The social exclusion of the poor and the homeless has always been achieved through the stigmatization of their homes and neighbourhoods, the de-humanization of their “messy” bodies made to conform to state regimentation in social service agencies, and through the accusatory language which attributes vice, sloth, and physical and moral destitution upon their bodies. Since the 19^th century, the poor have been equated with the “residues” of industrial production, where the dirty environments in which they toiled tainted their bodies, their neighbourhoods, and their social status (Sibley 1995). The desire to keep the poor at arm’s length at the constitutes what Samira Kawash has described as the “geographies of containment,” one in which the abject poor and especially the homeless undergo violent processes of physical and symbolic exclusion that seek to control their bodies and movements in the city and ultimately efface their very presence from the public sphere. The sight of the dishevelled, dirty bodies of homeless men and, increasingly, women, on the street is disturbing to the mainstream public for it not only evidences continued economic disparity, but implicates them in the continuation of the status quo. Furthermore, the homeless body is disturbing in that it suggests that we, too, may one day fall victim to extreme destitution. For these reasons and others (public order, charity, security, etc.), the homeless body is subjected to the controlling hand of the state. As Roxanne Rimstead notes in her important study of “poverty narratives” in Canadian literature, “the nation is cleansed of disease and sloth when the poor are erased from public view or controlled in terms of their movement and their labour power” (2001: 9).

            While homelessness may simply describe the condition of being un-homed—of not possessing continuous, secure, and adequate shelter—it also extends, by virtue of association, to a variety of social, spatial, and bodily practices and material conditions that have historically been marked as abject, irrational, undesirable—even criminal.¹ Amir Marvasti argues that “mental illness has been used as a method of social control for responding to poverty and vagrancy” (2003: 9), citing three periods in the history of psychiatry corresponding to three conceptions of the homeless subject: pauperism, institutionalization, and de-institutionalization. Pauperism was the means by which the itinerant poor were identified in the pre-enlightenment era, before notions of mental illness delineated between normality and abnormality. It became a catchall term ascribed to the insane, the feeble-minded, the poor, and the unhomed—thus eliding distinct subjectivities, identities, and specificities of need and care. The disposal of undesirables was achieved through public manifestations of state power, while poor laws “actively discouraged undesirables from settling in places where they were not wanted” (2003: 11). 

            In the mid-nineteenth century, institutionalization became the principle response to homelessness and mental illness, as the increased medicalization of the subject enabled the state to legitimate more subtle distinctions between the insane and the merely poor. The number of hospitals and asylums increased, as did the elaborate systems of compliance and control of the unruly, as Foucault has famously shown in his analyses of the prison and the hospital. The increased specialization of the psychiatrist—from essentially being caretaker and moral administrator—to scientist who’s knowing gaze bears the weight of institutional legitimacy upon the body of the patient, made it such that the patient became increasingly reducible to a collection of facts, data, and courses of treatment.

           The de-institutionalization of the mentally ill, which began in the 1950’s, saw a corresponding and dramatic rise in the number of homeless on the streets. While it was thought that the emergence of the welfare state would provide for those in need, the explosion of the homeless population in the U.S., Canada, and elsewhere proved otherwise. Some have argued that rather than right past wrongs, deinstitutionalization “simply marked the emergence of a new form of ‘community-based social control’ that operated under the auspices of the welfare state” (2003: 15).

            The treatment of the “homeless problem” has increasingly centred on repressive policies that constrain the homeless person’s social, physical, and economic mobility; legislation and policing which criminalized strategies of survival, economic and housing policies which assure the continued presence of a disadvantaged underclass, architectural and urban design practices that make homelessness increasingly difficult and conspicuous, and an ensemble of social, cultural, and media discourses which depict the poor as transgressive, criminal, deranged, and abject.

            If the discourses of nationhood are enmeshed within the literary, social, and political inscription of bodies, then the historical disavowal of the poor and the spaces in which they dwell reveals the exclusionary practices that operate in the construction of a national spatial imaginary. In the following pages, I will discuss several sites associated with extreme poverty. Beginning with a discussion of the “tramp narratives” of the 1930’s in Canada, where hobo jungles, train yards, and boarding rooms are figured as spaces of transition, resistance, and refuge, I will move on to a discussion of contemporary fictionalizations of homeless embodiment in soup kitchens, abandoned squats, and finally, in underground spaces. While these extreme habitats may physically transform homeless bodies, rendering them grotesque, monstrous, and even unrecognizable as human, they also constitute spaces of resistance, solidarity, and refuge from the elements, from urban violence, and from the social stigma that too often renders them obscene. This view of the homeless body as a source of danger to spatial order and social “closure” results in its being marked as a pollutant that must be contained:

