May 2002
Charlie’s Story
The Neighborhood’s Ambassador to Homelessness:
Spreading the “Truth” About Life on the Streets to the University’s
Student Body
By Brian
Krause
An unassuming man with a slim build, thick gray
mustache, and wearing an oversized baseball cap pulled snuggly down
over his walnut brown eyes — Charlie Noodles maneuvers through
Kogan Plaza, pressing palms like a seasoned politician.
“I’ll only shake your hand the first time I meet you,”
explains Noodles. “After that, we pound fists.”
As dusk threatens to cut another unseasonably balmy day short, he basks
in the last threads of sunlight before making his way toward the Marvin
Center. Spring has finally arrived and Noodles is in all his glory.
Bouncing from one conversation to the next, he stops to chat it up with
nearly every student who walks by, turning what would ordinarily be
a five-minute walk into a half-hour trek.
Noodles spots some of his “Wiz Kids” lounging on a wooden
bench in the shade. This special group of his closest friends and confidants
is his very own “Order of the Hippo,” student leaders who
have earned his trust and admiration. A year ago they even made T-shirts.
“Charlie, you should run for SA president,” jokes John Creedon,
captain of the crew team and one of Charlie’s Wiz Kids. “I’ll
be your campaign manager.”
Noodles dismisses this flattery with an unconvincing wave of his hand.
The wry smile on his face betrays him. He sure he could win.
More recognizable on campus than the Hippo, he has weaved his way into
the fabric of student life. According to urban legend, Noodles once
helped a student get an “A” on a 100-page thesis — he
now brags to have 14 such papers under his belt.
Hardly the typical SA candidate, Charlie Noodles is not a student. He
is not a professor or even a member of the faculty. He is what some
parents fear most when they first wave goodbye, leaving their child
behind in an often-daunting city.
He is homeless.
He is a figure shrouded in mystery. Charlie’s Wiz Kids become tight
lipped when asked to reveal even the slightest detail about his history.
“That’s a good question… but I’m not going to tell
you,” is a typical response when conversation becomes too personal.
Only Amiko Matsumoto knows the full story. The former director of the
Office of Community Service is Noodles’ best friend. She has over
12 hours of audio taped interviews with him tucked away and will one
day write his biography. “She’s going to have a New York
Times best seller on her hands when that book comes out,” he
promises.
A renaissance man, Noodles constantly challenges students to change
their preconceptions about the homeless. Wearing freshly laundered clothing
and clean-shaven, he never panhandles or takes advantage of his GW friends.
What little is known about his past boasts impressive credentials. Noodles
has worked as a Certified Dental Technician and rumors abound that he
was once a professional ballroom dancer and that he even played professional
baseball.
“Charlie is a great reminder that some of our best teachers are
unexpected,” says Matsumoto.
Inside a worn and tattered zip-lock bag, he carries a massive collection
of business cards from everybody he has ever met, along with photocopies
of every story ever written about him. He’s quick to show off the
impressive array of people he knows or to autograph an article for you.
There is nothing that happens within the University’s limits that
Charlie does not know about. Whether it’s the latest gossip out
of Rice Hall or Thurston Hall, chances are Noodles has already heard
it.
Once referred to as the “Unofficial Ambassador to the Homeless,”
Charlie Noodles has become a surrogate grandfather to the students of
GW. “He’s a bit more rough around the edges than your grandfather,”
chides Wendi Conti a presidential administrative fellow for the Office
of Community Service, shuddering to hear Noodles’ sometimes gruff
Manhattan-bred voice and Bowery vocabulary. Noodles is always mad at
someone. He was once angry with Marvin Center director and long-time
friend Peter Konwerski for three months, until neither of them could
even remember how the fight had started.
Noodles confesses, “If I’m mad at you, that means I love you,
because I won’t get mad at someone I don’t care about.”
Before it was closed off for construction, he would sit perched like
an owl beneath the oak trees that line the 21st Street side of the Marvin
Center. Sheltered from the unforgiving summer sun and the drenching
rains of Washington, Noodles reserved his office hours for discussions
with students about some of his favorite topics: the importance of academics,
keeping it “real,” and true friendship.
“What I like about Charlie is how he interacts with the students,”
says Honey Nashman, program director of the human services program in
the sociology department. “He constantly reminds them how important
it is to get a good education so that if you want to make a difference
in the world you can.”
When he wants to get serious, Noodles shifts to what he calls “real
time.” His hand goes up, your mouth closes, he talks, and you listen.
“I don’t have time for phony people,” says Noodles. “I’m
like [the students] dad away from home. They can lean on my shoulder
and cry and tell me their problems. As long as they ‘keep it real.’
”
Tucked away in the Office of Community Service on the fourth floor of
the Marvin Center, Noodles sits and sorts through rolls of pictures
from his 65th birthday party this past December. A “Happy Birthday
Charlie” sign constructed out of noodles still hangs on the wall
as testament to the lasting impact he has made on the students in that
office.
“I was really shy at first and every time I saw him, he came up
and kissed me on the cheek,” says Brie Ferrigno, a work-study student
at the Office of Community Service. “Now I can’t see him without
kissing him on the cheek.”
Noodles specializes in helping students become excited about GW. He
once lectured a group of 150 newly arrived freshmen about safety, street
smarts, and making an impact in the community. “It’s hard
for some kids in their freshman and sophomore years to adjust to the
University because they’ve still got the high school in them,”
explains Noodles. “I tell them that they’re going to get lost
in the sauce if they don’t get involved in some kind of activity
that can help them make some friends.”
Incredibly protective of the students he loves, Noodles once chastised
a girl he caught walking to Georgetown alone late at night, concerned
that she could have been mugged. “He’s a tough guy; a street
guy. Charlie probably originated the title ‘street smart,’
” says Theresa Saccardi, class council president and one of Charlie’s
Wiz Kids.
His concern for the students is returned 10-fold. When Noodles fell
ill last fall, the Wiz Kids rushed him to the emergency room where he
underwent a hernia operation. Sitting in shifts, the Wiz Kids stayed
with Charlie throughout the night.
Noodles values true friendship. He gave Amiko Matsumoto a dictionary
with a two-dollar bill marking the page containing the word “friend.”
“I’m a dictionary buff,” admits Noodles. “You use
a word and I’ll look it up in five different dictionaries. I’ll
come back and I’m ready to rumble.”
Not the kind of rumbling done with fists ala “West Side Story,”
instead Noodles is referring to intellectual sparring. He’ll often
pick a hot-button topic and spark an intense debate. Rumbling sessions
have lasted as late as 4 am.
“GW kids are the greatest group of college kids,” he says.
“The ones that I’ve associated with have learned how to rumble,
to deal with every kind of issue that they’ve had to combat. They’ve
always come out winners… always.”
The “Ambassador” sits contently on the third floor terrace
of the Marvin Center, wearing his Hippodrome hat and polo shirt, surveying
his adopted home. But he would prefer it if you no longer called him
that. “I gave that title up,” Noodles says. “I would
like my new title to be very simple: ‘He’s a friend, a real
friend.’ ”
Send feedback to: bygeorge@gwu.edu
