The Heartlessness of Homelessness


The Heartlessness of Homelessness

photo-house

It’s ironic that a place with so many beautiful houses, is the same city full of people without a home.

———-

I wrote the following recount on a bus journey home at 00:17hrs, 28/08/15, after being shocked at my reaction to a homeless man:

I stood waiting in the light foggy rain of San Francisco. In the ironically named Sunset district, waiting for the 44 bus back to the place that I was staying. I stood opposite a restaurant called Pacific Catch, and was awakened from my mental slumber by a homeless man, who emerged to my left. The only thing separating us was the metal box meant for cover. Our faces were aligned, and we were close enough to almost be touching. In that moment, I revealed a part of myself I am ashamed to have been met with. My reaction to him was danger, and I quickly walked away, with no subtlety to my actions. I found myself seeking safety outside, on the opposite end of the shelter, and that’s when it hit me. As I stood there, in the consequence of my conditioned response, I became acutely aware of my cruel failure to recognise this man as human. At first sight, he was danger, a pest. He was intruding my world of comfort and privilege. He was dirty.

I watched as he pressed the button that announced the time. Of course, he had no watch. And if he did, it was certainly broken. In part, I’m sure he discovered some comfort in the voice behind the speaker. Human connection, at last. People like me have worn him down to silence.

He pushed his trolley of belongings down 9th Avenue and I noticed him search through a box of cardboard. He took nothing and moved on. Steps later, I saw him use the torch he held with his left hand, to illuminate a stairway between two shops. He did nothing and moved on. My eyes filled with sadness, he was looking for shelter. The cardboard he was hoping to sit on, and the steps he was hoping to find rest on, only neither offered themselves as suitable subjects. Nothing was dry. A layer of my skin peeled back on itself, crawling away from the instincts I had manifested at the sight of him.

I stood in the bus shelter watching his shadow fade, the warmth of my clothes and the knowledge of my journey home, sent shivers down my spine. I waited, as he waited, for a different kind of protection.

——

photo-floor

Sleeping in these conditions (picture below) during my first week here, was put into perspective by the volume of homeless people here in San Francisco. I had a roof over my head, food, running water and most of all, the knowledge that it wasn’t permanent. The guilt of this I found overwhelming sometimes. To be frustrated with not having a place to call ‘home’ yet, when I’m surrounded by people who have forgotten what that even feels like, seems pretty fucked. And when I think about how fucked it is, my mind races with thoughts about how much of today’s world needs to change.

Sometimes it feels like I’m walking on a tight rope. That if I let myself lean too far one way, I will plummet to my eventual death. That slow deathness, the seeping of the soul out into the tight blue veins on the surface of my skin, until finally in the impact of the fall, they burst.


Hannah Sprange
hannahsprange@live.co.uk
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