             The public view of the homeless as ‘filth’ marks the danger of this body as body to the homogeneity and wholeness of the public. The desire or ambition for such wholeness thus faces an obstacle that may be ideologically disavowed but that always returns as an irreducibly material challenge. The solution to this impasse appears as the ultimate aim of the ‘homeless wars:’ to exert such pressures against this body that will reduce it to nothing, to squeeze it until it is so small it disappears, such that the circle of the social will again appear closed. (Kawash 1998: 329)

            This is seen both materially and symbolically in the repressive police violence against vagrants that seeks to banish the offending body, and in the regimentation of the poor and the charitable “inspection” of their needful bodies through the various agencies that seek to reform them. The homeless bodies in these texts highlight the extreme conditions to which the poor have been forced to live, but also their agency in adapting to and appropriating these spaces for survival. If life on the street sometimes transforms the bodies of the unhomed into abject “residues” of the marketplace, such “recalcitrant bodies,”² to use Erin Manning’s term, highlight the failures of the socio-economic system rather than some  “monstrous” aspect of homeless embodiment and identity.

1. Hobo Jungles & the Great Depression

         In attempting to piece together a literary history of homelessness in Canada, one may arguably begin with the hobo or tramp narratives of the 1930s and 40s which depict the transient lives of the thousands of unemployed men who took to the road in search of work in the years after the stock market crash of 1929. While there is a sizeable body of tramp narratives, histories, and critical studies in the United States,³ where the figure of the wandering hobo has achieved iconic status, in Canada very few vagabond narratives were written, and their critical reception is practically non-existent. “Canada’s homeless wanderers of rails and roads never gained the minor stardom afforded hobo writers in other countries,” writes Todd McCallum, for “the bulk of knowledge about Canadian Depression-era homeless men lies in government archives, [and] in documents produced within the framework of relief administration” (2007: 8).

         While the hobo jungles that emerged at the peripheries of depression-era cities—and sometimes at their very centres—were places rife with danger, they also linked vagabond men in networks of solidarity, community, and mutual aid. In Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America, Todd Depastino notes that hobo jungles were populated by “armies of migratory workers and migratory non-workers who came to rest, eat, wash up, and trade information … virtually all accounts of jungle life include examples of both hearty camaraderie and the various dangers that threatened to disrupt the jungles’ idyll” (2003: 71). Hobo jungles were more than just makeshift tent cities in which the unemployed and the down and out took refuge, but complex homosocial spaces of racial, gender and class conflicts and solidarities, engaged political radicalism, and subcultural forms of expression. 

            Andrew Roddan provides one of the few rare glimpses into the hobo jungles in Depression-era Canada in a slim volume titled Vancouver’s Hobos, first published as God in the Jungles in 1931, where he describes his encounters with the homeless in his functions as minister of the First United Church at the intersection of Gore and Hastings streets, an area of the city that to this day remains notorious for its homelessness and drug-addiction problems. As a form of memoir or engaged reportage, Roddan’s essay is invaluable in that it reflects prevailing attitudes about poverty in general and the vagabond in particular at the historical cusp of massive industrialization and urbanization, which took place one decade later in the 1940s. While Roddan’s charity work in the “absolute degradation” of the hobo jungles was “tempered by the Social Gospel,” and by the conviction that the hardships of the vagabond men he witnessed were ultimately attributable to personal failings of morality, virtue and character, he nevertheless acknowledges that the migrant workers who were once an “indispensible factor in the building of Canada” were summarily “cast aside when no longer needed” (2004: ix).

            There are, according to Roddan, three types of vagabond: “the hobo who works and wanders, the tramp who dreams and wanders, and the bum who drinks and wanders” (2004: iv). Each of these categories of vagrancy suggest different levels of social respectability—from the hapless victims of market forces to the drunken derelict unable to control his own appetites.  This differentiation between deserving and undeserving poor is represented in terms of bodily propriety and filth, and by extension, the desirable and undesirable citizen: “The hobo, because he is clean, detests vermin, while the bum always feels at home with a few fleas on his shirt to keep him busy and remind him that he is not all bum” (51).

