How to Make a New Friend

It’s amazing what happens sometimes when you call someone by name, especially when he/she is used to being overlooked or even avoided. Our name represents who we are and the fact that we’re separate from the next person. Remembering someone’s name lets him/her know that he/she is worth remembering.

A few years ago, when Kenny and I were making weekly trips into Nashville's Tent City (the sprawling homeless camp under a major interstate exchange), we met a man named Tucker. He lived right at the river’s edge. He wore a leather hat and was sporting a puffy, purple eye, the result of a fight with another man. He was middle-aged, and I could tell he’d been handsome at one time. We chatted with him for a few minutes, gave him some bagels, and moved on.

The next week, when we returned to Tent City, we saw him again as he was trekking down a path from one part of the camp to another. “Hi, Tucker,” I said.

Tucker stopped in his tracks and stared at me. For an instant, I wondered if I’d said something wrong, but how could that be? Finally, he responded, “That’s my name.” He wasn't being silly: none of this “that’s-my-name-don’t-wear-it-out” stuff. Rather, he was taken aback. He had a name, and someone had made note of it. From that day on, we had a good friend in Tucker.

One afternoon months later, I was in Tent City with my friend Debbie. (I wouldn’t recommend visiting homeless camps without a man in tow, but this was an exception due to the fact that Kenny was unavailable and Debbie is a veteran in this type of ministry.) As we made our way through camp, we met a man by the name of Donny. He was rough around the edges, to put it mildly. As we spoke to him and a handful of others, a young woman named Sarah sidled up to me and whispered in my ear, cautioning me to be very careful around Donny. Tucker, who was part of the crowd, overheard her warning. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt Miss Vicki,” he said.

Tent City was not the safest place to hang out, but Tucker’s meaning was clear: no one was going to hurt me if he had anything to say about it. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that his sense of responsibility was directly related to that first time I called him by name.

It can be intimidating to approach a homeless individual. Sometimes they’re tidy, friendly, and accessible, but let’s face it, we’ve all encountered the person on the park bench who a) has clearly gone a few weeks without a bath, b) reeks of alcohol, c) is talking to no one in particular, or d) all the above. Still, I'll bet you've felt that internal nudge: Don’t pass him/her by. Say something. Give him/her a moment of your time. So here’s my challenge to you: Don’t assume that you’ve got to rehabilitate, evangelize, or otherwise transform this person. Just say, “Hey, there. What’s your name?” In eleven years of meeting new homeless folks, I have yet to be reproached for asking a person’s name. It’s simple, but it works. (That’s why children use it as an opening question all the time.) It opens a door. The next time you see this person, you can say, “Hi, Joe. How are you doing?” See if he doesn’t tell you.