Reverence Yoself

It was only getting colder outside as Beasley and I were formally acquainted. He was quick to invite me inside the shelter to give me a tour.

The hallway was crowded as people were shuffling in and out, going to and from smoke breaks and fresh air.

As we walked through the building, it became clear that Beasley is a local celebrity around the Crossroads (as it is commonly referred to by its many inhabitants).

Beasley lived at the Crossroads for an entire year after losing his own home.

He explained that his transition to homeless happened rather quickly. After a split between him and his ex-wife, he moved into a hotel because he couldn't afford the deposit required on most new leases, which usually include first and last month's rent plus a security deposit. A sum of money that could easily be in the thousands of dollars in Denver. Shortly after moving into the hotel, he lost both of his jobs and eventually, the $700 per week cost of the hotel depleted all of his resources.

After experiencing life without shelter, safety, and security Beasley sought refuge at the Crossroads. He spent the majority of his time there focused on getting out and back into a more stable form of housing. His determination paid off, and he now resides in Lakewood. However, he has never forgotten the friends he made here and often returns to check on "the guys."

He couldn't make it more than a few steps without another person greeting him. Each reception shared the same sense of happiness and respect felt when seeing a friend or even a role model. But the names and titles by which he was greeted differed from person to person.

"Joe," Rev", and "The Professor" were all names I heard him called in the first few minutes of meeting him. Between Reverence Yoself, Joseph Beasley, and now the addition of these nicknames, the mystique of the author and his celebrity had grown.

The Crossroads Resource Center had been clearly renovated and refashioned numerous times as brick walls joined with hallways constructed with plywood. The lighting came from fluorescent tube lights strung along the ceiling, many of which hung crookedly and flickered.  

The shelter was full and loud. The blended noise of hundreds of different conversations echoed around as Beasley walked me through the first of four open floor plans that were packed almost wall to wall with beds arranged like cubicles. 

The unused beds remain covered in the stains and grime left by the previous tenant. There were no doors on the bathrooms. There were no stalls to separate the toilets. There were no shower curtains. There was no privacy to be found at the shelter. There was heat in the building, but not enough to comfortably remove a hoodie, a jacket, and a beanie.

The shelter is ultimately humbling according to Beasley. As he showed me the shelter in all its dirty and disheveled true form. 

“Being homeless destroys your pride.” Beasley told me.

“You can kill pride, but you can’t destroy hope.” He said. According to Beasley, it was an endearing sense of hope that not only carried him through his time in the shelter but kept him going until he found his way out.  

We pass a room filled with people cooking meals, washing dishes, and relaxing. Beasley pointed out that this room was something he helped start as a resident. It was clear that he was very proud of this area and for good reason, it was working as intended.

He came up with the idea as part of his own reintegration plan. He notes that time on the street can rob people of their basic skills, like how to cook and clean. This room allows residents to earn back feelings of independence and self-worth that he feels will motivate them to seek a life with permanent and stable housing.

After we returned to the main room of the shelter, there was a silence between us as I took in all that Beasley had just shown me. To keep the interview moving along, I couldn't help but ask him the meaning behind his pen name.

"'Reverence Yoself' basically means, 'Respect Yourself,'" Beasley told me. He chose the word reverence because his mother would call him "reverend" when he was a boy. After hearing him speak for roughly an hour and a half, at this point, I could see where his mother was coming from. Everything Beasley said was clear, captivating, and motivated. But it never felt like he was preaching. I was already beginning to see where his other nickname, "the Professor" was rooted.

We continue on our tour and run into yet another person elated to see Beasley. Antoinette Chavez is wheeling in a large whiteboard with a hand-drawn advertisement for the afternoon’s upcoming event. “I’m glad you could join us today!" Annette said, "Are you sticking around for art? It starts at 10:30?”

Beasley offered our services to help Antionette set up for the afternoon’s painting session. He remains involved in classes and workshops like these in an effort to lead by example. He showed me the way to the classroom.

We arrived at a staircase that was blocked by a single chain and a sign that read “STAFF ONLY.” Beasley removed the chain and said with a grin and a wink, “I’m pretty cool with the director.” We headed upstairs into the very quiet, very open upstairs area reserved for events.  

The room was several hundred square feet of concrete floor, white walls, and folding chairs. But this was where the bleakness of life in the homeless shelter would begin to fade.

Antionette leads the classes and always tries to focus the theme on something that makes the participants think of pleasant memories or positive futures. Her and Beasley want to reinforce to the members of the Crossroads that there is always hope.  

A group of men apprehensively got together to do arts and crafts. A couple of guys in the group knew each other, but for the most part, they were complete strangers sitting around a table with acrylic paint, getting ready to decorate small wooden trucks. All the while, being asked the question “Where do you want to go?” as part of the class curriculum written on the whiteboard.

And I’m sure my presence, taking photos and audio recording the whole event, made the awkward tensions even higher. 

But just like Beasley had predicted before the class began, within no time the barriers were down and the table was electric with personality. 

As these men customized their trucks, Chavez’s white board became filled with different locations they plan on visiting when they no longer need to live at the Crossroads.  

"My friends at the shelter call me The Professor." The opening line to the piece by Reverence Yoself, which I had read before our meeting, was in no part fiction or a literary tactic. Here he was, right before my eyes, leading lecture and discussion.

As the class went through it's motions, the Professor leaned back in his chair and held court. He masterfully instructed his class by simply speaking to the students as someone who knows exactly what they are experiencing.

He didn’t paint a truck with everyone else. Instead, he selected a wooden sailboat that he left blank so his granddaughter could decorate it after he gives it to her. He’s going to visit her soon, and he’s very excited about it.

 The tension that existed before the art class had disappeared. The room was somehow more alive than before. Even the fluorescent light fixtures that hung crookedly from the ceiling seemed to shine a bit brighter.

Beasley explained how important something as simple as an art class can be to the spirit of someone trying to get out of the shelter. As he is talking, from a small area in the corner, we begin to hear the rhythmic pounding of drums.

A man gravitated toward a lonely drum set surrounded by empty cardboard boxes in the corner. The talented musician was introduced to me as Felix. But he quickly got up from the drum set, almost seeming embarrassed after I asked if he had just played that number with his bare hands. “They don’t have any sticks.” He told me as he tried to get away from the drums.

Before he could walk off, I told him I couldn’t leave without a video of him playing. He smiled and graciously obliged.

Felix went on to tell me that when he leaves the Crossroads, he wants to go to Rocky Ford and make music with his brothers.

As the cold weather becomes a daily fixture in Denver, more and more people will be arriving at the Crossroads, seeking shelter.

Beasley knows what the months ahead will look like for people without access to housing. But he is focused on what life for these people may look like in the coming years.

He is optimistic about Mayor Johnston's initiatives aimed at placing people in adequate housing, but he worries about the struggle with recidivism.

Beasley wrote about the dangers of removing people from homelessness without treating the issues that placed people there in the first place. An excerpt from his recent story reads, "Even with our good intentions philosophy, and well-meaning generosity when you pull off the bandage, you see a non-healing wound that just keeps getting bigger and bigger."

Politicians and lobbyists in Denver have labored and legislated over the years to try and solve the growing problem of homelessness with little success. However, an afternoon spent attending a seminar from Professor Beasley may teach them what care, hope, and respect can do for reform and successful reintegration.