            Roddan depicts the hobo jungle as a lawless state of nature residing at the limits of civilization, where “the light of the sun rarely penetrates,”   “the haunt of wild beasts and savage men” who may be found “in clumps of wild bushes or among the trees, on the side of a stream, by the side of the road, near the railroad tracks, or in a disused lumber camp or factory” (2004: 17). These spaces of transition (train stations, the edges of town, jungles) which tramps strategically occupy so as to avoid detection or more easily escape from if they are arrested, are negatively coded and morally suspect in the spatial imaginaries of nationhood—in contradistinction to the institutionalized spaces of economic privilege, familial domesticity, and state power. Their makeshift dwellings, composed of the refuse of “respectable” society, are read not as self-sufficiency but as symbols of their morally fallen condition: “old tins, boards, boxes, disused motorcars, anything and everything, gathered from the dump heap nearby and formed into a rough shelter into which crawl, not animals, but homeless men” (2004: 17).

            Roddan’s sympathy for the downtrodden and his genuine fascination with the vagabond subculture (their slang, their manner of vestment, their habits that flout social convention), is repeatedly undermined by a moralizing tone which ascribes all manner of degeneracy to the itinerant’s character, body, and behaviour. But if Roddan sees in the salty slang of the vagabond evidence of their “perverse” natures, it is language faithful to the material realities of disenfranchisement, one given to resistance through linguistic subterfuge that excludes the privileged. The minister is both repulsed and fascinated by words such as moocher (for beggar), dummy (the art of playing dumb), blinker (blind beggar), canned heat artist (wood alcohol drinker), flopper (curbside beggar), peg (vagabond who lost a foot), or stick (one who lost both feet). This linguistic play suggests understanding and irony, subversion of and resistance to expected meanings, as well as a cutting criticism of the social and economic inequalities that have marked their bodies in sometimes-brutal ways.

              In spite of itself, Roddan’s text subtly demonstrate that the vagabond community does in fact have agency, employing various strategies of resistance through shared knowledges, subversive communication, mutual aid, and group solidarity across vast networks of urban and rural spaces in order to circumvent social, economic and physical harassment and exploitation. By leaving signs in rail yards, train stations, and city buildings intended to tell other hoboes there is safe passage to be had, by sharing information about work opportunities or police repression across vast stretches of the continent, and by using slang inaccessible to the non-vagrant, the mobile vagabond communities of the 1930s and 40s are outlaw bodies that “rewrite the political by accommodating themselves outside of the normative structures of containment” (Manning 2003: 56).

2. “Riding the Rails” and Strategic Vagabond Mobility   

                If the hobo jungles represent the dwellings of the abject poor on the peripheries of mainstream, institutionalized social spaces, the railway networks, train-yards, and indeed, the train itself represent sites of vagabond subterfuge, tenacity, and survival. “Riding the rails,” encompassed the complex intersection of the material realities of class, subversive knowledges and practices, and constructions of the hobo as outlaw. As an historical reality and a narrative conceit, it brings together a dense symbology of dirt, the marginalized body in social space, the disciplinary discourses of civility and domesticity, but also the operations gender, race and class within the vagrant community itself.

                In J.B. Vaughn’s memoir The Wandering Years (1975), the life of the vagabond is defined by the need to move into, through, and out of the spaces of poverty: boarding homes, unsafe factories, tenements, rail yards, work camps, and the open road. But “riding the rods,” as Vaughn describes it, is the most constrictive space of poverty, involving, quite literally laying in the compressed space of two and a half feet between the spinning iron wheels of the train and its undercarriage. Thousands of men were injured or lost their lives travelling in this subversive form of travel born of economic necessity that transforms the body of the vagrant through exposure to dirt, but also through violence incurred from rail authorities or “yard bulls,” RCMP officers, other vagrants, and the trains themselves: “When a man comes into the jungles after having been on the train for a week or two weeks, you would not know whether he was white or black. Dust begrimed he comes in, no questions are asked” (Roddan 2004: 20). Ken Tilling, the protagonist in Hugh Garner’s Cabbagetown, is forced by poverty to ride the rails across a “hungry country … his peaked cap was pulled down over his ears against the grit and smoke, and his face ... sunburned under its black bituminous coating” (2002: 171). Arriving in Jasper, the narrator of The Wandering Years remarks “soot and cinders had made me filthy; my eyes were sore and bloodshot. Young men, neat and lean, passed me with a disgusted casual glance. My humiliation was far less to be endured than the hardships of the road” (1975: 61).

              The vagabond life demands specialized knowledges of survival and resistance and, as J.B. Vaughn makes clear, travelling this way “gets to be an art,” for “it is essential that you know just where to catch the train, get to know the whistles, the lights, the flags on the engines and learn to distinguish between a red-ball freight and a local … It also takes precise timing to grab the ladder on a boxcar to board a fast train. Many a man has been swept to his death under the wheels because he didn’t judge correctly” (1975: 16). Just as the bodies of the working poor are transformed by poverty and subjected to violence by the industrial machinery of the work camp or the factory floor, here the vagabond’s body is quite literally torn apart by the fierce and unstoppable power of the train. This image of the railway, as source of mortal danger to the disenfranchised, undoes the narrative of freedom, enterprise, and nation building characteristic of mainstream constructions of the railway in Canada.

