Lewis E. Johnson III, Winston-Salem
On the side of the road, by a Taco Bell in Winston-Salem, Lewis E. Johnson III leans on a cane, holding a sign that says, “Disabled Please Help God Bless” A pair of glasses, a scraggly beard and a few locks of long blonde hair peek out from under the hat that shields his face from the [intense heat of the] afternoon sun.
To those who drive by, Johnson is just another nameless face asking for their help. But there was a time when Johnson was the one in the car. In fact, this is his first year as a licensed panhandler.
“Just goes to show how ironic it is,” Johnson said. “You’re riding down the road one day looking down your nose at somebody begging in a soup line, saying they could do better. Then you turn into that person and you understand them a little better.”
His cut-off jeans show a scarred leg, revealing his handicap. Years ago, one of Johnson’s closest friends shot him with a 12-guage shotgun. The friend was on drugs and threatening his wife, who had called Johnson to the house for help.
“[The shotgun] was coming across my torso when I swung around. I had time to hit the barrel and, as my luck would have it, it hit me dead center in the kneecap,” Johnson said. “Half of this bone and half of this bone, they exploded.”
He pointed out his misshapen knee and the surgical scars running down his shin and up his thigh.
“I’m not sure when it quit hurting, but I know I was on my back 2 and a half years. Twenty operations, three or four blood infections, one blood infection with a staff infection. That one almost got me,” Johnson said.
During a long recovery period, Johnson became addicted to painkillers. His addiction, causing fallouts with family and friends, as well as financial problems, was part of the reason Johnson ended up on this corner. “I didn’t even like to take an aspirin for a headache before that,” Johnson said.
Eventually, Johnson overcame his battle with addiction and found work collecting and selling palettes and then working for commercial painting companies in the area. But the physical labor took its toll and, when he “used up” his back, he applied for Supplemental Security Income disability benefits.
In 2015, more than 200,000 North Carolinians received Supplemental Security Income for the blind and disabled, with nearly 8,000 living in Forsyth County alone.
Johnson, like many panhandlers, found himself on the streets because his disability check doesn't provide enough income to pay the rent for his one-bedroom apartment.
“This is how I try to make up the difference,” Johnson said, nodding toward his sign. “They wouldn’t let me find a part-time job, but they allowed me to get out and beg.”
Now, Johnson spends his days by the Taco Bell, waving down cars and hoping each day that he’ll bring home enough money to pay the bills.
“It’s unpredictable… You know, I work sometimes doing this for 12 hours. One time I made $117 and one time I made $20, which ended up being, I think, $1-something an hour. I think that’s what I’m heading for today.”
Ann Williams, Durham
To those who drive by, Johnson is just another nameless face asking for their help. But there was a time when Johnson was the one in the car. In fact, this is his first year as a licensed panhandler.
“Just goes to show how ironic it is,” Johnson said. “You’re riding down the road one day looking down your nose at somebody begging in a soup line, saying they could do better. Then you turn into that person and you understand them a little better.”
His cut-off jeans show a scarred leg, revealing his handicap. Years ago, one of Johnson’s closest friends shot him with a 12-guage shotgun. The friend was on drugs and threatening his wife, who had called Johnson to the house for help.
“[The shotgun] was coming across my torso when I swung around. I had time to hit the barrel and, as my luck would have it, it hit me dead center in the kneecap,” Johnson said. “Half of this bone and half of this bone, they exploded.”
He pointed out his misshapen knee and the surgical scars running down his shin and up his thigh.
“I’m not sure when it quit hurting, but I know I was on my back 2 and a half years. Twenty operations, three or four blood infections, one blood infection with a staff infection. That one almost got me,” Johnson said.
During a long recovery period, Johnson became addicted to painkillers. His addiction, causing fallouts with family and friends, as well as financial problems, was part of the reason Johnson ended up on this corner. “I didn’t even like to take an aspirin for a headache before that,” Johnson said.
Eventually, Johnson overcame his battle with addiction and found work collecting and selling palettes and then working for commercial painting companies in the area. But the physical labor took its toll and, when he “used up” his back, he applied for Supplemental Security Income disability benefits.
