Last night on 6th Street a woman came toward me in a wheel chair and said, "Hey mama, you got some change?" She was African American, maybe in her forties, missing a front tooth or two. Her leg was bandaged. I was reaching into my pocket to see what I had and she said, "Got shot four times. Here, let me show you," and started pulling up her shirt. "It's okay," I said and handed her a dollar. But I saw her stomach wound all bandaged up.
Shit. Getting shot and killed is one thing. It's over then. No more trying to scratch out a living on the street. But to get wounded and live on the street? I never thought of that. That seems way worse.
The woman looked up at me as I handed her the dollar like I was some kind of hero. I smiled and kept walking. "Mama, come back! I need to talk to you!" she said as I kept walking away. "There's something else I gotta show you!" I looked over my shoulder. She was straining in her wheel chair to see me. "I gotta go," I said and kept walking.
We walked past junkies with sad sunken faces. Those are mostly white people. Sometimes they look like "regular" people from behind, then as you walk past you see their shriveled faces. Aged and collapsed around a mouth that has few teeth or none.
A man walking across the street reached down and picked up a lit cigarette butt and smoked the last of it. We turned the corner and there were the usual suspects that live or just lurk on our street. OG Will was tucked into the doorway of the Marinello Beauty School. Every time we see him he says, "Another day in paradise."
I'm used to it. I'm used to seeing people pissing against a wall in broad daylight. I don't often see people shitting but there is evidence every day that some people have no other place to go. We joke about it, but I imagine there is a line people cross the first time they have to take a dump and there is no place to go except right on the sidewalk or between two cars. None of them were raised to do that. Even if they were dirt poor. But a lot more people than you'd think have crossed that line, at least in my neighborhood.
People crouch in the doorway together, one lighting a pipe for the other to suck hard before whatever they are smoking is gone and they have to go looking for more. Something to give their lives a fleeting moment of joy or at least relief. I understand that.
People buy and sell sex for the same reason. I've seen someone giving another person head between two parked cars on my street.
People often talk to themselves on my street. Or yell at unseen other people, maybe their mother or someone who left them behind or ripped them off or who didn't love them enough. Sometimes people scream and cry for hours while they pick through a trash can looking for something lost that can never be found.
I really try to see these people. I try to make eye contact. I know it's not "recommended." But it's my instinct to acknowledge them. To recognize their humanity even for one moment. I feel safer when we can see each other.
I'm not sure what more I want to tell you. It's almost Thanksgiving and cold outside. I wish there were more I could do to help my neighbors. I'm going to think of something.
Shit. Getting shot and killed is one thing. It's over then. No more trying to scratch out a living on the street. But to get wounded and live on the street? I never thought of that. That seems way worse.
The woman looked up at me as I handed her the dollar like I was some kind of hero. I smiled and kept walking. "Mama, come back! I need to talk to you!" she said as I kept walking away. "There's something else I gotta show you!" I looked over my shoulder. She was straining in her wheel chair to see me. "I gotta go," I said and kept walking.
We walked past junkies with sad sunken faces. Those are mostly white people. Sometimes they look like "regular" people from behind, then as you walk past you see their shriveled faces. Aged and collapsed around a mouth that has few teeth or none.
A man walking across the street reached down and picked up a lit cigarette butt and smoked the last of it. We turned the corner and there were the usual suspects that live or just lurk on our street. OG Will was tucked into the doorway of the Marinello Beauty School. Every time we see him he says, "Another day in paradise."
I'm used to it. I'm used to seeing people pissing against a wall in broad daylight. I don't often see people shitting but there is evidence every day that some people have no other place to go. We joke about it, but I imagine there is a line people cross the first time they have to take a dump and there is no place to go except right on the sidewalk or between two cars. None of them were raised to do that. Even if they were dirt poor. But a lot more people than you'd think have crossed that line, at least in my neighborhood.
People crouch in the doorway together, one lighting a pipe for the other to suck hard before whatever they are smoking is gone and they have to go looking for more. Something to give their lives a fleeting moment of joy or at least relief. I understand that.
People buy and sell sex for the same reason. I've seen someone giving another person head between two parked cars on my street.
People often talk to themselves on my street. Or yell at unseen other people, maybe their mother or someone who left them behind or ripped them off or who didn't love them enough. Sometimes people scream and cry for hours while they pick through a trash can looking for something lost that can never be found.
I really try to see these people. I try to make eye contact. I know it's not "recommended." But it's my instinct to acknowledge them. To recognize their humanity even for one moment. I feel safer when we can see each other.
I'm not sure what more I want to tell you. It's almost Thanksgiving and cold outside. I wish there were more I could do to help my neighbors. I'm going to think of something.
Wish I was there. I would do a cookie brigade with you. (or better yet cupcakes--because I love that word more). Sometime when you can't fix the big problem a sweet taste on the tongue is the only available balm.
ReplyDelete