A family and volunteers hold a sidewalk Thanksgiving in one of Tampa's poorest areas.
By BRADY DENNIS, Times Staff Writer
Published November 25, 2005
TAMPA - At the corner of St. Clair Street and Nebraska Avenue, they gathered - homeless men, sweaty and unshaven and pushing shopping carts; former prostitutes; Hispanic laborers; poor children and poorer children; drifters and drinkers; down-and-outers.
It would have been easier to count the blessings they didn't have - friends or family, money in their pockets or roofs over their heads.
But Thursday, under the warm November sun, they got free sidewalk haircuts and bags of groceries, a hot Thanksgiving meal and new clothes. They got one other gift most of them seldom receive: respect.
"Bless you, brother," 52-year-old Roberto Andrade said over and over, greeting each arrival. He called them "hidden people," the ones most of society has shunned and forgotten.
"Nobody touches them," he said. "These people are human, not just another number. They don't know hope. We just want to help, you know."
And that was the point - along with candy for the children, canned food and buzz cuts - to offer hope.
Thursday marked the fifth year that the sprawling Andrade family and other volunteers - too many to count - have held the sidewalk Thanksgiving in one of Tampa's poorest areas.
The rest of the year, the family runs the nearby CrossOver for Women, a shelter and ministry for women recovering from life on the streets. They also tutor inner-city children and operate the Tropical Restaurant and Bakery and a nearby thrift store, which benefits the ministry.
The Andrades used to stay home on Thanksgiving, sharing a meal together like millions of other families. It never quite felt right, they said, knowing how much need surrounded them. So they decided to share with those who needed it most. They pass out fliers and walk the streets each year, urging the downtrodden to stop by.
Each year, more and more people come.
On Thursday, the event had blossomed into a regular street party, with hip-hop music playing, children painting each other's faces, mountains of food spread across a table and strangers sharing hugs.
"There's a lot of people that don't have anyone today," said Andy Andrade, Roberto's 35-year-old brother. "You've got to be a blessing to other people," to show them "that they are special, that they matter in life."
To Minerva Andrade, Roberto's 52-year-old wife, giving is all that matters in life.
"This is the reward," the tiny woman said, staring out over the crowd. "Look at the faces."
The faces belonged to people like Transito Lopez, 38, who arrived in Tampa six months ago from Illinois. He washes dishes at a restaurant in Ybor City. He has no friends, no family, doesn't speak English. But he left Thursday with a fresh haircut and a meal of black beans and turkey, seasonsed with mojo.
"I'm here by myself," he said in Spanish. "I had nowhere else to go."
The faces included Isaac Sanchez, a 63-year-old homeless man who hobbles up and down Nebraska Avenue with his walker, hunched over and weary. His family lives in Mexico. The last haircut he had was earlier this year, when the police took him to jail for having an open container.
Thursday, he got his disheveled gray hair cut short and a warm meal in his stomach.
"I'm grateful," he said in Spanish. "When you're hungry, you're not picky. You just eat."
And so it went, late into the afternoon.
Roberto Andrade and his family know they can't cure the problems of life on the streets. They cannot feed all the hungry or house all the homeless or save all the drifters from their demons.
But on the corner of St. Clair and Nebraska, they handed out hope on Thursday to the lucky souls who passed by, and they held out a hope of their own.
"We want to make it a contagious thing," Roberto said. "If you don't start, nobody will follow."