In 2015, more than 200,000 North Carolinians received Supplemental Security Income for the blind and disabled, with nearly 8,000 living in Forsyth County alone.
Johnson, like many panhandlers, found himself on the streets because his disability check doesn't provide enough income to pay the rent for his one-bedroom apartment.
“This is how I try to make up the difference,” Johnson said, nodding toward his sign. “They wouldn’t let me find a part-time job, but they allowed me to get out and beg.”
Now, Johnson spends his days by the Taco Bell, waving down cars and hoping each day that he’ll bring home enough money to pay the bills.
“It’s unpredictable… You know, I work sometimes doing this for 12 hours. One time I made $117 and one time I made $20, which ended up being, I think, $1-something an hour. I think that’s what I’m heading for today.”
Ann Williams, Durham
On a sidewalk outside of a busy shopping center in Durham, Ann Williams holds up a faded cardboard sign reading, “Homeless Mother of Three Anything Helps.” With a small smile across her face, she waves politely as each car passes her, humming under her breath all the while.
Williams has been panhandling for more than a year in Durham. She wears a bright orange vest, required by Durham panhandling laws, over the top of her tattered clothing. Her feet shift from side to side, and she grows tired from standing in the heat for hours on end.
Before this year, Williams received a Supplemental Security Income for disabled adults with limited income. However, she said she was cut off after an anonymous source falsely reported that she had a job. Without the monthly check, she could no longer afford to pay her bills.
Williams now lives in a tent in the woods near the area where she stations herself to panhandle each day. “It’s depressing. You take it as you go. You have good days and bad days,” she said.
Williams “flies” her sign from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day, leaving before dusk in accordance with the city’s panhandling ordinance.
Durham changed the rules for panhandlers in January 2013. The city no longer requires permits, and the types of locations from which panhandlers can station themselves have changed.
Before the law changed, panhandlers were required to wear a photo badge while begging and pay a $20 annual fee for a permit. In 2011, nearly 100 permits were issued in Durham. Now, the city requires panhandlers to stand on a paved sidewalk of one-way only streets and wear reflective vests.
Williams said her income varies day by day and depends on the crowd. She said most days she makes $15 or less. She spends the money on basics like food, clothing, paper towels and plates, the occasional bus ticket and cigarettes.
While Williams said she doesn’t do drugs or drink alcohol, cigarettes are her vice. She said the most difficult thing she faces each day is people telling her to get a job and assuming she does drugs.
As a female panhandler, Williams said she has more to worry about than her male counterparts do. While she has never been attacked, she has experienced sexual harassment on multiple occasions. She relies on other panhandlers to keep her safe.
“...I don’t like being up here on the corner by myself. The [male panhandlers]...they watch my back and I watch their back...we watch everyone’s back around here,” Williams said.
The panhandlers in Williams’ area have developed a tight-knit community. They consider each other family and call one another brothers and sisters.
Williams struggles with the stereotypes and misconceptions many have about panhandlers. “When people know that you’re homeless around here, they look down on you,” she said.
Williams’ ultimate goal is to get a place of her own and receive her disability check again. Those were the good days for her, when she could pay her bills and spend time at the library to check out books and use the public computers.
“I just wish that people would ask, ‘Why are you out here?’ instead of looking down their nose at somebody,” Williams said.
Candy, Winston-Salem
Williams has been panhandling for more than a year in Durham. She wears a bright orange vest, required by Durham panhandling laws, over the top of her tattered clothing. Her feet shift from side to side, and she grows tired from standing in the heat for hours on end.
Before this year, Williams received a Supplemental Security Income for disabled adults with limited income. However, she said she was cut off after an anonymous source falsely reported that she had a job. Without the monthly check, she could no longer afford to pay her bills.
Williams now lives in a tent in the woods near the area where she stations herself to panhandle each day. “It’s depressing. You take it as you go. You have good days and bad days,” she said.
Williams “flies” her sign from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day, leaving before dusk in accordance with the city’s panhandling ordinance.
Durham changed the rules for panhandlers in January 2013. The city no longer requires permits, and the types of locations from which panhandlers can station themselves have changed.
