This was the first day that the crew really got to hit the streets of
Portland. The weather was dismal. The sky was a steady gray, an
endless blanket without any hue of blue to be seen. It was a bad day
to be homeless. The constant drizzle was depressing; even those of us
who were fully prepared for the weather didn't want to be out in the
elements. Rain jackets weren't an effective barrier to stop the bleak
nature of the day. Even the MAX was sad, silently gliding down the
streets, passing the huddled crowds seeking shelter under the
overhangs outside the shop doors.
A trip to Powell's was in order for the day. The interviewing team sat
in the Global Cafe downstairs while the rest of the team tried to
navigate their way through the maze-like shelves, rooms and buildings
that help make up the largest bookstore in the world. They soon
discovered that there was more to the store than books.
While walking down one of the aisles, Taylor Lindsey, one of the
interns from Texas, saw a woman collapse in a heap on the floor. When
the rest of the witnesses stood blinking dumbly, he ran to her side to
see if she was alright or in need of assistance. She assured him that
she was fine although she didn't know what had happened. She didn't
feel that it was necessary to call 9-11; instead, Taylor found himself
searching the massive building for her nearest relatives. It was like
searching for a needle in a haystack. Ultimately, Taylor found the
husband and son and was able to help get the woman back to the ground
floor.
While this took place, I was busy sipping on a cup of Rice Green Tea.
That's right. Rice tea. It tastes better iced. I don't know if I will
ever try it hot again. Summer please come quickly. My companions were
less adventurous in their beverage choices; English Breakfast tea and
a decaf short Vanilla non-fat latte. I was there to interview the
other tea drinker. Over the course of the consumption of our drinks,
she shared with me what her life on the streets of Portland had been
like. It hadn't been easy.
Whoever thinks that life on the street means freedom is woefully
misinformed. Life on the street means that people will look at you
differently; mothers will warn their children about you, people will
lock their doors and no matter what you do, the stigma remains like a
tattoo. Trust is a word that is deleted from your working vocabulary;
it's a fond memory or an often wished for element. It doesn't grow on
the streets. It died the moment the first time an angry word was
spoken or a fist struck the skin. Street people are people. Period.
They laugh. They cry. They feel both pain and happiness. They want to
be noticed. They want to be treated like the humans that they are.
Posts
