing my heart I suddenly remember what Sara had told me last night. Did she really say that? I need to ask her. I jump to my feet thankfully in the absence of the disconcerting jogger. I look around, Sara’s gone. I quickly decide to try to find the homeless hub in the park, all I know is that it is in the jungle within a jungle. It was where I had met all those friendly people, and it is there I will confirm Stephen’s fate. I softly reassure myself that I won’t get stabbed, it will of course be safe in the day time. I look down at the dirty clothes clinging to my body and reach out with an even dirtier hand for my rucksack. Shoes tied to it, I can see they are still wet so I will have to go barefoot. Lying on top of my rucksack is a stick of Jerky, the other thing Sara left, carefully concealed in a crack in the wall, I leave too. 15. Epilogue: Home As I finish my story for the stranger on the bench he fails to conjure a response. This silence lasts long enough for me to be tempted to break it. So I do. ‘We were not the only ones going against the flow of the city-dwellers. There are others. Once your eyes are attuned, you can see them every day, in alleys, under bridges, on benches, outside shops with an outstretched hand, living day by day and playing by their own rules. The homeless’. Potentially sound reasoning Narrative inquiry recognises that people have freedom to construct their stories, they are not limited by institutional or Western scientific traditions that can often hamper social research writing (Horton, 1967; Polkinghorne, 1996). Angus and McLeod (2004:369) also suggest that by ‘critically enunciating perspective, human agency is given expression’ i.e. the subject gets a voice. Thus narratives, even one’s own narratives (Outhwaite, 1987), can represent data to interpret and for this reason narrative inquiry can be regarded as epistemologically interpretivist (Sparkes, 1992). Therefore, narrative inquiry has the potential to communicate almost any experience from any person’s perspective (Frank, 1995; Gergen, 1999; Atkinson and Delamont, 2006; Smith and Sparkes, 2006). Getting home is an example of this, acting as a lens for the reader to decode the experiences and feelings of a vagabond. Furthermore, personalised stories told as research might usefully adopt a creative style to communicate messages and analyse experiences in a manner that stays true to events on the ground (Leavy, 2009). As such, Getting home can be classed as a creative non-fiction, that is, ‘fictional in form but factual in content’ (Smith, McGannon and Williams, 2016:59), or, as Cheney (2001:1) explained, ‘creative non-fiction does not just report facts, it delivers facts in ways that move the reader toward a deeper understanding of the topic’. Getting home, then, is written in the 1st person to not only benefit the researcher’s reflexivity as suggested by McIlveen (2008), but also to bring the reader closer to the story (Bruner, 1987), promoting a sense of belonging 151


within a Philadelphian sub-community. For example, instead of another nameless homeless man being stabbed, it is your friend in the story, Stephen. The relationship between reader and writer was a principal consideration of this endeavour and through creative writing emotions can be evoked, aiming to develop the reader’s empathy with characters, plots, motives and reasoning. This tactic can enhance messages within narrative research which can sometimes, conspicuously, sit between the lines. This is what Bleakely (2000) called ‘writing in invisible ink’, being ideas that emerge, or obvious inferences from the account. The two poems that feature at the beginning of the episodes Whisked Away and Junk are attempts at succinct but emotive composition intended to ‘give life’ to the recollection of those experiences. They are not there purely to reveal information, they are to stir a reaction in the reader (Butler-Kisber, 2002) and promote their interaction with the research (Sparkes, Nilges, Swan and Dowling, 2003). Stylistic inspiration for Getting home was taken from a range of books including The Mezzanine (Baker, 1988) whose rich description of his lunch hour took over 100 pages to explore in various tangents. Pincher Martin (Golding, 1956) in a similar compositional style is a vivid account of a drowning man, and Palmer’s (2010) Tale of Wayne Lacey is a up-close autoethnographic account of bullying in school. These texts impart a high level of descriptive detail focussed upon snippets of experience and establishing a path towards social research writing. Three further edited texts by Williams and Bokhorst-Heng (2016) Emerald, Rinehart and Garcia (2016) and Tilley-Lubbs and Calva (2016) were exemplars of contemporary autonarrative research which gave a strong measure of confidence to approach Getting home in the manner as presented. Their content spanning topics such as memory and identity formation through nation or state, sense engagement in different cultures and the use of the arts in critical auto-ethnographic narratives. Standout chapters from these valuable texts are Brown’s (2016) chapter on the Struggle to be seen, Hunter and Dey’s (2016) description of Mothers and food – performing the family meal time and Smart-Smith’s (2016) An invisible immigrant made visible. All their research featured poetry in engaging forms to impart their messages. Theses texts are highly informative and very encouraging examples of where researchers are taking the discipline of narrative and autoethnography . The memories of this period in the USA were often vivid and written about with relative ease following the chronology of the lived experience and falling comfortably into what felt like natural turns of phrase. Across the 15 episodes it is steadily revealed that the narrator is actually homeless. Homelessness is normal, to the homeless. However, the more obvious homeless risks and necessities such as sleeping outside, vulnerability to crime, drugs, poor health etc. are not being denied or glossed over, rather they are masked through selective editing for literary 152


