J Magazine Fall 2017

“People need to stop looking down at these
people and reach out to see if there’s anything
we can do to help them.” SYLVESTER BLACK
job with the Public Defender’s Office. He met
his wife, Francine, and they married seven
years ago. The couple now live in an apartment
and have applied through Habitat for
Humanity for a house.
He’ll even tell people his name now —
proudly. Sylvester Black, he says chuckling.
He sees humor in the fact his fellow homeless
people invented a name for him without even
knowing it was his real name. Although most
of his time is spent at the Public Defender’s
Office, where he mentors youngsters who’ve
gotten into trouble, Black still makes a point
to go for walks in the community he used to
call “home,” Hemming Park and the area behind
the Main Public Library.
But back then he was just one of the some
400 homeless men and women who sleep
outside somewhere in Downtown Jacksonville
every night. In addition to those, another
1,600 or so homeless people across Northeast
Florida find some place other than the
streets to rest their heads. It might be within
a homeless shelter or another facility, but
when dawn breaks, they’re often out on the
streets again.
Now that Black has found his own shelter
off the streets, he’s determined that other
Jacksonville residents get a clearer picture of
the people with whom he once shared his
space under the stars Downtown. He’s aware
that there’s much criticism of homeless and
transients who frequent parks in the city’s
heart, but says much of that is based upon
misunderstanding.
In particular, Black is adamant that, in
many ways, homeless people are little different
from the business people who blindly
brush past them while crossing Hemming
Park. People encounter difficulties in their
lives, but sometimes, because of a lack of
money, ability or status, those difficulties
consume them. For a small number of people,
the struggles leave them without a home
to call their own.
It’s the discrepancy between who the
homeless really are and who they’re thought
to be that really concerns Black. They’re not
people to be feared or people to be ignored.
They are instead people who, like everyone
else in this city, sometimes need help. And
although Black is no longer one of them, he’s
adamant that his job is to help “introduce”
them to the non-homeless people of Jacksonville.
These days Black is greeted warmly by
both those seated on the walls beneath Hemming’s
big trees and walking along its bricked
pathways. Men in suits and women in office
attire hail him and shake his hand. Others
Eddie McNeal,
57, has medical
issues that
make it difficult
to work
because of the
pain. He lost
both his job
and his home
seven months
ago because of
health issues.
clad in humbler attire shout his name, “Hey,
Black,” as they see him step into the square.
But it wasn’t always that way.
“Back then people would give you a look
like you’re the lowest thing on the Earth,”
he says, remembering his homeless days.
“They’d be scared of you so they’d cross the
street or grab their purse closer. You ain’t gotta
worry about getting your space when you’re
homeless.” He shakes his head slowly.
While his work with young people in trouble
through the Public Defender’s Office is
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J MAGAZINE | FALL 2017