There was the guy in Portland, Oregon outside the NE Broadway Safeway. He had a dog and a black garbage bag full of stuff. Long stringy hair, middle aged, skinny. I saw him often in the evening after I was leaving work and looking for a bus to catch. Those evenings were blue, blue, blue. I have to question if he even existed. To most people to appeared to be begging for money. To me, he was invocation to some sort of blue magic. He sang. He crooned. It rang through the streets. I was flabbergasted that it was happening. If I was on my bicycle I would sing as well, loudly, because he wouldn’t know who it was. Every time I saw him, I wanted to join him. I wanted to sing a jazz duet with him, croon, and maybe even waltz on the actual road. I was so close on so many occasions. What is it that stops us from celebration?
In Colorado Springs — there was a man I saw often at the same places I visited. Library, Pikes Perk, various downtown parks, Old Colorado City, etc. I felt like we were best friends, though we never really visibly acknowledged each other or interacted. He must have been in his 60s-70s. He appeared to be homeless, or at least negligent of his appearance and as wild as the wind, with wrinkles in his face as deep as the Grand Canyon, with a slender frail body that regardless suggested a strength and resilience. I liked him. He looked mean, but I liked him. I don’t know why. I dreamt of taking him on a picnic, singing bird songs, and asking lots of questions. I have no idea why. One day I gave him colorful string and a marble. He looked at me disbelievingly, hilariously, questioningly — Thank You, he said with a sly smile. I felt my face turn hot red and I walked away
In Denver, I lived in the middle of it all, three buildings away from famous Colfax. I was lost lost and wild free and I don’t know how I existed. I spent much time dreaming, walking around 3 am downtown writing poetry, never sleeping, writing letters, singing, doing art, and eating blueberries. There was a guy, maybe my age, I had never seen him before. He asked for something, I can’t remember what he asked, but I gave him something, I can’t remember what I gave. He said, who are you, I think you are an angel. I thought the same of him. I never saw him again.
I think in part these are pieces of me meeting myself, and my dad. There’s a part of me that is feral and unfit for normal everyday life, despite my efforts of trying. I’ve cried at this realization, when surviving in normal ways is so hard for me to integrate. My dad raised me in my early years, but I might as well been raised by wolves, and I have no regrets. He was just a kid, and an eccentric one at that. We were kids together. My dad stayed at home, and he homeschooled me. He liked to study religion, language, and cooked enough split pea soup to feed an army. We watched Pocahontas and movies about leprosy that still scar me. He took me for drives for driving sake at 5 AM. He’d take me to read to people living in old folks home.
In Milwaukie, Oregon, there was the man of the sea, drenched and dried from being shipwrecked right in the middle of Safeway’s Starbucks seating area. I had seen him many times. I liked him and wanted to take care of him. I couldn’t tell what he might be like. He looked very dirty. Maybe in his 70s. He had a bicycle. I once gave him some “hot hands,” an emergency blanket, and a Slim Jim. “What is this, a Slim Jim?!” sHYLY I reponded, ”Yes.” I couldn’t tell how he’d react. I was trying to explain what an emergency blanket was. He told me that the night before his tent caught rain, and that his sleeping bag was totally soaked. He smiled. “You see, this is a miracle. Thank you.” I was shy and unsure and wish there was more I could do. I asked the people I lived with if they’d be OK with him showering there. No. I dropped it.
The worst was when I missed the bus and saw the guy with the skateboard crying uncontrollably sitting inside a bus stop shelter. His face was swollen twice the size of a normal face. Snot, tears, and blood everywhere. Everyone was keeping their distance, pretending he wasn’t there. The authenticity of his vulnerability and crying disarmed me, and I had a hard time being scared or hesitant. “Hey…are you OK?” He started shaking and crying harder. He must’ve been maybe a couple years older than me, but he seemed 7 years old. “Some guy tried to kill me.”
That was the beginning of my own unravelling, or another piece of it. Something I think is this, never judge where or who a person is, you don’t know who they were before. I’ve been unravelling for years now, becoming pieces of a human I don’t quite know. Blank and not quite there at times, closed off and protective beyond words. I’m recovering here and there though.
I think something that imprisons humans more than anything is our individual hatred and apathy towards each other. I’ve been that guy crying in the bus stop at various parts in my life. Have you? I hope for you that you haven’t.
Though that encounter started a breakdown of sorts, I am glad I could be there for him. I gave what I could, from my heart and without fear, unconditionally and without needing to be a judge and jury. I took him to the store, got him snacks, drinks, asked him what other resources he needed; Hospital? Pain killers? Shelter? You do what you can and hope that the rest will sort itself out somehow, by some divine intervention, social justice, or both.
If you see my friends on the streets, please understand that within each individual there is a person, with a history, with a story, and who needs your non-judgemental acceptance. What you see, may not be what you get! Please also understand that some people prefer to live outside, for various reasons, and that doesn’t exclude them from needing protection, resources, and your humanity and consideration. This isn’t to say, give everything you have away. Sometimes holding the space to not project anything onto someone, is enough. Giving people the space to be without making some comment or judgement about their situation, about which you really do not know the first or last thing.
Some people are wild at heart, some people are afraid of other people and money, some people are sick, and some people don’t know what they’re doing, bless them. The streets, as well as neighborhoods and other communities, should be safe for all of us, regardless of our living choices or circumstances. We should be able to trust ourselves and one another to live freely.
My favorite thing to do if in a homeless-heavy area is carry around a bunch of ready-to-eat bananas. I know this may sound odd, but did you know that many addictions as well as health issues can actually be result of lack of healthy energy source for the liver and brain? Bananas are easily digestible, nutritious, hydrating, and a quick easy source of energy. Maybe half of the people you hand bananas to will look at you like you’re silly, but just assure them that it’ll make them feel better and give them energy. Bananas have saved my life on many occasions. Depending on how many bananas you have, maybe you can consider handing bananas to non-homeless people too.
Buy organic bananas. They’re only a quarter or so more, and it makes people feel like you give a darn.
Watt Childress says
Thank you Katrina for this heartfelt tribute to the power of gifts — material, social, and spiritual. Humanity turns on basic respect, our axis mundi. Your words here are themselves a gift that remind us of our shared opportunity to actualize the golden rule.
Mention of bananas revives a memory. Jennifer and I were driving through the country one Sunday afternoon, enjoying an outing with the kids. We passed a fellow on the side of the road who definitely looked like he could use a friendly gesture. Stopped to ask him a question, and in the course of our conversation said we had some extra organic bananas if he wanted them. A month of so later we ran into him again and learned that he had strict dietary needs, very limited finances, no transportation, and had been unable to get to a place where he could obtain his favorite food. At that moment those bananas were a special kind of blessing, which ultimately became a building block for meaningful relationship.
Katrina Nguyen says
Fitting story, Watt, thank you for sharing. Something else about bananas: an intuitive nutritionist I follow has spiritual and emotional healing insights for fruits and veggies that he shares. Bananas, according to him, helps with PTSD. Well, we can’t say for sure whether or not this is true, but in any case, they’re great to hand out.
I myself have quick metabolism, am a heavy thinker and burn up a lot of energy that way, and have some other things going on with energy. I’ve been known to eat like 4-5 bananas in one sitting for a snack ha. It really helps me. When I lived in the city and running around on bus and bike, they practically saved my life. I experienced firsthand how helpful they can be. That’s why I liked to hand them out.