3. Spaces of Need: Soup Kitchens & SROs

              While the spaces of need (shelters, soup kitchens and boarding rooms) provide temporary refuge for the poor and homeless, they are often little more than tenement housing teeming with dirt, vermin, and unsanitary conditions. While these spaces provide a place for the homeless to be, “access is controlled and behaviour is regimented so that they would be more accurately described as places where the homeless are tolerated, temporarily and for short periods of time, and from which they are always subject to expulsion” (Kawash 1998: 327).⁴

               In Bart Campbell’s The Door is Open: Memoir of a Soup Kitchen Volunteer (2001), Vancouver’s downtown Eastside is described as the grime-infested slum at the heart of the post-modern city of glass, a modern-day skid row echoing the transient lumberjacks who patronized “skid road” and its raucous bars of ill-repute, named after the “greased log runways down which they slid lumber to the rivers” (2001: 16). Instead, present day skid row only evokes “fast, slippery descent, an unstable way of life, a hopeless address” (2001: 16), a desperate neighbourhood filled with “quiet, heavily accented old men who did all the hard, bull labour that built this country” but who now have “nothing to show for all those years of hard work. Often not even citizenship” (2001: 17).

              Campbell's memoir starkly contrasts official and marginal mappings of the city. A plaque at the corner of Hastings and Main streets, at the heart of the Downtown Eastside, commemorates the city's founding, but also suggests the elisions and erasures that figure in the monumentalization of history:

Here stood Hamilton,

First Land Commissioner,

Canadian Pacific Railway,

1885.

In the silent solitude

of the primeval forest

he drove a wooden stake

in the earth and commenced

to measure and empty land

into the streets of

Vancouver.  (2001: 15)

This gesture of colonial appropriation of the “primeval” forest and its division into the grid of downtown Vancouver turns a blind eye to the native populations that were displaced with the city's founding. The laws of “pre-emption” enacted in the 1860's (Barnholden & Newman 2007: 11) effectively appropriated indigenous seasonal lands and subjected them to British law. Similarly, the efforts of the labouring underclass that built the city’s infrastructure are effaced from collective memory, the “gnarly old men here and there around the downtown eastside—huddled together around beer parlour tables all day long” (2001: 18). If this commemoration symbolically re-enacts the city’s historic founding and institutionalizes official, collective memory, it also reveals the spatial hierarchies at play in public space through the silencing of these voices. A smaller, less grandiose plaque scrawled over a boarded-up detox centre nearby speaks what has been omitted:

Already the folds had

worn through, tearing long

slashes in the map, names began

to disappear along its tattered

edges, eventually whole sections

of the city tore away. (2001: 16)

The poor, itinerant population of the Downtown Eastside are figured here as the frayed, tattered edges of nation—their names, in contradistinction to that of Hamilton, quickly disappear.

            As a soup kitchen volunteer, Campbell realizes that the stereotype of the poor as lazy or unwilling to work is simply untrue, for poverty is “extraordinarily complicated” and involves juggling very meagre resources, negotiating multiple social service agencies and figures of authority, and “memorizing the business hours of every soup kitchen … breakfast, lunch, and dinner are a matter of persistence—of queuing in the right place at the right time” (2001: 31). Visiting one of the SROs (single-room occupancies), Campbell notes the “fat, cigar-butt sized cockroaches which scurried over every surface, light bulbs in stairwells that were burnt out or missing [and] the shower stalls that were black with mildew, often with mushrooms sprouting from ceilings.” The rooms themselves are the size of windowless jail cells, and “living in them must have seemed a little like living in a tomb, or sewer (2001: 21). These constricted spaces of poverty contain poor neighbourhoods and poor bodies, as very little pressure is placed on slumlords to maintain these buildings, for the city administration assumes that they will be demolished or redeveloped. The filth, dirt, and grime of the poorly maintained slums come to be associated with the bodies and identities of its inhabitants.

