Mar 16 2007
Everyone Has Some Pride
I was walking in the warehouse district one afternoon. It’s near the freeway and several overpasses intersect above.
The area isn’t bad during the daytime: people are going about their business secure in their self-contained units.
A man with dark shiny hair held in a tight ponytail stands on a traffic island. He’s about my age and he holds a cardboard sign. His back is towards me. I don’t know if he holds a message of entreaty or warning.
The overpass casts a large shadow and its support columns straddle the street I’m crossing. The columns are adjacent to a chain-linked fence and the area between the fence and the columns holds either a tent or sleeping bags. A grocery cart heaped with dingy bundles acts as a door.
The sidewalks are spotted with blackened gum and bird droppings. The area stinks of urine and motor oil.
The weather is unseasonably and wonderfully warm. As I walk by the long windowless wall of one of the warehouses I see a pristine piece of cardboard as big as a door tucked against an alcove.
A man in shiny jeans and a grayish white ribbed tank top is lying on top of it, facing the wall. I skim my eyes over him feeling ashamed. I can’t see his face and I’m trying not to stare but he doesn’t seem old.
He looks so vulnerable, like a little boy: his knees are tucked in and his head is resting on one curled arm.
I see papers in his back pocket and surprisingly, the wide handle of a comb.
I feel ashamed by my surprise. Lacking a home doesn’t mean you lack pride or dignity.