The Invisibles
I'm blogging from ISTE, which I'll talk
more about in a bit (maybe after a break?), along with an attempt at
explaining (or at least giving some pointers/links) the sporadic,
disjointed, and whatever else path that this blog has taken, for
folks who just arrive.
And I really DO want to blog about
ISTE. It'll help give a picture of what's happening to the folks at
school who sent me (though I probably won't give the direct link!) …
it'll help me retain and process all that I experience, learn, and
imagine … it'll help me connect more with people I meet here
(hopefully!), as well as (even more hopefully!!!) reconnect with my
BlogWorld from “before” --- I've really felt that hole at times. I know “Educational Technology Training” and “Nun Myth
Dispelling” don't really overlap, and wondered if I should start
anew once more but … as always … I didn't get around to it. I
don't see myself turning “All Teacher, All The Time”, so who
knows what direction this will take. I just really hope it takes
SOME direction, as opposed to the continued inertia of stagnation.
But first … the realization I had
walking back to the hotel from tonight's bowling session that, once
it hit me, I couldn't stop thinking about.
I've forgotten about the homeless.
Now, don't get me wrong. I know there
are people who are homeless. I do my best to get my students to
realize that “The homeless are people too,” to get them to at
least think about trying to help them. I get that. Heck,
periodically I even see some guy standing at the exit ramp from the
Watterson Expressway, with a little cardboard sign.
But that's it.
Please understand. I grew up in
suburban Maryland. A standard Sunday afternoon in my family growing
up was packing a picnic lunch and heading “Downtown” (Washington,
DC) for a trip to the zoo, or one of the museums (most often either
Natural History or Air & Space), or any number of the free
outdoor concerts by the National Symphony or the service bands. As I
got older and went downtown, I was more and more struck by the
homelessness I saw. Here we were, in the capital of the world's most
wealthy and prosperous nation (at least at the time) … and yet you
have all these people living in the street. For one of the inaugurations, in fact, they had some overnight shelters remain open during the day and did some creative busing so that the world wouldn't see this dirty little side of DC.
But then I moved away. I don't go
“Downtown” anymore, so I don't see it. And while yes, I know,
Louisville has a sizable homeless population, it “looks”
different. It's not as obvious, and my paths don't cross into the
areas where perhaps they are more obvious. So I can remain
oblivious.
You can't miss it here, though. And
I'm not saying this as anything against San Diego, because I know
it's everywhere; although (at the risk of sounding horrifically
politically incorrect in oh-so-many awful ways) I'm guessing San
Diego's probably a decent place to be homeless in – at least the
climate's much more cooperative. But it's just been a long time
since I've seen it in this way. And I have almost a week of
continuing to see it in this way.
Walking to my hotel from the airport on
a beautiful sunshine-filled Friday afternoon, I the van for the San
Diego Police Homeless Outreach Team; a little further on I saw a park
where several seemingly-homeless folks were just kind of hanging out
– some napping, others “relaxing” in the grass … just
enjoying the nice day, if it weren't for the collection of belongings
nearby. Down by the marina, the walk was almost lined with people
sitting with cups for change nearby – some with cardboard signs,
some drumming, some just sitting in their wheelchairs. There were
also a couple tables of various crafts and jewelry, which I ignored
until I saw the sign about S.H.O.P. Until You
D.R.O.P.; I read that while the man at that table shared a little of
his story with some woman, and explain how every piece is unique,
since he just uses whatever he can find. There was another man there
making very cool palm creations. He had a huge poster describing
what he was doing, but it didn't feel right for me to take a photo of
it or him, but when a pigeon began exploring his work … I couldn't
resist.