Before the law changed, panhandlers were required to wear a photo badge while begging and pay a $20 annual fee for a permit. In 2011, nearly 100 permits were issued in Durham. Now, the city requires panhandlers to stand on a paved sidewalk of one-way only streets and wear reflective vests.
Williams said her income varies day by day and depends on the crowd. She said most days she makes $15 or less. She spends the money on basics like food, clothing, paper towels and plates, the occasional bus ticket and cigarettes.
While Williams said she doesn’t do drugs or drink alcohol, cigarettes are her vice. She said the most difficult thing she faces each day is people telling her to get a job and assuming she does drugs.
As a female panhandler, Williams said she has more to worry about than her male counterparts do. While she has never been attacked, she has experienced sexual harassment on multiple occasions. She relies on other panhandlers to keep her safe.
“...I don’t like being up here on the corner by myself. The [male panhandlers]...they watch my back and I watch their back...we watch everyone’s back around here,” Williams said.
The panhandlers in Williams’ area have developed a tight-knit community. They consider each other family and call one another brothers and sisters.
Williams struggles with the stereotypes and misconceptions many have about panhandlers. “When people know that you’re homeless around here, they look down on you,” she said.
Williams’ ultimate goal is to get a place of her own and receive her disability check again. Those were the good days for her, when she could pay her bills and spend time at the library to check out books and use the public computers.
“I just wish that people would ask, ‘Why are you out here?’ instead of looking down their nose at somebody,” Williams said.
Candy, Winston-Salem
Candy sits by the road at a traffic light, clinging with one hand to her cane, with the other to her sign: “Homeless Broke + Hungry Anything Help.”
Candy said this wasn’t her first run-in with a reporter. She asked that she not be identified by her full name or photo because the previous time she appeared in the local news, she said, people recognized her and she made even less than usual.
“I have my disability [check],” Candy said. “But I can’t find a place to live with my disability because I’m not getting that much.” While it’s clear Candy has trouble walking, she didn't give the details of her disability, which she described as “very personal.”
Candy and her husband have been living out their car for years. They tried staying at homeless shelters, but couldn’t find a shelter that would take both of them together.
“My husband’s [been] trying for his disability [check] for like 7 years now. He can’t work. He comes out here. I did relieve him a little while ago,” Candy said.
Both disabled, Candy and her husband take turns holding their sign on the side of the road, hoping kind strangers will give them enough money for a shower. “We’re trying to at least go into a motel every once in a while so we can wash up and stuff like that… We make a little. Enough sometimes to go in, sometimes not to,” she said.
Candy’s mother-in-law is sick, so she and her husband are staying in Winston-Salem to be close to her, far from their children who live in Washington D.C. “I know [my children] worry about me being here and not close to them and me being sick. I know they’re worried to death because they put a cell phone on me just so they can call me and keep track of me,” Candy said.
While Candy said not a day goes by that she doesn’t speak to one of her children, she won't use her phone while she's panhandling. She said, “If they see you smoke a cigarette they don’t want to pay you. If they see you using a cell phone they don’t want to pay you. They figure if you can afford to smoke a cigarette you can afford to live somewhere or if you own a cell phone you can afford to live somewhere.”
A car stops beside Candy and the driver rolls down the window. Candy struggles to get up, then hobbles toward the car. A young lady pours a handful of change into Candy’s outreached palms. “Sorry, that’s all the change I have laying around my car,” the lady says.
Candy thanks her and goes back to her station, wishing the next driver would offer more than a few coins.
Candy said this wasn’t her first run-in with a reporter. She asked that she not be identified by her full name or photo because the previous time she appeared in the local news, she said, people recognized her and she made even less than usual.
“I have my disability [check],” Candy said. “But I can’t find a place to live with my disability because I’m not getting that much.” While it’s clear Candy has trouble walking, she didn't give the details of her disability, which she described as “very personal.”
Candy and her husband have been living out their car for years. They tried staying at homeless shelters, but couldn’t find a shelter that would take both of them together.
“My husband’s [been] trying for his disability [check] for like 7 years now. He can’t work. He comes out here. I did relieve him a little while ago,” Candy said.
Both disabled, Candy and her husband take turns holding their sign on the side of the road, hoping kind strangers will give them enough money for a shower. “We’re trying to at least go into a motel every once in a while so we can wash up and stuff like that… We make a little. Enough sometimes to go in, sometimes not to,” she said.
