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written: Sunday, 15 November 1998, 1:23 am.
spinning: Enigma, "Callas Went Away".
Linda
So much pain, so much suffering ... we walk down the street, it stares us right in the face, and we just keep walking.Tonight as I walked with my friends down Market Street near 16th, I looked absent-mindedly down and was caught off-guard by a lone face staring up at me, quietly asking if we could spare some change. Her voice was low-key but steady, and she spoke in numbed, muted tones. Her eyes were pools of sadness and despair. I was taken aback, shocked at this image that passed into my field of view. As my friends and I walked past her, our conversation fell into silence. One of my friends pointed out how startlingly young she was -- she looked no older than 13. She seemed very much out of place there, huddled in the doorway of a shop on Market Street on this cold night. She wasn't a junkie, wasn't psychotic, wasn't off in her own world. She was a person. She was real.
I came back and sat down beside her, asked her if she was okay. She was so young -- it pained me. Her face was delicate, her olive skin smooth like a baby's. But she had the weary, toughened eyes of someone who has been through so much hardship, and acquired a certain necessary endurance to carry on. In barely those first few moments, I could see the somber resilience in those eyes, eyes that also lacked the youthful sparkle of simple happiness, of hope, of innocence.
I asked her if she had eaten today. She had, politely turning down my offer to buy her a meal at a cafe down the street. She looked like she was in decent health, although her face was dirtied up, as were her clothes, and she had that raw scent of someone who hadn't bathed in a while. She had a heavy jacket to protect her from the cold.
Linda is her name. She's from Nevada. Two years ago she ran away from her parents and her home, escaping unspeakable suffering at the hands of her father. She came to San Francisco because she remembered the family taking vacations here every summer when she was little, leaving her with fond, pleasant memories of this place. Those memories drew her here when she needed to quickly, intuitively select a destination, a way out of the hell she was trapped in. I told her she was wise to escape like she did -- it was the right thing to do. Her instinct for self-protection and survival was strong.
I asked her why she wasn't at a shelter. She said she doesn't like them -- most of the homeless that go there are mentally disturbed. Being there makes her feel too uncomfortable, like she somehow must be crazy too if she stayed there along with them. I told her that all different types of people seek out those places, that it was okay for her to as well. She also said she had some friends, also homeless, that she huddles with at night -- the four of them sleep together at a park or behind a bridge. She's lucky, I thought to myself, that she isn't totally alone.
She seemed to hear what I was thinking, saying that if she was alone, she would probably go seek out the shelters for protection. She sometimes gets harassed by speed freaks, or other homeless who think she is invading their little patch of territory, or guys who try to pick her up, assuming she would do them for a little cash. She told me it disturbed her that they would think that, that it starts to get to her sometimes. Being so young, I thought that she probably got this attitude way too often. I told her if someone thinks that about her when they don't even know her, it was their attitude and their problem, and remembering that would help it not to get to her so much. It had nothing to do with her, that they just think that way about anyone.
She mentioned another homeless girl who sometimes stakes out that stretch of Market as being "her territory", and confronts Linda when she finds her there. Linda gets scared when that happens, and always moves on. One time though, she told me, she got into an argument with that girl, and found herself pushing her in a moment of anger ... she told me she felt so awful inside when she did that, and went back to the girl later to say she was sorry. She felt better after she did that. I told her that other girl felt better when she apologized too. I told her we all slip into anger sometimes, not to let it beat her up inside, that the fact that she corrected her mistake afterward was so incredibly cool of her -- most people wouldn't bother, feeling better leaving things in that state of hurt. I admired her. Here was someone who had to endure living each day in desolation and fear, finding the courage to put respect and sympathy at the very top of her list. Our culture doesn't teach that -- where did she learn that?
She told me she carries mace, given to her two weeks ago by a friend who was originally going to sell it. Her voice strengthened as she talked about her new-found protector. We talked about the best and worst parts of town -- we agreed that the Market & Castro area was the friendliest, safest part of the city by far. She said the people here were the nicest. Never hostile. She liked staying here. I hoped she could stay there indefinitely, and not be forced to go downtown or to the Mission district.
We talked about the speed-freaks, how to spot them by a certain "voice" they have. They were the biggest problem for her, most likely to beat her up without a second thought. She was obviously clean; I asked her if any of her friends did speed. Two of them did on occasion. She didn't understand why they did it -- I told her maybe it was a quick, easy escape from the pain of their life and sadness, but that when they come out of it the cold return to reality is likely much harsher. Her path of dealing head-on with her reality was more wise.
I asked her if it was hard to find a job. She said that places don't want to hire her. Made sense, her being unbathed, wearing the same dirty clothes day after day. She was so bright and smart though. I could see behind her sparkless eyes and hear behind her hushed voice her potential, her capabilities. A healthy mind and good heart wasted. A casualty of circumstance.
I stayed with her for about an hour, as the late-night strollers down Market walked by. Most ignored her. She said that it hurts so much sometimes when they ignore her. The sense of isolation, sitting on this sidewalk with countless people silently moving by, was a sobering feeling. Occasionally I would look up, now seeing it from her perspective. I saw a couple arm-in-arm, the woman looking over her shoulder at Linda as they passed, concern etched into her eyes. At another point, a young guy crossed the street specifically to give Linda a dollar. It was nice; she didn't even ask.
I didn't want to intrude by staying too long -- her solitude was also her privacy. But it was so hard to leave her side. I wanted so much to help her -- I asked her if there was anything she needed right now, anything I could do. She said no; she looked briefly into my eyes and thanked me for wanting to help. It was the most restrained, and at the same time the most sincere thank-you I have ever received. I knew that virtually no one stops to talk to her like this.
I gave her my phone number -- if she ever found herself in a jam, without her friends & needing help, to call me without hesitation. I wanted to offer her more. I wanted to buy her some clean clothes, have her use my washer & dryer once a week to keep them clean, so she could get a job, get some money to get her going, maybe enough to sublet a room somewhere. I wanted to give her multiple phone numbers of many friends she could turn to in case I wasn't around to get her call. But the worn, worldly look in her eyes told me she would probably endure on her own, taking care of herself.
I guess above all I wanted her to know she never has to feel alone. But in a life where hundreds of people pass her by every day, month after month, this idea would be the farthest, most distant kind of pipe dream.
Vince Mora
San Francisco, CA
November 14, 1998