What we do… my friend, Bernard
When I saw him the first time, he was sitting with his back to us. It was our usual Thursday evening burrito/socks/toiletries/laugh a lot/tell stories (some of which are true)/hear stories (some of which are true) hang out in Pioneer Square time. He obviously didn’t know that we were there. Or didn’t care. Or…
INFP (Meiers/Briggs). Lots of feelings, some perceptions, a bit of intuitiveness. A near fatal dose of introversion… that’s me in a nutshell. So I’m looking at this guy. Raggedy, visibly dirty, scroungy backpack, tattered black garbage bags, hunched over with the telltale slouch of chronic low self-esteem. Just sitting, hoodie pulled up around his face. What to do? I could turn back to the safe, warm, familiar faces. Ignore him. I’d soon forget him. Guilt? Sure, but it would eventually seep away.
I grabbed a burrito, beef, one of our four varieties, and a pair of socks and slowly shuffled his direction, feeling as if I was stumbling to the gallows (a bit shy? Yeah). Sitting down, I stuck out my hand and quavered, “My name’s…” He jumped back about a foot. I jumped two. That’s when I saw the wires dangling from his ears. Earbuds. He pulled one out. It screamed hardcore as it dangled lifelessly from his chest. He took the burrito and socks, muttered his thanks, replaced the earbud and hung his head.
That went on weekly for six months or so. Each week would bring a slight thaw. Replies always one word or less. His name was Bernard. Portland native. My mind would blank out at each encounter after about thirty seconds. “God, throw me a bone. I’m dying here.” No bone, week in and week out. Two paralyzed waifs, side by side, sitting on the brick staircase, in silence. Then one Thursday evening… Bernard smiled. A broad, rotted tooth, lumpy faced smile that revealed a flicker of joy in this grief stricken twenty-something’s life.
Now, a year and a half later, he comes near when we arrive, leans his elbows on a planter and stays until we leave. One of us, though a silent one. His future? God knows…but, for now he’s one of us…with a beautiful smile.
There are no quick fixes on the streets of downtown Portland, Oregon. Change comes, if at all, glacially. Measured in months, often years. Measuring each life against itself.
Why then do we do what we do?
For me, some folks loved me when I was dying of my own life-grief about forty years ago. I haven’t forgotten.
You’ll have to ask the others.
Angela Harms 10/19/09 11:56 AM |
I wish I had a brilliant comment. Just tears & snot, sniffles, and an urge to say it again, even though I say it way too much: Thank you.