“And our bodies are earth, and our thoughts are clay, and we
sleep and eat with death.”
The
people of Homeless World Sacramento die frequently, with homelessness itself
seeming to be the plague that offs us. A lantern in a tent blows out and
two are asphyxiated from the gas. Their dog dies, too. A man’s face (and the brain that had
animated it) is destroyed from the blast of a gun. Over the course of a long
string of besotted years livers are poisoned by alcohol to the point of not
functioning. Death ensues. [Homeless persons don’t get liver transplants.]
The homeless dead are carried off in the motorized carts of modern day
and most are discarded in our day’s potter’s fields after being turned to ash.
Conventional
citizens die, too, of course. But their deaths are much less frequent.
They live longer, after all, and usually die quietly behind the veil of
hospitals and nursing homes. These deaths are sterile, offstage, and
followed by a dignified obituary. Things are wrapped up and sealed off in
a ritual.
Homeless
people die openly. Often tragically. And by causes unnatural.
Interventions to save the vulnerable are less available and less
successful out here than in the prim, swanky halls of
conventional citizens'.
Many
homeless people stake out paths to kill themselves and diligently stay apace on
their descent to oblivion. Denizens in homeless climes are more
histrionic and can be socially askew, and death frequently comes suddenly and
is -- up until the last breaths anyway -- unemotional. There’s nothing to cry about until you’re
gripped with fear.
“By the
description of the guy, it would seem to be either Casper or Overhill that died
on the light rail,” someone at the mission said. “People thought he was asleep.
It held up train service, through-out the system, for over an hour.”
“Overhill
had been falling out of his chair in chapel a lot in recent weeks,” I said.
“But
Casper hasn’t been around. He’d disappeared into the streets,” someone
responded. “I bet it’s him.”
It
turned out to be Overhill, whom I knew as ‘211,’ since that’s what he told me
to call him. Steel Reserve 211 was the name of the cheap high-alcohol
lager he drank in large quantities. 211 (the man) could do magic tricks with his
agile hands and dexterous fingers. He was truly amazing. When there
was call or opportunity for his trickery, 211 would sober up in an instant and
your dime or quarter would deftly disappear (into his pocket).
When I
first became homeless, over four years ago, Sacramento’s most prominent homeless people
were Gremlin and Chongo. It wasn’t their noticeable names that made them
foremost: Gremlin was a small, wirey soul with fiery red hair. He
was as absolute in his bravery as he was in his loyalty to friends.
Chongo
was known for his balance, his intelligence and fearlessness.I first saw him waiting for a 15 bus downtown.
He was weighted down with eight pieces of cases and bags, tied together
in a crazy bundle that all was twice his volume and three times his weight.
He was a famous rock climber who became a retired legend and long-time
homeless Sacramentan. He wrote the science column for SHOC’s homeless
newspaper, Homeward Street Journal.
When a
friend of Gremlin’s was attacked by a guy with a knife, Gremlin leaped into the
fray. Valiant Gremlin died; the friend didn’t.
Chongo,
death defier that he ever was, lives on. A very long New York Times article about the man tells us of his exploits across ropes at
high altitudes and climbing near-vertical and -impossibly-difficult slopes.
Today, he lives at the edges in Homeless World, proving all the more how
death cannot snatch him.
One
winter, kindly Bernice found a patch in Capital Park where she could sleep,
keeping her things nearby. A beast of a man, heavily tattooed, stabbed
her for no particular reason other than he could. She died. The killer, with
blood on him and his knife, was filmed by a hidden camera when he wandered past
a light-rail stop.
Lovely
Bernice, a small middle-aged black woman, was dead. I knew her only very slightly, but it was a
hard thing to get my head around.
--
The
quote that begins this essay is from the 1930 film version of All Quiet on the
Western Front.
Comments
I would want everyone's experience to improve such that it is healthy and happy. I say that in respect to both the residents of mid-downtown and homeless people (including myself) who frequently are there.
A lot of things are happening, currently. People are finding housing and the economy is improving. Maybe, maybe, things will get better from this.
How shelters can be moved, I don't know. The NIMBY circumstance persists. Nobody welcomes more homeless people moved into their neighborhood.
But I do honor your complaint, swingdancer. I know that there are rascals among the homeless and others that have lost their dignity. It is not right that you should have to put up with the all the mess. Though no fault of yours, your life experience is diminished.