Ode to the Homeless

The Tenderloin can be such a depressing place sometimes. Throughout the streets I see the saddened eyes of lost loves, lost houses, lost family, lost jobs, lost dignity, lost inspiration. People who are at there wits end, just waiting and hoping for their next meal, their next crack rock, their next drink. On every block of every street there's an army of panhandlers that would bankrupt me in ten minutes were I to give every person what they asked. 

 

I tried to be superman when I first moved to the city, giving money to most of all whom asked, helped out old ladies being harassed on the bus, listened to every drug-induced homeless man who just wanted someone to listen to them. It was fascinating to me at first; when I was just a tourist watching the chaos that is San Francisco. 

 

The people I see in the Tenderloin were at first a statistic of homelessness and drug addiction; just nameless ghosts roaming the streets, having no purpose or cause. They were all categorized in my mind as a lump of people down-and-out because they made bad choices throughout life and ended up on the streets. There was no attachment to these people; no real empathy.

But after spending numerous hours not just in the city, but the Tenderloin specifically, that's changed. The novelty of city life has worn off and been replaced with dystopian shock. These people are really suffering as individuals. Each face I see is an individual who lost control of there life and succumbed to life on the streets. And even more, I see the same people over and over and witness their suffering on an ongoing basis. I personally know a handful of them and have heard their stories from beginning to end on how they got to where they are. 

 

One woman has sat in front of my work everyday for the past year trying to peddle her "Street Sheets" for a dollar each. At first I was surprised she was selling Street Sheets; she looked so well put together. She had nice, clean clothes, looked healthy, pretty, and even kind of wholesome. She looked like she should be at home making her kids some after-school sandwiches. 

 

Over the past year she has gone from an average looking woman to a decrepit and withered human skeleton. I'm not exactly sure what she's been up to, but I've seen the deteriorating results on a weekly basis. She is noticeably less healthy everytime I see her. It's one of the sadist things I've ever seen.

But I did witness a ray of happiness in the TL today while photographing a mural painting being installed on Market Street. During the three hours I was photographing the half completed Mural the response of the community was quite uplifting. Numerous people from all walks of life actually stopped and told the artist how glad they were to have such a beautiful piece of art (which is a 100-foot wall) in their neighborhood. 

People were pointing, smiling and complementing the piece the whole time. Families would stop to look at the vibrant colors radiated from the mural; businessmen would stop to take a picture with their iphones; some homeless people were congregating together, 40's in hand, and sporadically interjecting affirmations to the artist about how great their neighborhood is going to look now. The art seemed to bring the community together, coalescing them through vibrant colors and creativity.

Of course having a few pieces of art in an otherwise dreary stretch of Market Street isn't going to cure problems of social inequality or give a homeless man a job, but it has certainly elevated the residents state of mind and pride in their community.

Colombian Scumbag

After bussing tables, running food and stocking sugar packets for eight solid hours at Caffe Museo, I began my victorious walk of freedom down Third Street to the Montgomery Train Station Saturday afternoon. I turned on Market Street to see the hustle and bustle of tourists and residents alike rushing here and fro. It was a sunny, beautiful day in San Francisco.

As I approach the stairs leading to the Muni trains, I notice two teenage girls ten feet ahead of me, and a short, stocky latino man following closely behind, but separate from them. Just before the 3 began their descent down the stairwell, the latino man quickly and aggressively stuck his hand between one of the girls legs and pulled up, grabbing her butt with enough intensity to temporarily lift her from the ground.

Obviously shocked and scared, the two girls made their way out of the Muni entrance, backing up against a 22-story building. Almost instinctually I stood in front of the man, stopping him from walking down the stairs, and asked him what the fuck he was doing; to which he replied in broken english, "Hey man, I'm drunk."

I looked to the girls as they stared at me with a dumbfounded look upon their faces, and asked them if they knew the man. "I've never seen him before in my life," the victim replied. For a moment I didn't know whether to tell this guy he's a piece of shit and go catch my train or to see the situation through. I saw tears beginning to stream down the little girls face and knew I didn't have a choice. I told them to call the police, which the did immediately.

I looked back at the man asking him the same question, receiving the same answer; "hey man, I'm drunk."

I said "That's no excuse. Look at them. They're just little girls. What if that girl was your daughter and I did that to her?"

The man seemed fairly responsive at first, admitting what he had done was wrong and that they should call the police. He said that he respected me for what I was doing and extended his hand to shake mine. I began to feel a slight sympathy for the man after he began taking personal responsibility for the situation, but refused to shake his hand anyway. He didn't seem to like that, and continued to negate any shred of sympathy I had for him.

"You want a bullet for your head.... my cousin is so-and-so from Colombia, he's crazy... fuck those stupid bitches...," and so on he went.

After ten minutes of being threatened my this drunk Colombian man, I saw him look over my shoulder to the police officers approaching on foot. I had to smirk when I saw the glare of hatred in the cop's eyes before he plowed through the man, shoving him against nearby newsstands. The second cop came shortly after with the same look in his eyes and the same non-textbook style of apprehension.

I walked over to the two girls who were watching the arrest and asked them how old they were and where they were from. "16 - Berkeley."

The drunk Colombian was stuffed in the back of a squad car and hauled off to jail, for what I'm assuming is sexual assault.

One of the police officers took our information and detailed our report of the incident in his notebook. He told me I was going to be contacted by an inspector and that I could go. Just as I was leaving the victimized girl looked at me with her tear-filled eyes and said, "Thank you so much for helping us," and I was on my way.