              Campbell’s experiences as a front-line soup kitchen volunteer transforms his mental map of Vancouver, for where he once saw undifferentiated urban blight, he now sees spaces of refuge, survival, and community:

Instead of commuting numbly through the downtown eastside as I used to, now I know that ‘Pete’ lives under that loading dock ramp, and ‘Bill’ lives in that alley doorway. I now consider a cardboard box in a weedy, vacant lot, or a shallow cave carved into the steep, berry bush-covered embankments of the Grandview Railway Cut, to be legitimate addresses.  (2001: 23)

            The poor are not simply victims of their abject condition. Squatters in abandoned buildings, described as “ghosts haunting the ruins of our crumbling urban landscapes” construct “barricades of heavy junk—car doors, bed springs, bicycle frames, freight pallets that make their new-found space difficult to get into, and easy to get out of if you understand the secrets of the maze” (2001: 23). Sex workers, whether homeless or not, cluster together “just as book and antique stores, used car lots, and little art galleries tend to congregate within the same few blocks of a busy street” and are “not easily pushed off their corners” (2001: 99), and resist the violence of their trade by marking the streets of the city with vigilante bad trick warnings signs posted “upon countless boarded-over windows, and lampposts” (2001: 101) all over the city. These literal signs of resistance recall those made by the vagabonds in the 1940’s upon posts, fences, and houses in order to signal danger or safe passage.  

            As Campbell bears witness to men and women passed out in alleys, broken by drunkenness, violence, and the blank stares of drug addiction, he is “slowly discovering a sense of place, incorporating maps of memory, merging my personal geography with the disintegrating landscape whizzing by outside the grimy bus windows” (2001: 107). “The trip is not long in terms of time or miles,” he writes of his daily commute to the downtown eastside, “but in terms of landscape, attitudes, and shrinking possibilities, the distance is sometimes enormous” (2001: 107).

4. Homeless Underground 

            If one of the aims of the “geographies of containment” is to deny, elide or disperse poor bodies and communities—make them invisible to the privileged—one refuge of last resort from institutionalized repression becomes the underground spaces of the city. This most extreme form of dwelling occurs in Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall’s harrowing Down to This: Squalor and Splendour in a Big-City Shantytown (2005), a testimonial narrative which traces the year the author spent in Toronto’s Tent City, a modern-day hobo jungle adjacent to the city’s financial district. The daily struggle for survival includes making the rounds of soup kitchens and drop-in centres, begging for money on the streets, desperately searching for alcohol and drugs, staying warm and dry in an inhospitable environment, and avoiding the constant threat of violence and police harassment. For the purposes of this article, I will limit my discussion to one particular episode in which Shaun, the narrator, descends into the entrails of an abandoned silo near Tent City in the hope of stripping bits copper wire which he will resell on the streets. His descent becomes an archaeological journey into the unseen, disavowed underbelly of the city and of the psyche itself: “Eventually my eyes started to adjust to the dark, and as I turned a corner I saw a woman lying on a mattress. There was just enough light to see her mole eyes squinting at me.” Walking farther on in the darkness, Shaun hears the croak of a voice that sounds barely human: “the figure of a tall, thin man rising from the water. It moved toward us, and I half expected to see a disembodied head tucked under an arm, the beam of light passing through a translucent, floating body…I paused, trying to figure out how to explain to him that he lived below the earth in an airless, lightless, flooded, rat-infested grain elevator, and his cough was probably a symptom of the Black Death” (2005: 302).

            The bodies of those who dwell in these extreme spaces are rendered grotesque as they adapt to and eventually mirror the rusting machinery and wastes of industrial capital residing at the peripheries of our cities. Indeed, from mines to subway tunnels, utility networks to sewers under city streets, the underground has historically been associated with society’s most marginalized members—the labouring class who toil in its murky depths. In Notes on the Underground: An Essay on Technology, Society, and the Imagination, Rosalind Williams suggests that while the underground has at certain historical moments been equated with human ingenuity and an intricate underworld of artifice and wonder, it has for the most part symbolized society’s ob-scene, showing the “relationship between technological progress and human degeneration” (1992: 123). The bodies of the homeless in Bishop-Stall’s novel are quite literally transformed by this extreme environment, evoking the urban legends of the “mole people” who live underground in New York City’s subway system, or of H.G. Wells’ Morlocks, the monstrous subterranean dwellers, and come to signify “the continued existence of a submerged working class” (Williams 1992: 126) put under erasure in the heights above.

          Discourses around the homeless, particularly in terms of the representation of their “dirty” bodies and their scandalously peripatetic lives detached from the disciplinary institutions of home, domesticity and civility, demonstrates the moral panic of a society attempting to rein in its “messy” collective body and defining its national character, its economic structures, and its spatial borders. The anxiety elicited by the “recalcitrant bodies” of the dispossessed speaks volumes about national mythologies and collective memories that depend upon the control of its physical spaces and the bodies that move upon them. Bums, vagabonds, hoboes, the homeless—all are interpellated by state power, but each may use physical spaces strategically in order to subvert that power, and in so doing, create alternate mappings of the national imaginary.

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Notes