Tuesday
Sometimes so much happens in a day it’s hard to remember it all by the end of the day…Some days are easier than others. This was Tuesday:
My day: Tuesday
8:35, out the door on bike, both kids.
8:40, drop Big at school
8:45, drop Little at day care, some tears. Ride home
9:00, in car, call L about upcoming colonoscopy,
9:30, tutor first grader in deep east Portland...All the classroom window shades are pulled and I wonder if it’s to keep the distraction of snow at bay. That makes sense and makes me sad. Later find out it’s because somebody smashed some windows with rocks over the weekend. That makes me sadder. I only meet with one kid today; the other two aren’t at school. Time to catch up with old friend/colleague. Hear about broken school window. Hear about illness. Hear about kid’s bad big brother while brainstorming ‘b’s. Kid leaves session asking if he can read now. He is smiling proudly. I am happy. But it’s complicated.
1030, talk to Pat while driving, hear about pregnancy and infant loss grief group last night, “they are so brave to embrace all of the story. They are amazing people. You are amazing people.”
10:35, meet Annaliese and D from Rahab’s sisters. Talk of sad stories and grief. Talk of successes that sound small; we know otherwise. Talk of shared goals and imagine how to get there. Heard of police harassment. Heard of suicide in the winter. Heard of gratitude for the simple act of being a special place. We know why we do this, even if words don’t do the reasons justice. It was nice to give and get a hug as we left... appreciative.
12:00, W is having van towed. Doesn’t need support but can’t meet up as planned. We set up time for tomorrow. “I don’t care where we are. I’m just so thankful to be able to catch up with you and talk.” W’s brother died this winter. Mine did 12 years ago. We should talk. W just got into housing. Wes has been on the street for a while. W is dyslexic and super creative. I gave W a laptop a few months ago. W just started a business of t-shrit design, printing, tye-dying. W is proud and should be. We’ll meet up tomorrow.
1:00, load truck with blankets, hand warmers, socks, underwear, tarps. Drive to park where Sandy has unloaded stew and donuts and coffee and hot cocoa. All of what we have today goes to others. People are cold. It was snowing earlier and we look for what shelters are open. We hand our phones around for calls to shelters. There is lots of gratitude but in answer to “how’re you doing?” I heard, ‘making it’, ‘hanging on’, ‘can imagine being better’, ‘fucking cold’, ‘I’m great! I can move my fingers again!’ People are sad and willing to say so. People are appreciative but it’s like tragedy is the river and comedy are the floaties holding folks just barely above the water. It is good to be with people.
2:30, I am ready to leave. I am cold. J needs my phone. I hand it to him and talk to K. He asks why I keep coming to this corner. He asks why I put up with neighbors being mean. I ask him the same questions. We laugh. We come here for each other. He tells me, “You know I spend all day everyday hearing where I cannot be. Nobody ever tells me where I can be. One day; one day...I’d just love to wake up and hear somebody say, ‘Welcome. I’m glad you’re here. You’re in the right place.’” It hits extra hard as we walk in opposite directions and I cannot offer him that place.
3:00 pick up Big from school on bike. Play. Ignore phone calls. Pick up Little. It has started raining again. I hear that shelters are open. Everybody is already gone from the park. I tell the folks I can...
6:00, eating dinner with family and a knock on the door. I know. Big hops up and checks the window, “It’s J!” I open the door...”I’m so sorry for interrupting your dinner...but feel my hands.” J is cold. I take his hands and they are frozen solid. They are like ice bricks on the ends of his arms...”Can you dry my gloves?”
I take his dripping wet gardening gloves. I offer for him to come in. He shakes his head. “I’ll wait out here. Thank you John.” I start the dryer and bring him a plate of our dinner and some hand warmers. He asks for help opening three and hands me all of the trash. He sits on his skateboard on my porch and smiles. “You and your family are so nice.”
I want to offer far more. I wish I could change so much about the situation for J. I can’t. But this I can do. I can dry his gloves. I can offer him warm food. I can call him by name. I can give him a hug. So that is what I do. After twenty minutes, he asks for a lid to the rest of the food because he wants to share it. He puts his gloves back on and smiles even bigger than before and stands up. “You know why I like to come here sometimes? Because no matter how grumpy and bad I feel coming all the way up any of the streets, I feel...I feel peaceful when I get here.” I feel happy. He gives me a big wet hug and steps off the porch, “I’m so warm now. I got a hand warmer on each hand and foot and even one on my butt! Thank you, John.”
I close the door and we clean up dinner, carrying dishes from dining table to dishwasher. It all makes sense and none of it makes any sense. And here we are, in it together.