Reciprocal Honor next to the bridge.

Yesterday afternoon something happened to me. Something pretty cool, and kind of magical, although most probably wouldn't see it like that.

Let me paint you a picture.

I'm homeless. That's just a fact. I don't tell you this to elicit sympathy or beg for a donation. I don't do that. It's not my thing and it's not the purpose of this blog. I tell you this because I want you to be able to see what happened, and because it's relevant to the magical thing that happened to me, and because it's relevant to the story.

I stay at Shelter Services shelter on East Huntington Drive in Flagstaff AZ.

Being homeless makes me different but not weird.

Still, I am weird, of that there is no doubt. I'm not ‘dangerous’ weird, or ‘predatory’ weird. I'm not a danger to myself or others. More like that egg shaped hand blown bottle weird. I just happened when the other bottles were being blown. The other 11 bottles fit perfectly into the wooden crate, but me, I don't fit quite as well, I can be jammed into the wooden crate, I hold water ok, I can even have a lid pressed onto me, seal soundly and keep my contents fresh. I'm just different, I was blown that way. The creator paused a little too long in my rotation, and now I'm closer to being oval than round. I can pass, I'm still effective, but I just don't fit quite right. Maybe quality control was feeling magnanimous, or was on break, or just not paying attention, either way here I am.

I am not social. I am not friendly. I am not mean or rude, just kind of non-participatory. More of a viewer. I watch and I learn and when I see something that interests me I write it down. I'm hyper-aware of my environment. I pointedly keep my mind clear, and struggle to maintain a non-judgmental attitude, not because I am noble or unusually good, but because I am rational and as such, if I can hope that the world doesn't judge me, the least I can do is not judge them.

Being the odd shaped bottle, I am naturally noticed. I am briefly examined by most people who are paying attention, picked up, and then put back on the shelf when the next interesting thing comes along. I want to be that one thing on the shelf at the flea market or in the vintage shop, that just exists, dusted from time to time, but an unnoticed constant just the same.

As you can imagine, that bottle would have some stories to tell, and so do I.

At about 2:30 every day, 90% of the people who use or stay in the shelter, are asked to leave for an hour.

During this hour we wait in the parking lot. The staff clean the shelter, search the yard and shelter for contraband, booze, drugs, weapons, and things like that. Dinner is delivered by the Flagstaff Family Food Center truck, and unloaded and placed in the hotbox to be served at 6pm.

At 3:30pm everyone lines back up, we are checked back in, personal property is re-searched, for contraband, and we are allowed back into the compound randomly assigned beds for the night, and the cycle begins again.

This is all context, thank you for your patience, we're almost to magic time.

I have never been around more Native Americans in my life than I am right now. Their culture, their shared history, the patterns that still shape how they gather and speak—all of it interests me. Not out of sympathy or guilt, but because I watch. I notice. What was done in the past was not done by me, and I cannot undo it. So I leave the pity and the apologies to others and simply observe what is in front of me.

As I mentioned before, I am a watcher, a societal voyeur. I've always prided myself on this trait, if for no other reason, then I see things other people don't.

So yesterday during this hour out, I drifted over by the bridge next to the shelter where the natives gather. There is a nice breeze there.

This ability to drift into that gathering is something I have cultivated carefully over the last 2 or 3 weeks. When I first got here one of the first people to 'see' me was a huge native named Travis. By see me, I don't mean his gaze passed over me, but he 'saw' me, he noticed me. He spoke to me. He was kind to me. Not just in my general direction, but to me in particular.

I have trouble approaching people I don't know. I over think it. I analyze commonalities, I weigh and measure the possible upsides to the socialization, and compare it to the possible downsides. Lots of times this process takes more effort than any potential upside to the interaction, so I just walk away and call it good. It's not easy being Solomon, but I just keep doing it day after day.

Anyway I drift into the circle. I don't speak, I'm just a presence they have grown comfortable with, despite being 6'1" tall, 260lb white, bearded, man among them.

Some are giving me the side-eye, and I don't blame them. I notice they are passing a 1.75 glass bottle of Absolut Vodka, between them, there are between 10 and 12 of them, and me, the other guy.

I usually don't drink. I'm not against drinking, it's just not a priority for me. I don't smoke weed either, or use any drugs, it's just not my thing. I don't judge, I'm not a snitch. I'm just a very controlling person when it comes to myself. I don't feel safe enough in my environment or in my life to not maintain strict self control, and complete situational awareness.

I leaned against the rail to the bridge and watched and listened as the Indians passed the bottle from man to man and man to woman, right down the row, as they sat on the edge of the sidewalk with their backs to the street.

Each removed the lid, took a swallow of the vodka, said a few words, in appreciation of the vodka, or in gratitude to the person who brought the bottle, replaced the lid, and passed it to the next, sometimes the words were spoken in English, sometimes they were spoken in Navajo, and the rest of the group, listened carefully to each proclamation as if they were wise words, and divine wisdom, passed down from on high.

I saw past the surface of the gathering. I saw past the passing of the bottle. I saw a ritual, an inherent procedure, a hardwired mutually respected way, that they, as a people, do things that I had never witnessed before.

And then they saw past my own cloak of invisibility, past my camouflage of mediocrity, and offered me a swallow.

