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