Candy’s mother-in-law is sick, so she and her husband are staying in Winston-Salem to be close to her, far from their children who live in Washington D.C. “I know [my children] worry about me being here and not close to them and me being sick. I know they’re worried to death because they put a cell phone on me just so they can call me and keep track of me,” Candy said.
While Candy said not a day goes by that she doesn’t speak to one of her children, she won't use her phone while she's panhandling. She said, “If they see you smoke a cigarette they don’t want to pay you. If they see you using a cell phone they don’t want to pay you. They figure if you can afford to smoke a cigarette you can afford to live somewhere or if you own a cell phone you can afford to live somewhere.”
A car stops beside Candy and the driver rolls down the window. Candy struggles to get up, then hobbles toward the car. A young lady pours a handful of change into Candy’s outreached palms. “Sorry, that’s all the change I have laying around my car,” the lady says.
Candy thanks her and goes back to her station, wishing the next driver would offer more than a few coins.
Linda Williams, Winston-Salem
Linda Williams stands by the right turn lane of a busy Winston-Salem intersection. She holds up two fingers as cars slow down beside her, drivers looking straight ahead until the light turns green and they screech away. “Two fingers. It means peace,” Williams said.
In the late September heat, she wears a large knit sweater and stained gray trousers that sag over worn sneakers. Her sign, propped up against a cooler by her red fold-up chair, reads “Anything will help.” A city-issued panhandling license dangles from the bottom of her shirt.
Winston-Salem, along with most North Carolina cities, requires that panhandlers be licensed. To get a license, potential panhandlers fill out an application at the City Revenue Department beside City Hall, provide valid ID and submit to a background check, which must show no more than one offense on record.
Many panhandlers discover the license requirements only after a police officer cites them for panhandling without one. Already this year, there have been 585 panhandling arrests and citations in Winston-Salem.
Williams spends nearly every day on the streets of Winston-Salem, but that doesn’t dampen her sunny disposition. “All L’s,” she said of her name, “Lovable, laughter, whatever.” Cars rush past, ignoring Williams, but her crooked-toothed smile never fades.
Williams, whose most recent job was at a low-wage fast-food restaurant, began panhandling in 2008. Now, she said she makes about $25-35 per day, standing by the road with her sign for 3-5 hours daily. But it’s barely enough to live off. “I eat breakfast if I have some food,” Williams said. “Then watch the cars go by.”
Grateful to have family nearby, Williams said she moves back and forth, usually staying at her daughter’s apartment but occasionally ending up back at the shelter. She said, “I did have some money from my mom’s estate, but I was conned out of it. Now I’m trying to get back in tune.”
Ever the optimist, Williams doesn't let the hard times get her down. As her white hair blows in the wind she says, “I’m 70 and [going] backwards. I feel young, look young, act young.”
Rough House and Ethel, Chapel Hill
In the late September heat, she wears a large knit sweater and stained gray trousers that sag over worn sneakers. Her sign, propped up against a cooler by her red fold-up chair, reads “Anything will help.” A city-issued panhandling license dangles from the bottom of her shirt.
Winston-Salem, along with most North Carolina cities, requires that panhandlers be licensed. To get a license, potential panhandlers fill out an application at the City Revenue Department beside City Hall, provide valid ID and submit to a background check, which must show no more than one offense on record.
Many panhandlers discover the license requirements only after a police officer cites them for panhandling without one. Already this year, there have been 585 panhandling arrests and citations in Winston-Salem.
Williams spends nearly every day on the streets of Winston-Salem, but that doesn’t dampen her sunny disposition. “All L’s,” she said of her name, “Lovable, laughter, whatever.” Cars rush past, ignoring Williams, but her crooked-toothed smile never fades.
Williams, whose most recent job was at a low-wage fast-food restaurant, began panhandling in 2008. Now, she said she makes about $25-35 per day, standing by the road with her sign for 3-5 hours daily. But it’s barely enough to live off. “I eat breakfast if I have some food,” Williams said. “Then watch the cars go by.”
