This Is the World We Live In: Reflections of a Reluctant Adult in the World

 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.