everything else is shoestring
Prologue: I write these stories by hand, first. It feels good to hold the pen in my hand, smell the ink, hear the scribbles. It's a nostalgia, of sorts, flinging me back to the few soft moments of my childhood. I wrote this one by hand, too. I wrote this one by hand, staring down at my notebook through blurry eyes.
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When I was in college, a roommate skipped out on a $330 phone bill. One day after work, my boss and I were sitting in her jungle-book backyard drinking boxed wine and talking life. I told her about the roommate and that I’d called the phone company to arrange a payment plan, expressing relief that they were accommodating a student who had no back-up resources. She said I handled it well, and we moved on, as we would do. Weeks later, the next bill arrived with a zero balance. My boss had silently written the phone company a check, and when I approached her to set up a payment plan with her, she said “When someone needs something and you have it to spare, it’s up to you to fulfill that need.”
That was my first lesson in paying it forward. That is a guideline I model, both selflessly and selfishly. It feels good to do good.
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We locked eyes - mine bright and dancy like the music I was playing in my kitchen mere minutes before, hers taxed. Weary. Enervated. I didn't mean to highlight an already-stark contrast in our circumstances. I was on autopilot.
I was driving to a yoga studio where I would air hug my students through masked hellos, where I would empower my students to expand their limits, where I would remind them that impossibilities can become possibilities with a little exploration and perseverance. Where I would be paid to do something I love. What a privilege.
I was thinking all of these things, as I do on the way to class, when we locked eyes. She was sitting on the southeast corner of Classen and 36th Street, an intersection plenteous with traffic - doubtlessly a strategic choice, that day. Perched against her arm was a little girl - maybe four or five - eyes closed, mouth agape; and in her lap, rested a tiny boy. A man stood several feet in front of them, donning a sleek, warm coat, thick gloves, and a sign that read 'Covid hurt us. Can you please help?'
Stationed slightly south, he was actually first in my line of vision, though my eyes would meet hers within the same heartbeat. On autopilot, I smiled. And then I averted my eyes. Me. Driving to a job I love, staring at the world through my windshield. Her. Newly homeless, hoping for compassion, staring at the world through her Covid prism.
I had nothing but an empty water bottle and a library book with me. The light turned green, and I continued north. Gratitude for my circumstances gave way to guilt, gave way to sadness for hers.
Like any real metro of any real size, any busy intersection can serve as a reminder of privilege. Like any real metro of any real size, any busy intersection illuminates the homelessness crisis in Oklahoma City. I've spent twenty years on a quiet crusade to offer warmth and nourishment, passing granola bars and gloves from my car window, gathering coats for donation racks, bringing nonperishables to shelters. The human side of me feels a heaviness when I reach into my bag of goods, but the human side of me also lightens as I drive away. Every time I leave, I do so with the twisted reassurance that those without a roof are largely roofless because of mental health issues. Experience and experts tell me that they don’t feel desperation the same way I would. Somehow, even with mental illness in my family, this is a comfort. This is erroneous justification for unthinking forward motion.
Guilt permeates me as I admit to this out-of-sight-out-of-mind pattern, right now.
Thirty-six hours ago, I locked eyes with a woman who is fully witted, fully understanding, fully feeling her situation. Thirty-six hours ago, I guiltily retracted a habitual smile, and thirty-six hours ago, I felt a new and lingering sort of shame.
I had never seen a homeless child before. Now, I will never unsee it.
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I loathe pontifical writing, but often there is value in embracing things we loathe. I considered this as my pen moved across the page, today. I considered the self-righteous perception that comes from reading kumbayah, let's-all-hold-gloved-hands-and-love-one-another stories. I almost closed my journal and left my thoughts there, partially processed, waiting to dissipate into the next awkward smile, when a line from another entry caught my eye: "May it be of benefit."
Five simple words. Five simple words that when strung together, become powerful in intent. It is this power that feels like permission, like urgency, even, to share all of the words before.
That exchange, less than a heartbeat in time, was a reminder that buried beneath sleek coats, political affiliations, and social media profiles, we are the same. We have a practical need for nourishment and warmth, and we have an emotional need for kindness and connection; and in these Covid times, these needs are unmet for far too many.
I think that’s what this is: a reminder to purposefully lock eyes with someone and smile, even if that’s all you have to offer in the moment; a reminder to give more when you have it; a reminder that we are humans, first, and everything else is shoestring, really.
