Four days a week — ok, three — I go running in my neighborhood. A few months ago, I discovered this place. The first time I walked past, I was struck by how it felt permanent somehow. Like a home. The bed was made. The cooler was set like a coffee table in front of the camp chair. Supplies and groceries were stored in a little tub next to the bed.
You do not see things like this in the rural town I grew up in. Poverty is just as real, but it is gift wrapped — tucked away in run down farms and mobile home parks. But in Chicago, homelessness is hard to ignore. Initially at least. Then it becomes a part of the landscape… a part of the daily routine. I see the same three or four guys every day on my commute to and from work. Sometimes I wonder why they are all men– is the rate of homelessness higher among men? I do not know, and it makes me feel guilty for not knowing.
I also feel guilty each time one of the guys comes up to my window while I am stopped at a light and I shake my head – no, I’m sorry, I don’t have anything today. I know them and they must know me. They must recognize the bashed-in front end of my Prius. They probably even recognize the electronic music I listen to — I only have one CD that is not scratched to hell, and I listen to it A LOT.
I often wonder how these people got to where they are. Sometimes, I imagine myself walking around Chicago with my camera, taking photos and recording their stories. I imagine sharing those stories, spreading awareness and making a difference. Someone should care.
Someone needs to care.
Instead I look at my hands on the steering wheel and feel excruciatingly awkward as they walk by. I do not act. I do not share.
But that is America’s story now, right? The land of the free has become the land of the debt-beholden. The land of the brave has become the land of those too afraid to look past appearances and see real people beneath. The land of help-your-neighbor has become so digitally connected that we forget to look up from our devices and notice our neighbors in need.
I have never seen the person who lives in this place, but I think of him or her often. Almost daily. Yet, I do not act, and I am not sure why.
Maybe life has a way of getting in the way and making our worlds small.
Maybe our fears keep us from being the best version of ourselves.
Either way, the viscous cycle spins round and round.
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