It was a Thursday. The temperature hovered right at freezing. Two stars already shone.

We all have points in time or space that remain fixed in our memories. An hour and a place fuse in meaning, because at that moment and in that spot something occurred that changed the trajectory of our lives.

Consider, really consider, if you had to leave your home right now, what would you carry away? Assume the messenger is the police, a violent husband, an earthquake, your mother. Whatever. You have five minutes and a backpack to fill. Do you take food? Photos? Clothes? A toy?

The moment of leaving appears in story after story of those who become homeless. This past week I was sharing some experiences with graduate design students at N.C. State. These designers are using audio and video from a project, "Home Is Not One Story," to create animations. The clips will be projected in a window on Franklin Street. With luck and funding, the projections will travel to other towns where North Carolinians have generously shared their experiences.

Some undergraduates were also listening to the presentation. They were enthusiastic and engaged. They wanted to help. They wanted to create a PSA. They wanted one great homeless success story. Something inspiring, something lively, something, like, you know, "kind of a superstar homeless person."

Apparently, the lure of celebrity crowds out common sense. Someone right now is probably developing the next American Homeless Idol. Think a moment. If superstardom is the criterion, where does that leave the rest of us?

The young students lobbied harder. A superstar success story would surprise, grab attention, provide motivation to fund programs for those experiencing housing instability. I wondered how they would feel about applying that same criteria to their own lives? Fund physical education in the local elementary schools? Show me your Harrison Barnes. Want a strings program? Where is your Joshua Bell? Math for everyone? Enumerate your Einsteins.

Jan. 27, 2010. It was the annual Point-In-Time Count. On this date, volunteers in counties across the state headed into the cold and dark to help count our homeless neighbors. Funding is all about numbers: for people to count, people have to count. And so every year, volunteers, police, and service providers head out with food and hot drinks to number the unsheltered. It was not a traumatic moment of reckoning for us; it was enumerating those of others.

Earlier that day, my friend Teri was gathering donated items for the event in Winston-Salem. A homeless man offered to ride with her to retrieve the remaining donations.

As they drove, he shared his story. He used to be a "Soul Train" dancer. "Soul Train!" Kicks, flips, locks, and splits. Years of instability and addiction had eroded some, but not all, of his skills.

Teri asked if he still danced.

"No," he replied. "But if I get a little bit of oil, I can bust a few moves!"

They laughed. He went on to share how being gay, and being subjected to his family calling him "all kinds of punks and fags," had affected his life.It is no surprise that gay youth are at a high risk for homelessness. He cried, wiped his tears, and apologized. He was a gentle soul. He had, as he said, "a crying spirit."Teri put some Billy Porter in the CD player. They sang loud and off-tune, laughing at each other while "Why We Sing" rocked the Jeep.

For that sweet ride they were neither male nor female, gay nor straight, housed nor homeless. They were happy, praising, laughing, and singing loud off tune. That is how Teri described it.

Teri is a superstar. One of the most generous spirits you will ever meet, she is a published poet who survived poverty, abuse, and family mental illness. She knows homelessness. She was there more than once, fleeing the abuse of a spouse, a veteran with too much training in the violent arts and too little support in discarding those once he left the military. It is another familiar story.

If you listen to these women, men, and children speak, you will be struck dumb by sheer amazement that they have survived the trauma of their life and are willing to walk forward with hope. They shine. They are superstars.

People Count. Not because they are different from us but because they are just like us. Only, maybe more resilient. We are the richer for hearing their actual, unadorned stories. Without their alternative perspective, our understanding of America is impoverished and incomplete. We don't need spin. We only need their voices.