MANHATTAN STORY: Brothers at Bowery

There are lessons to be learned at The Bowery Mission, a homeless shelter located at 227 Bowery in Manhattan. Whether feigned or factual, the stories I heard when I visited last week were the kind that stick with a person, and they keep ringing in your ears days later.

There was Alexander Romero, a clean looking guy wearing jeans, a jean jacket and a nice blue sweater vest – who used to do crack, weed and cocaine. And then there’s Steve Zakrzewski, a man who looks like anybody’s father in his checkered blue collared shirt (with a tie) and glasses – and he took the long route south with alcoholism. Or even the Bowery’s Director of Outreach, James Macklin, who was once a participant in the Bowery’s program because he lost a business to cocaine and found himself sleeping on the A subway train.

“I was a taker and not a giver,” Macklin said. “Cars, clothes, women and song. Now, I’m a giver instead of a taker.”

The people who come through The Bowery Mission, which was established in 1879, go through a program that involves learning about the Bible and taking classes to better situate themselves for the job market. The Bowery Mission even houses and feeds its members while helping them find jobs when they graduate from the program. The meals are open to the homeless, too, not just those who found their way to the homey institution.

Religion plays a major role in their rehabilitation. Each person there had a story of, not exactly rags to riches, but rags to Jesus. They all shared stories of how they got caught up in bad things – drugs or otherwise – and told us students that we should never let anything control our lives, except for faith in God.

The organ pipes in the chapel at The Bowery Mission.

Zakrzewski said that accepting Jesus Christ as his personal savior was what helped him most.

“I never had that motivation, that comfort, that peace of mind before,” he said. “And there’s a lot of counseling between brothers.”

Those involved with The Bowery Mission really become a family – a pack of brothers, lost and found.

That’s the thing that stuck out to me most: the brothers. In the living quarters, which looked like a mixture between an army bunker and a college dorm with its rows and rows of bunk beds and closets, I found a sign: a sign that reminded the brothers to turn out the lights when not in the room.

It addressed them as “Brothers.” Next to that, it said “& Bro’s,” which was scribbled out, and “Brethern” [sic] was written above that. The misspelling was charming rather than annoying (which is saying a lot for me, a spelling and grammar nut), and its sentiment was as endearing as it was welcoming.

Take notes, Beau!


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