City, Streets, People

Saturday was my first day of unemployment. It was also the day I went on a Street Retreat with the Faithful Fools, a "ministry of presence" in one of San Francisco's roughest and most notorious neighborhoods: the Tenderloin. I didn't have to be another color, age, or gender to have an intercultural experience. All I had to do was leave behind the trappings of privilege and wander into the the neighborhood. For a day, I became a part of the Tenderloin, and my neighbors embraced me.

Gerardo and David are homeless and stay at the Hospitality House. They saw me staring at the sculptures and watercolor paintings in the window. They smiled and asked what I was looking at. Then they told me that I could come back during the week and do artwork. "They'll give you the materials," they reassured me. "They'll give you support, too."

Krista and I crossed paths twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The second time I saw her, I was walking absentmindedly past a man waving a switchblade. I caught a strong whiff of marijuana in the wind. Krista shook her head and offered to walk me wherever I was going. On our way to Market Street, a panhandler asked her for spare change. She sneered in disdain. "Can't he see?" she remarked to me. "I'm out here, too. I'm hurting, too." I gave her a hug before we parted ways. "You look like a nice girl," she muttered, concerned.

An hour before the end of the retreat, an Asian fellow with a bowl haircut made me cry. He was sitting next to me on a bench outside the public library. I recognized him immediately as a regular at St. Anthony Foundation's Dining Room, where I volunteer twice a month. I also happen to have seen him sleeping in a doorway of a building on Market Street. As we sat quietly outside the library doors, he politely rejected offers of leftover food. He looked undisturbed, unassuming, even peaceful. His hair was dusty and unkempt, and there appeared to be a protrusion on his scalp. Every few seconds, his whole body convulsed.

I zipped up my rain jacket to hide tears. I ran into the library, then out again. I bolted towards City Hall, finally collapsing against a flagpole near the Victory Garden.

A woman passing by in an electric wheelchair asked me if I was all right. "Yes, thank you," I sputtered between sobs. "I mean, do you have someplace to live?" I didn't have breath to answer. She gave me her home address. "You're welcome anytime. It's just me and my son." I managed to nod and thank her. "You're not alone," she said as she turned her wheelchair and rolled away. I doubled over and wept.