I had hoped to have my kitchen counter clear of clutter,
polished to a shine, and ready for making holiday treats and feasts by now. But
instead, it is completely covered in gallon zipper bags, a case of water
bottles, fleece blankets, multi-packs of lip balm, peanut butter pods, sanitizing
hand wipes, breakfast cookies, tuna packets, potted meat pop-tops, squeeze
packs of applesauce, plastic spoons, tissues, Tide pods, and feminine hygiene supplies.
Why?
Because there are just too many people standing at street
corners, cold, hungry, lonely, and hopeless right now. So my second daughter
and I began building these bags of goods. Her friend Mia keeps several in her
car, so when she comes upon someone asking for help, she has something to
offer. The gift bags equip her with a kind of freedom we rarely think about.
With one of these in her car, she is free to make eye contact, to share a word,
to offer something more than a blank stare as she hits the accelerator. And if
it has to be this way, then I want to be like her.
At first, I thought I would just make four bags. But
researching protein sources led me to buy in bulk for dramatic per piece
savings and now the kitchen counter is swamped and I don’t know when or how I
will find that surface underneath again. Except that I know all these will be gone
too soon—because there are that many people out there, without their own tribe
picking up the pieces after it all fell apart.
None of them have the same stories—how they got there. In my
young adulthood, I always heard really simple summaries, assumptions really: It
was drugs. They get on drugs and they spend all their money and lose their jobs
and end up on the street. I have heard that story. It is the story for some, but
it’s not everyone’s story.
Some trusted the wrong person without a safety net of their
own. Some were scraping by, already on the margin working low-wage jobs in our
high-rent area, when >insert random trauma< happened, there was nothing to
cover the gap. For more than one, grief landed them here. Grief. Did you ever
think about that? “I was taking care of my mama,” says M as we stand shivering
on the pavement on a cold Saturday morning, “and then she died. I didn’t have
anyone left in the world after Mama died. I couldn’t live in that house without
her, so I came here. I had a job for awhile, but I lost it. I didn’t know how
to fill out the paperwork so I got that wrong. I think I got it right now, so
there’s some money coming, but until it gets here, I’m sleeping in the post
office or the bus station most nights. The shelters are full on cold nights.
Someone stole my backpack the other night. I lost my clothes.” He’s holding a
black trash bag now with a few “new” things in it. He picked them up here,
where donations are spread on a tarp.
He’s young. He looks strong and fit enough, but his teeth
are missing and he speaks with a strong local dialect. He’s not dirty, though
it’s surprising to me how it is that he’s stayed so clean on the streets for
the last week. He asks if there are any gloves. They’re all gone, the few that
were available taken already. The woman beside me whips off her own and gives
them to him without a thought. There’s another one. If it has to be this way,
then I want to be like her.
I think about my own company’s hiring processes—how much
alike everyone is. I wonder… if an accident took my two front teeth and I
couldn’t afford to get them repaired, would I be safe here? Would I ever be
hireable commensurate with my education, ability, experience, and aptitude if
my front teeth were gone—in this culture? Appearance matters so much. There’s
an assumption about where a person belongs based on how well they’ve been able
to care for their physical shell.
All the gift bags we assemble at home contain soft foods.
Nothing with seeds or grains. Not even soft oatmeal bars with their flaky,
grainy topping. Dental issues are rampant and many of these people are living
in pain, unable even to chew an apple. My former boss’s wife had an abscessed
tooth once. It went on for a long time, as they first tried homeopathic
treatment over the standard (and very expensive) root canal option. I had one
long ago too. I remember the intensity of the pain—and I lived with it only a
few days before getting it resolved. There was pretty good insurance back then.
My boss’s wife was in agony much longer. I remember talking with her about the
sense of being “shaken” that one has to work through after suffering tremendous
pain over time. There is a kind of trauma that you’re left with even when the
physical pain is over. And for many of these, it doesn’t get to be over.
I don’t have solutions. Something’s not working the way it’s
supposed to. The problem seems to be growing. Shelter is just not reachable for
far too many people—even the “working poor.” Just simple shelter. That doesn’t
even begin to address something like restorative health care. I can’t see where
I have much of anything to give into the problem, to make a real difference. I’m
thankful for those who do have resources and will use them—will use real estate
in this high-demand area to provide walls and a roof sometimes. I’m sure those
properties could be sold at enough profit to make some individual more than
safe, more than comfortable, but lavished in luxury. Somewhere, someone is
making a sacrifice, setting aside his or her own potential gain to serve those
who can give them nothing in return. I know there’s beauty in that. But I can’t
help but wish it didn’t have to be this way.