I went across to Coronado Island,
repeatedly taking the … ahh … “scenic” route; upon getting
back to the ferry, I was so beat and tuckered that I had even put my
camera away (those of you that know me know what an absolute heresy
that is. ESPECIALLY if I'm giving up shots of the lit-up dusky San
Diego skyline! But I digress.). I stopped and picked up a few snacks
for the conference, and got take-out from a barbeque place right on
the landing to eat on the ride back; all I kept thinking was how
chilly it was and how “done” I was. Walking back to the hotel, I
saw a older man sitting on a bench, relatively near a tarp full of
stuff. I turned back around to offer him the corn on the cob from my
dinner – it was packaged separately, I had been too full to eat it,
SOMEONE should get some use out of it. He said no, and after I tried
a few more times, I gave up. As I turned back towards the hotel and
put the corn back in my Albertson's bag, I had two thoughts: (1) Who
am I to assume and/or insist that he eat my rejected cold corn on the
cob? (2) How exactly did this look to him – some random woman
rummaging through a translucent grocery bag with cereal and pretzels
to dig out some Styrofoam Box of Mystery, only to force the least
favored and most questionable upon him? What in the world was I
thinking?!?!?
This afternoon, there was someone
asleep in one of the corners of the convention center outdoor
balcony; tonight, there were two folks sleeping on the concrete next
to last night's Bench of Utter Insensitivity. In between there were
all sorts of other people, talking with one another or perhaps, if
alone, asking quietly for change.
Which … I pretended not to hear, and
kept walking.
Now, I'm not one of those people who is
afraid of the homeless (other than basic safety issues of a single
woman walking in a foreign city in the evening, which transcend
residential status), nor do I espouse the pseudo-moral question of
“Well, what is (s)he going to do with the money?” I don't
remember where, but a while back I came across someone addressing the
issue of “They're just going to use it on alcohol.” They used
the example of your stereotypical businessman: “You comes home,
you've had a rough day – what's one of the first things that you
do? That's right, you pour yourself a drink to unwind, take the edge
off.” While I am not making a statement on addictions, or proper
financial management, or anything else, I did find it to be very
interesting parallel food for thought – who are you to say that
this person shouldn't be able to unwind from what was quite possibly
a FAR more rough day than you? Likewise, when I was helping with
youth ministry in Maryland, and we were doing a day-long sensitivity
training with the kids before going to Appalachia. One piece that
go addressed was the fact that many of the houses we would be going
to repair might have satellite dishes, XBoxes, etc. While it may
seem like very skewed priorities, this might be the family's best
attempt at giving the kids a “normal” childhood; OR … while the
$50/month for DishTV might seem extravagant, putting that $50 towards
home repair instead isn't even a half of a drop in the bucket.
The lesson of that day? Who are we to
judge?
OK, so I can't play human ATM to every cardboard sign I see, but to continue the feigned blindness? Sure, sometimes I give a slight smile, a nod, a look … but a big grin doesn't necessarily feel right. “Have a nice day”? “Take care”? How does that not rub it in with hypocrisy? It's like the passage from James, asking what good it is simply to tell someone “Go in peace, keep warm, and be fed” when they have no food or clothing, without helping them. It is not only pointless; it can be condescending, patronizing.
And yet … who am I to judge their
alleged misery, too? Who am I to say that they're NOT “having a
good day”? Down by the marina, there was all sorts of conversation
and camaraderie. Granted, much of it seemed to revolve around
improper treatment by various shop clerks, but still – it was a
community. How many of those “more fortunate” have that
community with the people they encounter? Who am I to say how they
can spend what few dollars they have?
Who am I to say they want cold corn on
the cob?
And yet, I will continue to walk past
them. Every day, for the next five days. Several times a day, in
fact. And I will walk past them with my backpack on my back ... with
my Nikon D-60, 18-55mm lens, and 70-300 mm zoom lens … with my
(school-loaned) netbook and (school-loaned) iPad … with my Android
smartphone … with my cereal & pretzel snacks … with my boss's
credit card … with my own debit and credit cards, car insurance,
and everything else that makes me “normal” and “acceptable”
to the world. How can I NOT judge, NOT feel “better than”? How
can I NOT feel awkward, not feel guilty for having had better
circumstances?
As true as it is … somehow I'm not
sure they'd buy the standard line:
IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME.
