“I’m weak. I don’t feel well,” the thin woman with her long, unkempt gray hair that hung loosely down to her shoulders told us. “Maybe it was something I ate,” she added with her eyes drifting lower.
I looked down on the woman who was sitting bent over being crushed by her station in life. “When was that? The last time you ate, that is?” I asked her, eyeing her overflowing shopping cart suspiciously. If she ate something out of it, God only knows what microbes could be found among that stuff. She obviously was a recycler, a collector of society’s toss-away goods sometimes known as trash.
“Mind if I take your pulse,” Dr. J asked gently, reaching down and taking the woman’s thin arm into her hand.
“I ate last night,” our friend dreamily replied to my question.
“Pulse is good,” Dr. J. said, narrowing her eyes as she took in the visual vitals.
“Maybe it was the night before last,” the woman said her eyes clouding with doubt.
“That’s probably your problem; you’re weak from not eating,” I suggested.
“Oh, no,” she stated, a small laugh of uncertainty chasing her statement.
“No. It was three days ago,” she said more firmly, yet her face wrinkled with the effort to recall reality, one free from the obvious delusions that ran her life.
“Here, take this,” I told her as I handed over a meal ticket and a few bucks. “Get something to eat.”
An awkward smile, a downcast gaze was her reply.
When Dr. J. and I walked away to continue our journey, my mind was a jumbled battleground. Again — still, rumors and voices of discontent aimed at the homeless are being raised. Angry voices driven by fear are directed against those who serve the homeless and feed the poor. Plans are discussed as to how best to move the poor somewhere else — anywhere else rather than here. I wonder, trying to imagine where that might be. What city has the welcoming mat out for the casualties of the Great Recession? Who wants the mentally ill street survivors in their community? I try to envision the giant banner fluttering in the wind that states: We welcome the poor, the huddled masses ... I know better; fear rules the day.
Why is it that we can only address our fears and not the reality of the forces propelling the growing ranks of the poor and homeless? Why do we offer punishment rather than solutions? The poor and homeless do not wish to live such a precarious existence. They did not ask for the financial meltdown or the greed of Wall Street. They do wish that their lives were not on display before all, that they did not live in a fishbowl. They too wish they had four walls and a safe bed to sleep in.
Instead of basing our reactions on fear to whatever problems we think are negatively affecting us, why not seek true remedies? We need to begin with these questions: Why are there so many poor? Why are so many of our citizens without homes? Why are the mentally ill, the physically disabled, veterans wounded in body and spirit thrown so callously to the streets? Why don’t we look for true solutions rather than scapegoating those without money or power? We need to try to frame our discussion on the reality of the woman’s story above and “Diana’s” story below.
It took me years to establish enough trust with Diana before she would allow me within her moat of iron that protected her wounded self and mind. She was a large woman, casually dressed in layers of clothes that were baked with street dirt. I’m sure it had been years since a brush managed to make its way through her tangled hair. Her delusions of hidden wealth and a dysfunctional mental health system condemned her to years on our streets. One of her peculiarities was that she would easily dig through garbage and trash cans looking for days-old food but would refuse food bought by me to give to her.
This was driven home to me one day when I ran across her sitting on a bench in front of an upscale deli. I quickly ran in and bought her a sandwich. Sitting down next to her, I offered her the food. With her nose winkled and an on-guard look darkening her eyes, she refused it. Before I could say anything I noticed a cut on her forehead. She had obviously applied tissue to stop the bleeding but now the tissue was trapped with dried blood within the wound. Of course, my offer of securing her medical help was turned down.
Putting the sandwich down next to her, I again offered help, which was turned down, too. I got up, crossed the street and turned again, hoping against hope that she had taken the sandwich. With a wounded heart I saw her get up and walk away from the bench, leaving the sandwich behind. For whatever disabilities and delusional dysfunctions she had, she had the strength of a survivor — one had to give her that. Her heavy, framed body swayed from side to side, her stare was cemented to the ground below but the same sweet smile that was her calling card was glued onto her face.
I’m pretty sure in her more rational moments she wished she were housed, fed and clothed — that she wasn’t causing grief to others. She deserves better, as does the other women about. We all do.
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the past 30 years. He is the author of China White and Shattered Dreams, A Story of the Streets.
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