A Paper, Some Haircuts, and 400 Towels

By Madeline C. Lanshe

That night in the porta potty was indeed Angelo Anderson’s last night on the street, though not the last night he got high. The journey to overcome addiction took him a year and a half. “My wife was cocaine. My life was cocaine.”

He’d stay in a hotel on Detroit Avenue. The last bus left to go downtown at 7:45 each night. If he didn’t catch that bus, he had another night clean. “The (hotel) manager played a big part,” Angelo said. “After he talked to me and found out what I was doing, he gave me a discount.”

In fact, according to Angelo, the only thing that made it possible for him to get off the streets, and drugs, was accepting help from others. “Without me opening up, and being willing to accept the fact that I don’t know it all, I’d probably be dead. Ain’t no probably to it. I would be dead.”

Someone who played a pivotal role in helping Angelo on his journey was Sister Corita at St. Augustine’s on West 14th street. Angelo describes her as short and forceful. And yet, she’d allow him to sleep in the corner on the floor of the church. Half asleep, he’d hear her say, “No, no, just let him sleep, he’s okay.” Later, she’d wake him up and ask for his help washing dishes and mopping the floor, among other things. Angelo always obliged.

Other nuns, at St. John’s Cathedral, seemed to materialize during some of his worst moments. They believed in him, more than he believed in himself, always assuring him he could do it. “I can’t say I picked myself up on my own.”

Another factor in Angelo’s progress was helping to start a newspaper called the Homeless Grapevine. At that time, he was still homeless himself, staying in dope houses, Metro Parks, doorways, Public Square.

Angelo and three other homeless men would each write one page, trying to top each other’s stories about life on the street. A man from Kent State, who was doing a thesis on homelessness, got involved. He asked the director of the Northeast Ohio Coalition for the Homeless (NEOCH) if he could help write a grant to aid in getting the paper started. “The first issue was printed with the understanding that we would have to sell them all in order to print the next one. Thirty years later, we’re still doing pretty good.”

He’d sell about fifty papers a day, enough to pay for the room at the hotel, something to eat, and papers for the next day.

The Homeless Grapevine is now called the Cleveland Street Chronicle. Angelo himself sells them on Saturday mornings at the West Side Market. It is there that Mike Neundorfer, president of ARV, met him. They exchange a few sentences every week, an experience that always enriches Mike’s day. Mike heard more and more of Angelo’s story and it fascinated and inspired him. So he asked Angelo to come speak at one of ARV’s weekly meetings, and Angelo graciously obliged.

Angelo shared with the staff some of the life lessons he has learned through his experiences. At the Salvation Army, he learned it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. His boss at the time asked him why he’d done a certain thing, and Angelo had explained. His boss told him, “Here’s what I need you to start doing. I need you to ask for forgiveness, because I know I’m wasting my time telling you to ask for permission.” In the theory of not asking for permission, Angelo says he’s always in “good trouble.” An example of this is when he started a GED program at the shelter, six men graduating at once, five of them employed due to his employment program. His bosses didn’t know anything about it until it hit the newspaper. They asked him when this program was started and where the money came from. According to Angelo, it didn’t cost them a dime. Once he’d made up his mind that he was going to do it, things started falling into place. A foundation provided them with the books, and he started getting calls from retired school teachers, principals, professors, all offering to volunteer their time.

The things you need will be provided, provided you ask. Angelo told one last story, which demonstrated this and the belief of following the “little voice inside you,” before he parted.

For three years, he did a program called the Homeless Stand Down. He was asked to be the director the second year and he decided he wanted to do haircuts. Everyone thought he was crazy. But haircuts make you feel good about yourself, can even make you feel like a new person, so why shouldn’t the homeless get to experience that too? That was his motivation.

Of the two barber schools in Cleveland, one agreed to participate. Three weeks before the event, they backed out. Because it was on a Friday, the day the students made the most money, they couldn’t ask them to not make any money.

Angelo was leaving a weekly meeting when he bumped into a woman. She could see he looked upset and asked what was wrong. “Little voice says, ‘Tell her what’s wrong. Tell her what’s wrong,’” Angelo said. After telling her, she said her husband, Kelly Rice, ran the Lake Erie Barber College, and he was going to call Angelo later that night. He did call, saying he’d bring all twenty-five of his barbers.

The Monday before the event, he called Angelo back. They could still do the event, but they needed twenty-five chairs that let up and down and swiveled. “Little voice says, ‘Tell ‘em okay, tell ‘em okay.’”

As Angelo was trying to figure it out at the school’s gym where the event was going to be held, the janitor asked him what was wrong. Angelo told him, and the janitor said they’d just gotten a shipment of lab chairs that he had to put together anyway. He’d set up twenty-five in the gym. They even swiveled and let up and down.

Three days later, he got another call from Kelly Rice who said they needed everyone to have clean hair. “Uh oh,” was Angelo’s reaction. But the little voice told him to tell him okay again.

The janitor yet again asked Angelo what was wrong. There were showers downstairs. He’d open them up. But Angelo needed to provide the soap and towels. Angelo thought he’d found someone to lend him 400 towels, but they called him back the day before the Stand Down and said they’d double-booked with a racing event happening in Cleveland that weekend and they were no longer able to provide the towels. When the secretary called back and apologized, she said they didn’t want to give Angelo the towels because they thought homeless people would spread AIDS to their customers.

Someone from AT&T was at the gym, setting up phones. He asked Angelo what kind of event they were preparing for. When he heard, the man said he wished he’d known earlier. Still, he asked if there was anything he could do to help. Angelo said, “If you could help me come up with some towels, that would be a miracle.” The man started laughing. He said he coached little league soccer. After every game, the kids took showers, leaving towels which he and his wife collected, washed, and bagged for the Goodwill. He said he hadn’t been to the Goodwill in two months. There were 8 or 9 large garbage bags in his garage. On top of that, he donated $300 with which to buy the hygiene products.

The next year, Angelo’s goal was to donate 500 pairs of shoes. A representative from Oprah Winfrey’s Angel Network in Chicago contacted him out of the blue and donated 1,000 pairs from Timberland. Angelo says he still doesn’t know how all of this happened, except that he asked for it.

Today, Angelo works at the men’s shelter in downtown Cleveland. He houses men who are, in his words, “the hardest to work with.” 2022 proved the most successful year the shelter has seen, Angelo being the leader of the program. He also just started another position where he works with homeless families. With that comes new challenges and hardships. It is not, however, deterring him. “When you’re doing good,” he said, “you get good results.” He later added, “Never think you can’t do something because you don’t have the money. If you’re trying to do something, and it’s the right thing, believe in yourself, believe in what you’re trying to do, and it will happen.”

Angelo has said that he doesn’t always feel like going into work, but every time he is there, within an hour, he feels like he’s making a difference and doing good in somebody’s life. There is no doubt that for countless others who have faced similar struggles as him, he was one of the reasons they picked themselves back up: their Sister Corita

Lake Solitude rests high in the peaks of the Grand Teton Mountains. The water is cold, even in the summertime, as the mountain snow is just beginning to melt.

For me, it was a place for quiet reflection and appreciation for my hiking companions: wildflowers, moose, and a best friend.

-Mitchell Dunbar