Yesterday, I was driving to a doctor's appointment when I looked over to the sidewalk. The first thing I saw was some butt cleavage. Then I noticed that it was a man, hunched over, washing his hair. He was getting the water from a spigot attached to some Melrose Ave. store. At first I thought it was kind of funny and random. Then I thought, "Oh god, how horribly depressing. He cares." It's not depressing that he cares, it's, in fact, a good sign that he hasn't slipped too far into what I've seen plague a lot of homeless people: namely, mental illness and addiction. What was depressing is that he was aware of his state.
When people have gotten to this stage, it's easy to discount their humanness. I will admit to having thought of more than one homeless person as feral. They are so dirty and wild-eyed and crazy-haired. It's hard not to. And then I think about them once having been fresh, pink (or brown) babies and wonder at what point in their lives the shit storm began. Because, there was definitely at one point in their lives–or, at many points in their lives–a shit storm or several. Maybe it was straight out of the womb. Maybe it was while they were still in the womb. Maybe it took until their late teens or early 20s, when mental illness tends to set in. Or maybe a personal tragedy, in relationships, finances, or something else, sent them over the edge later in life.
I used to have a job where I interviewed mentally ill addicts. A lot of people I talked to were homeless, or had been. A lot of stories I heard were basically nauseating. I found myself thinking, "I can't believe humans do these sorts of things to one another." It's a cycle: one person does something inhuman to another, converts that person, who then does something inhuman to someone else. I talked to people who were guilty of continuing the cycle. Some were repentant, some were not. Many didn't have the clarity to think about it deeply. I talked to others, however, who were survivors. Yes, they were addicts, but they were, in large part, self-medicating. They were trying to get better and they weren't taking any prisoners in the process. They knew they had suffered injustices and were doing the best they could to overcome them. They still had the seed of knowledge about what was right and what was wasn't and they weren't giving up. I like to think that the sidewalk hair washer was in that place. Taking care of what he could, moving forward in whatever increments he's capable of.
When I saw him, I texted a friend (who's Jewish) to tell her about it.
She said, "At least he's washing."
I responded, "I know. I was pretty impressed. Also depressed. Because, you know, he *cared*"
She said, "Yeah. Only the people with self-preserving/humanizing rituals survived the camps... as my dad would tell me."
I don't really know what my final point is. I guess it's to treat other people with kindness. Especially those to whom it might be hardest to be kind to. Because they've almost certainly been through some shit that you don't know about. Shit that you might not be able to handle either. It's hard to do this. I admit to not being very good at it. I'm not outright mean or anything, but I'll definitely do my best to ignore the guy at the side of the road. I'm not saying that you should give him money or anything, but a nice hello might be greatly appreciated. It sounds silly maybe, greeting someone that you've not going to give anything to. Maybe it is, but I'm going to try to work on it. Because here's something that maybe made my heart scream more during my interviewing job than stories of adults abusing children: being thanked by the interviewee for talking to them because it was the most anyone had ever listened to them in their lives.
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