purposes, being based on the true yet relatively narrow snapshot of a vagabond turned autoethnographer – what James in d’hood actually saw. Thus, the narrative is not a sequential capturing of raw data quoting from transcripts of conversations with research participants. It is a post-event reflection and a creative expression of the vagabond experiences by a rookie-researcher who was unaware at the time of their researcher status (Gilbourne, 2011; 2013). In essence Getting home is an unadulterated window into homelessness, tinted with a creative flare to enhance the view. Despite this tint, as Ezzy (1998) in his paper Theorising narrative identity reminds us, the freedom of narrative may still be subject to the parameters invoked by the politics of storytelling. Also the recounting of experiences in Getting home relies on the researcher’s fallible memory rather than any documentary recoding in film or written field notes and as a result there are some obvious limitations, such as hazy recall. Rubin (1986) in his work on the autobiographical memory described how the accuracy of memories for use in narrative inquiry may become degraded by time and cognitive interference. Despite these limitations, Crossley (2000:155) promotes narrative for ‘having the capacity to reﬂect the realities of personal experiences, allowing a researcher to invite the reader into a personal life story’. Therefore, the use of narrative can help to make sense of, attach meaning to and communicate about experiences in life (Plummer, 2001; Bruner, 2002), or as MacIntyre (1981) and Taylor (1989) infer, we are all by our very nature, storytelling beings. Finally, according to Maines (2001) there should be a valued ending to a narrative and the impact of Getting home’s ending is deliberately left open. With a whiff of drama, the adventure continues for James, as do the hobo lives of those he encountered. This was illustrated when the narrator states their intention to go and ‘confirm Stephen’s fate’, a comment he makes in the chapter, Awake. Conclusion James’ experiences in the USA may have been synonymous with the outdoor adventurer; freedom and survival, living outside, seeking shelter from the elements, finding food and comradeship where he can. The commitment of being homeless in the sense of having no building to go to each night, may be the last word on a pure existence in the world for a human being sharing this planet earth, boundaries may breed prejudice. This is not to romanticise the real stresses and dangers for the homeless, there being a great deal that having a stable address affords an individual in our manufactured society; rights, votes, health care etc. However, if you have no material home there may be few conceptual or physical boundaries delineating what or where home is. Borders of countries become artificial which is how they may be regarded by nomads, and certainly by migrating animals. Similarly, there is a strong sense of identity with place of origin in this story with the question ‘where you from 153


man?’ being used as a social key to open interest in each other, rarely was it ever a lever for prejudice and discrimination. So gang and turf wars aside, James seems to have lived and believed in the concept of feeling ‘at home’ in the Outdoors. So be safe in your travels and… avoid the cops and crack heads… References Angus, L.E. and McLeod, J. (2004) Toward an integrative framework for understanding the role of narrative in the psychological process (chapter 21: 367-374). In, Angus, L.E. and McLeod, J. (Eds.) The handbook of narrative and psychotherapy: practice, theory and research. Sage Publications, Thousand Oaks, CA. Atkinson, P. and Delamont, S. (2006) Rescuing narrative from qualitative research. Narrative Inquiry, 16, 1, 164-172. Baker, N. (1998) The mezzanine. Granta Books, London. Bleakley, A. (2000) Writing with invisible ink: Narrative, confessionalism and reflective practice. Reflective Practice, 1, 1, 11-24. Brown, C.A. (2016) The struggle to be seen: changing views of American Indians in the US (chapter 2: 27-48). In, Williams, J.H. and Bokhorst-Heng, W.D. (Eds.) (Re)Constructing memory: textbooks, identity nation and state. Sense Publishers, Rotterdam, Netherlands. Bruner, J. (1987) Life as narrative. Social Research, 1, 1, 11-32. Bruner, J. (2002) Making stories. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, USA. Butler-Kisber, L. (2002) Artful portrayals in qualitative inquiry: The road to found poetry and beyond. Alberta Journal of Educational Research, 48, 3, 1-20. Cheney, T.A.R. (2001) Writing creative non-fiction: fiction techniques for crafting great fiction. Ten Speed Press, Berkeley, C.A. USA. Crossley, M. (2000) Introducing narrative psychology. Open University Press, Bucks, UK. Ezzy, D. (1998) Theorising narrative identity: symbolic interactionism and hermeneutics. The Sociological Quarterly, 39, 2, 239–252. Frank, A. (1995) The wounded storyteller. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, USA. Gergen, K. (1999) An invitation to social construction. Sage, London, UK. Gilbourne, D. (2011) Passing thoughts on watching, listening and writing. Journal of Qualitative Research in Sports Studies, 5, 1, 181-188. Gilbourne, D. (2013) Heroes, toxic ferrets and a large man from Leeds. Sports Coaching Review, 2, 2, 86-97. Golding, W. (1956) Pincher Martin. Faber and Faber, London. Horton, R. (1967) African traditional thought and western science. Journal of the International African Institute, 37, 2, 155-187. Hunter, R.L. and Dey, K. (2016) Mothers and food: performing the family mealtime (chapter 8: 103-111). In, Emerald, E., Rinehart, R.E. and Garcia, A. (Eds.) Global South Ethnographies, minding the senses. Sense Publishers, Rotterdam, Netherlands. Leavy, P. (2009) Method meets art – arts based research practice. Guildford Press, London.