Grateful to have family nearby, Williams said she moves back and forth, usually staying at her daughter’s apartment but occasionally ending up back at the shelter. She said, “I did have some money from my mom’s estate, but I was conned out of it. Now I’m trying to get back in tune.”
Ever the optimist, Williams doesn't let the hard times get her down. As her white hair blows in the wind she says, “I’m 70 and [going] backwards. I feel young, look young, act young.”
Rough House and Ethel, Chapel Hill
On a brick wall along Franklin Street, a man who goes by “Rough House” sits with his wife Ethel, the two quietly watching people walk by. Rough House holds a sign that says, “Homeless. Traveling. Anything Helps. God Bless.”
Rough House and Ethel, on a journey from Maryland to Florida, arrived in Chapel Hill less than a month ago. When asked if his vagabond way of life was a lifestyle choice, he laughed and explained that his desire to get to Florida is driven by a stronger desire to find work. He had worked on lobster boats in Florida before and is hoping to do it again this season.
On a day like today, the couple will eat at a local soup kitchen before heading into town, where they “just sit, mingle,” and “talk to other individuals.” However, Rough House said when he speaks with other panhandlers, some topics are off limits. “The street rules is don’t talk about each other’s situations. You keep yours to yourself and they keep theirs to theirself. That’s the street life,” he said.
Rough House and Ethel spend most of their nights in local shelters, but occasionally sleep in a tent. “We were in a tent during the hurricane. Everything got soaked,” Rough House said.
When they're traveling, the couple typically remains in one city for a month and a half, panhandling and trying to save money for their next bus ticket.
Rough House and Ethel have been all over the East Coast and the South, spending time in Florida, Maryland, Washington D.C., large Texan cities, small towns in Pennsylvania and now Chapel Hill. Wherever they end up, the couple struggles to make ends meet. “It doesn’t matter if you’re in a big city or a small town… You can barely make it anywhere,” Ethel said.
Rough House and Ethel, on a journey from Maryland to Florida, arrived in Chapel Hill less than a month ago. When asked if his vagabond way of life was a lifestyle choice, he laughed and explained that his desire to get to Florida is driven by a stronger desire to find work. He had worked on lobster boats in Florida before and is hoping to do it again this season.
On a day like today, the couple will eat at a local soup kitchen before heading into town, where they “just sit, mingle,” and “talk to other individuals.” However, Rough House said when he speaks with other panhandlers, some topics are off limits. “The street rules is don’t talk about each other’s situations. You keep yours to yourself and they keep theirs to theirself. That’s the street life,” he said.
Rough House and Ethel spend most of their nights in local shelters, but occasionally sleep in a tent. “We were in a tent during the hurricane. Everything got soaked,” Rough House said.
When they're traveling, the couple typically remains in one city for a month and a half, panhandling and trying to save money for their next bus ticket.
Rough House and Ethel have been all over the East Coast and the South, spending time in Florida, Maryland, Washington D.C., large Texan cities, small towns in Pennsylvania and now Chapel Hill. Wherever they end up, the couple struggles to make ends meet. “It doesn’t matter if you’re in a big city or a small town… You can barely make it anywhere,” Ethel said.
What You Didn’t Know About Panhandling
- In many North Carolina cities panhandling requires a license. In most cases, these licenses are obtained from the same government department that oversees business licenses.
- U.S. courts have prohibited anti-panhandling laws on the grounds that these laws violate First Amendment rights to free speech. However, “aggressive panhandling,” or asking for money in a threatening manner, is illegal in most cities.
- City panhandling ordinances can be very complicated, regulating even minor behaviors of panhandlers. For example, Durham’s ordinance requires that panhandlers stand on paved sidewalks, while standing on medians or grass is prohibited.
- Panhandling with a sign is often referred to as “flying” or “flying a sign,” while simply asking for money is described as “begging.”
- Many panhandlers have developed strategies and techniques to increase their chances of receiving money. These strategies include where they position themselves on the streets, what they write on their signs and who they interact with.
- Abe Hagenston, of Detroit, Mich., claims to be the only homeless man in America to accept credit cards, according to the Washington Post.
- Studies have found that homeless panhandlers felt more disadvantaged, isolated and troubled than homeless people who do not panhandle.