"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
No comments:
Post a Comment