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MacIntyre, A. (1981) After virtue. Notre Dame University Press, Notre Dame, IN, USA Maines, D. (2001) The faultline of consciousness. Aldine De Gruyter, New York, USA McIlveen, P. (2008) Autoethnography as a method for reflexive research and practice in vocational psychology. Australian Journal of Career Development, 17, 2, 13-20. Outhwaite, W. (1987) New philosophies of social science: realism, hermeneutics and critical theory. St. Martin’s Press, New York, USA. Palmer, C. (2010) WARNING: If you are interested in teaching PE don’t read this. Rose tinted torture and the tale of Wayne Lacey: Physical Education, a force for good at Bash Street School (chapter 30: 363-373). In, Palmer, C. (Ed.) The sporting image: what if? - an anthology of creative writing based upon real-life events in sport. SSTO Publications, University of Central Lancashire, Preston, UK. Plummer, K. (2001) Documents of life 2: an invitation to a critical humanism. Sage, London. Polkinghorne, D. (1996) Exploring narrative identity. Psychological Inquiry, 7, 1, 363-367. Rubin, D. (1986) Autobiographical memory. John Wiley & Sons Ltd., New York, USA. Smart-Smith, P.C. (2016) An invisible immigrant made visible (chapter 11: 151-161). In, Tilley-Lubbs, G.A. and Calva, S.B. (Eds.) Retelling our stories: critical autoethnographic narratives. Sense Publishers, Rotterdam, Netherlands. Smith, B. and Sparkes, A.C. (2006) Narrative inquiry in psychology: exploring the tensions within. Qualitative Research in Psychology, 3, 1, 169–192. Smith, B., McGannon, K.R. and Williams, T.L. (2016) Ethnographic creative non-fiction: exploring the what’s, why’s and how’s (Chapter 5, pp. 59-72). In, Molnar G. and Purdy, L. (Eds.) Ethnographies in sport and exercise research. Routledge, Abingdon, Oxon. Sparkes, A. (1992) The paradigms debate: an extended review and a celebration of difference (pp. 9-60). In, Sparkes A. (Ed.) Research in physical education and sport: exploring alternative visions. Falmer Press, London, UK. Sparkes, A.C., Nilges, L., Swan, P. and Dowling, F. (2003) Poetic representations in sport and physical education: insider perspectives. Sport, Education and Society, 8, 2, 153–177. Taylor, C. (1989) Sources of the self. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, USA. Zemeckis, R. (1994) Forrest Gump starring Tom Hanks. Director: Robert Zemeckis, running time 2hrs 22mins. Paramount Pictures. USA.

JQRSS Author Profiles James Edwards1 gained a first class in his BA (Hons) Outdoor Leadership in 2015 and then promptly left the country, currently of no fixed abode, whereabouts unknown, last spotted in Western Australia. Clive Palmer2 is a Senior Lecturer in Outdoor Education and Sports Coaching within the School of Sport and Wellbeing, University of Central Lancashire, Preston, UK.

Reviewer Comments Getting Home is an excellent story of a 'fly on the ground'. If a marker of success for narrative inquiry is it's ability to force the reader to think and reflect, this paper certainly excels. In the hours before reading this paper I took a short trip to 155


Manchester City centre to experience the festive delights with my young family. My eldest son asked several questions revolving around something that I seem to be seeing more of, homelessness. James shows us how 'homelessness is normal, for the homeless' but this for my son is very abnormal and occasionally upsetting for a five year old. Reflecting upon our day out with James' story in mind, I think that a true success of this paper is its portrayal of such normality but with critical and creative guile. 'Getting Home' is an example of something all too familiar that is skilfully remade into something strange and something that counters many accepted narratives about homelessness.

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