“Excruciating uncomfortable,” was the name of the piece I wrote years ago after stepping out of cab into a stunning reminder of the clash between privilege and homelessness. That’s a memory tucked in the back of my memory bank until recently when I faced the question of how far we’ve progressed on homelessness in the America. It happened during a weeklong stay in Sacramento, California. Well, the answer is, not far and not by a long shot.
Here’s an excerpt from the “excruciating uncomfortable” piece I wrote back then.
After settling with the driver, I stepped out of the cab into the face of a luxury hotel in downtown Washington, D.C. and was descended upon by two smiling bellhops. Their civility was overwhelming and continued to the front desk. My seconds of “hey, I can used to this” evolved to unease when I faced my unearned privilege.
When the door opened to my room on the third floor, I stepped into a continuation of grandeur. I plopped my suitcase down and scanned the incredibleness of the place. The bathroom was better suited for magazine covers; surely not for what humans normally use bathrooms for.
I stared out the window into the inescapable reality that I was surrounded by privilege and was uncomfortable with that. A $69 a night special on the other side of town would have been OK with me. But I had no choice since everything had been prearranged and paid for because I was a conference speaker.
After a night of tossing and turning, I decided to escape it all early the next morning by taking a brisk walk down the block. Suddenly from a distance I spotted a Starbucks and quickened my pace. But I didn’t get that far before my discomfort got stretched even further.
You see, there was a little city park I had to pass along the way. It was peppered with homeless people and, as hard as I tried not to notice them, I couldn’t help but notice them. They stood out in stark contrast against moving silhouettes of people crisscrossing the park on the way to work, bus or train stops nearby, or to other places. I can’t say that I was surprised by how everyone seemed so at ease in not noticing the homeless in that park. For them and, if we’re honest with ourselves, it seemed so natural.
One particular homeless person, a woman, got my attention. It seemed that she had all her possessions on the bench next to a shopping cart overrun with clothes, blankets and other stuff. I was struck by how casually she plucked a half-smoked Marlboro out of a wrinkled pack, lit it and stretched an undernourished arm across the top of the bench. She then launched into an animated conversation with some invisible someone — or with some voice — that only she could see or hear.
I had a sudden urge to join her on the bench and to strike up a conversation. But about what? Oops, I just bumped up against another reminder that we were on opposite sides of the privilege divide. As quickly as the idea came it left me. Couldn’t get to that Starbucks fast enough.
Two hours later I was back at the hotel seated around the table in a plush meeting room with 30-plus professionals. The participants were as “proper” and polished as I expected them to be in pinstriped suits, coiffured hair, perfumed (and cologned) down with strains of grey streaking through heads. And lots of smiles, business card exchanges and small talk about the weather, the next vacation and other important matters.
A shameful admission here! I mentally drifted in and out of that meeting. I suppose it had much to do with my discomfort with the comforts of the place. Plus, nagging thoughts of the homeless people just down the block continued to gnaw at me.
What was that homeless lady up to right now? I wondered whose mother she was … or sister? … or daughter? What were the circumstances that led to her current situation? I speculated about the vicissitudes in life and the choices the homeless people in that park made, ones that led them to that park compared to that of the conference participants at the hotel a stone’s throw away. Ah relief! We broke for lunch.
After restroom breaks amid folks chattering away on handheld devices we ended up seated around tables with elegant tablecloths. Between mouthfuls of roast chicken — and polite conversation — I again started to drift again, wondering what the lady in the park was having for lunch. Was hers hot or cold? Was it nutritious enough? I teased at my roast chicken with a folk as my appetite evaporated.
At 6 p.m. I stepped out of the hotel, waved off the bag handlers, hailed a cab and was off to the airport. We drove by the park where I had seen the homeless lady hoping to get one last glimpse of her. I scanned the park but except for a few pigeons, her bench was empty. She was gone leaving me alone amid the insecurities of my imagination.
Now let’s fast forward to my recent trip to Sacramento. However, unlike that experience in Washington, absent this time as we drove the streets with scores of homeless people sprawled about there were no parks nor benches.
There were no people walking by; only those few who maybe took a wrong turn and drove by with their windows rolled up. Like the lady in the park there were men and women loudly engaged in lively conversations with people, images and demons that they and only they would know. The stomach-turning smell of a putrid mix of marijuana smoke and human waste filled the air.
“My God,” I said to my son who drove me through that neighbourhood, “I had no idea how bad homelessness is here.”
“Well if you think this is bad, the next time you’re here I’ll take you to San Francisco to see what real homelessness is.”
Now of course this narrative raises a lot more questions than it does answers. But if nothing else I’m hopeful that this piece – including why Trump’s so-called “big beautiful bill” gives tax cuts to the rich and carves out nothing for the nation’s growing homeless population, makes you “excruciatingly uncomfortable.”
Shucks, why should I have all the fun!
Terry Howard is an award-winning writer, a contributing writer with the Chattanooga News Chronicle, The American Diversity Report, The Douglas County Sentinel, Blackmarket.com, recipient of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Leadership Award, and third place winner of the Georgia Press Award.