There was no self-talk, no risk cost analysis, it was an honor, and as such I was humbled. Of course I said yes, not because I wanted the vodka, but because for a moment I was welcomed into the circle, I was seen, I was appreciated, and it was magical. I wasn't seen as a native, but I was seen as a man with honor, and welcomed by men with honor. It was truly magical.

Solomon Swaney

Inaugural Post for Flagstaffunseen

 

"Psst… hey buddy, let me show you something. Let me show you something that’s all around you, that you see every single day, but you probably haven’t seen at all.

Take it easy. I’m not asking you for anything, just a few minutes of your time. You don’t see my hand out, do you? I wouldn’t accept anything from you even if you offered it, and that’s the truth.

I’m actually offering you something—a bit of knowledge, a bit of understanding—because in this world, a world that’s hidden in plain sight, our numbers are growing, and with every moment your world and mine are getting closer together, not further apart.

Knowledge is power and understanding is critical.

If you don’t believe that, you will in time."

The intention of this blog isn’t to elicit charity. You will find no link to contribute here. If you are looking to give, there are plenty of places to do that. Just not here, and not on my page.

"I want to tell you about a population that exists right here in Flagstaff my population, to be honest, one that you see so much that you no longer see it, like shadows, or ravens, or even Mt. Elden."

I pause my spiel. 

Together, we lean against the short block wall at the end of North Fourth Street, and you wait patiently as I pull a small Ziploc sandwich bag from my pocket holding a pack of Top papers and a few inches of cigarette tobacco. You watch as I roll a smoke, feel self-conscious about staring, and instead look across 4th at the Eat ’n Run and the little unofficial park—the grassy, tree-covered area on the corner, on the point of the old real estate building with the little wall and two scattered boulders. You notice the three men sitting there eating their sack lunches, smoking, and bullshitting. After lighting my smoke, I begin to speak again. You are a little bored, busy, and have other things to do and places to be. I get that; just bear with me for a moment.

“Those are homeless people eating their lunch. There’s a place back on Second Street across from La Fonda Mexican Restaurant, known as Second and Second. They give out sack lunches every day. The lady that serves them at the window is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t toss the sack to the homeless; she asks questions, makes limited conversation, and treats them like customers just without the money. She serves more than sandwiches; she serves dignity. If the homeless can’t get a sandwich for a day or even two, they will be okay. When the homeless aren’t served a little dignity, it will kill them stone dead. Not instantly, but bit by bit, like a parasite, or cancer, something that eats you from the inside out.

Wanna see something else? Close your eyes for a second. I know it doesn’t make sense, but do it. When you open them, we will no longer lean against the block wall on Fourth.

We’re sitting at a broken-down picnic table behind the Flagstaff Shelter on East Huntington Drive, tucked beneath a massive canopy of elevated solar panels.

Look around. We're inside a seven-foot cinder block wall. That building used to be a fire station before the city renovated it. The old apparatus bays are glass now, with regular doors cut into the frames. To our right, Mt. Elden and an indifferent blue sky loom right over the compound.

There are fifteen people scattered across this yard, another forty-five packed inside the building, and twenty more camped out in the parking lot with everything they own piled around their boots like ballast.

Right now, I’m sitting at this very picnic table typing these words. Every few minutes, a staff member steps out the glass door and calls a name. Someone gets a towel, a shower, a change of clothes from the closet. Cleanliness handed out in measured doses.

It’s not a prison—the cyclone gate stays wide open ninety-nine percent of the time. But don't mistake an open gate for freedom. Out here, the walls aren't built to keep you in. They’re built to keep the rest of the world from having to look at you.”

In front of the table, and to the left, in that very spot, a man died last week. No one noticed until everyone else was awake and moving and he wasn't. His blanket hadn’t moved, and when it was time to turn in the sleeping bags the shelter had lent out the night before to the people who chose to sleep in the yard, his demise was discovered.

This isn’t fiction, and it’s not a story. I’m sure you could verify it if you wanted to. I won’t say his name because of his dignity. He wasn’t my friend, but we had spoken. He was old and in bad health, and he lay dead while I wrote, and smoked, and drank my coffee, less than twenty feet away from his remains.

Although this is tragic and horrible, it’s also life—daily life, right here in Flagstaff—to people you see every day, even when you try not to look.

Honestly, I’m not complaining, begging, panhandling, or insisting that I’m entitled to better.

Except for one thing.

He deserved better. Not a better life, or even a better death, but his dignity should have been a priority, even after he passed. He didn’t just cease to be a human being upon his death.

After the  legally mandated attempt at CPR on his long-dead body, he should have been covered, or at least screened from the lookie-loos, myself included. He should have been immediately transported instead of left right where he lay, with his shirt open and his body exposed, while we, waited for what seemed like hours for the medical examiner and coroner's van.

I could go on and on, but I won’t; that’s enough for today.

In closing, I want to say thank you. Thank you, Flagstaff. Thank you, Flagstaff Shelter Services. Thank you, Second and Second. Thank you for the little clearing on 4th Street, for the dignity, the understanding, and the empathy that this community provides to this vulnerable population, for whatever reason the population exists. If you are interested in learning more about this world that is hidden in plain sight, I will try to post at least once a week.

What?

No, no, no, put your dollar back in your pocket. Like the clouds over Mt. Elden, the blue sky, the ravens, or a sudden downpour during the monsoons, this simply is. Thanks for looking.

Solomon Swaney

please, please, please, leave a comment! I honestly have the attention span of a 6 week old lab puppy, and I crave attention and engagement