On the last train of the night, trying to filter fresh air through that sometimes-clean train smell—dull and lifeless, like these compartments gave up a long, long time ago, just as the people did. Scars on my hand.........
I saw them yesterday. The cursed, the untouchables, the dirty, sniveling sort—wait. They were smiling and laughing, drunk out of their minds, and almost happy, I think. I was almost envious of their struggle. For hours we walked around, and spoiled as I am, I gawked at the district walls like a toddler, sipping air through my mouth and holding onto it, avoiding cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit like a poodle wading through a sewer. I am terrible. We walked through the “garden,” a poor imitation of sustainable life, a tiny patch of green in a city of gray. The art reached the skies—a teary-eyed Latina girl, a rap artist wearing struggle like bling, and faceless bodies reaching upward, grasping clouds, palms bared. We have always been ashamed of our hands in America.
I saw them yesterday. The cursed, the untouchables, the dirty, sniveling sort—wait. They were smiling and laughing, drunk out of their minds, and almost happy, I think. I was almost envious of their struggle. For hours we walked around, and spoiled as I am, I gawked at the district walls like a toddler, sipping air through my mouth and holding onto it, avoiding cigarette smoke and the smell of vomit like a poodle wading through a sewer. I am terrible. We walked through the “garden,” a poor imitation of sustainable life, a tiny patch of green in a city of gray. The art reached the skies—a teary-eyed Latina girl, a rap artist wearing struggle like bling, and faceless bodies reaching upward, grasping clouds, palms bared. We have always been ashamed of our hands in America.
Sympathy is necessary, no—sympathy is cruel, or beautiful, or something. People do this every week. People do this every day. And here I am, a sheltered, middle-class college kid, whose eyes were jerked open unwillingly—at a frightening rate—and I’m not sure what to think. (What I should think.)
The town is sandwiched between the three richest districts in San Francisco. We literally stood outside a convenience store, and stared across the street...at a Hilton. I don’t understand. You can take five steps and be in an entirely different world.
But they seemed happy, in a way. They were yelling across the street, and up at windows. People walked by each other, slapping each other on the back in greeting—brotherhood...Hmm...ten toothless smiles later, I realized how lame I was. In my head I was feeling bad, I was ridden with guilt, but why? ? ? They smiled more often than a lot of people I've met.
The town smelled like death—well, the town looked like death. People were curled up in stairwells, holey blankets hiding their faces...I don’t think they were happy. Why would they be? (Why wouldn’t they be?) I don’t know. Of course I’ve encountered poverty before! Of course I have seen homeless people. But not like this. Not where there’s no escape. I am terrible. The most I’ve experienced of poverty is walking through a small district in downtown San Francisco...is it strange to want to see more? I don’t know. I don’t know. ......i’m sorry.
