far from tender

I was back in the Tenderloin yesterday doing a bit more research for a project I am working on. Every time I visit there, I am always struck by how desperate it is - it's filthy, the streets are filled with the homeless, with people who seem very ill, or high, or both. The businesses that line the area are a mix of converted SROs (a type of extremely low income housing) liquor stores, and porn shops. People are everywhere, yelling, talking to themselves, asking for money, working some deal or another.

Truthfully, it freaks me out - the lack of hope and the utter desperation is so loud it hurts.

I take note of those who are going through this district rather than living in it. They walk fast, head down, eyes averted. Purses clutched. They are going somewhere else. Those who seem to live in this area are slower, a bit more conversational. I too, am heading somewhere, and I am on the move.

We literally step over a few people as we go. One man is lying on some cardboard, bleeding from his head. I notice he has no shoes. We see two men dragging a third who can't walk - it's impossible to tell whether or not he is temporarily or permanently unable - it looks pretty bad either way.

A woman stops me - starts in on a convoluted story about needing a specific amount of change to get somewhere - I stop her, no need to sell me on your story - and hand her some money. I feel strange hearing her justify her begging, and stranger still as she yells god bless you three or four times as I walk away. I already know sister. I do. And I am sorry. I'd rather you were blessed instead.

We reach our destination and get to meet with some very good people trying to do some very good work. Ideas are tossed around. It gets us closer to where we want to be. We wrap up and head back.

On the way back to the car we notice a man in a wheelchair. He is doubled over limply, his head is at his ankles, a rope tied around his middle keeps him attached to his chair. He is in the middle of the sidewalk. People swerve around him, glancing maybe, but nothing more. I wonder if he is dead. He seems dead. I stop and say this is so fucked up. My friend says this IS so fucked up. But we don't know what to do. We stop and gently touch his shoulder, not knowing what the hell we will do after that moment. He jerks and groans and yells. It scares me, and I feel helpless. My friend quietly says Jen, let's go. There is nothing we can do. I leave, ashamed that I allow myself to buy that as an excuse, and ashamed I remain.

We keep going. I look back. He is upright now.

This IS so fucked up.

I notice this is my 100th post. That means I've been waxing on about drool and the streets for a while now. I don't know what is different between the time I started and now. I wonder how that man slept last night, and if he ever feels warm and safe. I wonder about that woman, and if she ever feels blessed.

I want it to be different than this.