By Zack Mason
Published September 2024
Drama at the Checkout Line
A few days ago, while grocery shopping, I saw one woman accidentally butt in front of another at the checkout line.
“Oops, I was in line here,” said Woman One.
Woman Two swiveled around with one of those wide-eyed, teeth-bared, who-do-you-think-you-are smiles. “Oh. Okay. I didn’t see you pressed against the magazines there, but I’ll let you go first.”
Woman One smiled and stepped into her rightful place in line. “Oh, well! You try to save space and people make mistakes! It’s okay!”
Woman 2 fumed behind her.
For something as apparently banal as buying spaghetti and tomato sauce, the tension was unbelievable.
Trials of Story Telling
When I started this article, I figured that getting people on the streets to talk to me would be a breeze. Of course they’d be excited to share their stories with a writer!
I was mistaken. The truth is that over the last few months, wringing stories out of people hasn’t been easy.
There are a number of factors here:
The weather, for example: when it’s bad, people aren’t social. They’re guarded, quiet, scarce.
Time is an issue as well. Most people I tried to interview were just too busy to talk. Non-homeless friends were surprised by this: “What are they doing? It’s not like they have jobs.”
One would-be interview went like this:
“Would you like to participate in an interview?”
“Yeah, I’d love to.”
“Today?”
“No, not today. I’m busy today.”
“No problem. Are there any days you aren’t busy?”
“I’m always busy.”
The final obstacle was simple privacy. Surprise, surprise, people in one of society’s most stigmatized groups don’t jump at the opportunity to dump their life stories to strangers.
Brenda
Eventually, I spoke to Brenda. She was familiar to me: I’ve seen her asking for change for years. I’ve seen her in snow and rain. I’ve seen her cheerful, and I’ve seen her looking up at passers by, tears in her eyes, an expression of true, profound desperation.
I’d pestered Brenda for interviews before, but usually she was busy. On April 29th, mostly out of desperation I pestered again. To my surprise, Brenda said fine, so I sat down on the pavement and slid out my notebook.
“How long have you been living out here?”
“Oh, I’m not homeless.”
The notebook slid back in.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Brenda gave me the run-down of her day to day. She has a hard time finding work because of her learning disabilities. She lives with her husband (who has cerebral palsy), and pan-handles so she can buy him weed. Things have been especially difficult since last year, when he was hit by a truck trying to cross Victoria street on his mobility scooter. The driver paid for a new scooter, but Brenda’s husband is constantly in pain.
“You live close by?”
“Nah, but I take the bus.”
“Ugh, transfers can be so expensive.”
“I just get a month pass.”
She goes to a dispensary further down the stretch because she lost her wallet a while back. They know her there and let her buy weed without ID.
“How’d you lose your ID? Did something happen?”
“Nah,” she said, cheerfully. “Just lost it.”
She enjoys drugstore thrillers, romances, sudoku, and word searches, all of which she consumes voraciously as she sits and begs.
“Are people ever nasty to you here?” I asked, reaching for my notebook.
“Sometimes rude, but I don’t really care.”
I put the notebook away again.
“Some people are dumb too. They ask for the time and I tell them ‘it’s 4:55’ and they’re like ‘how’d you know that?’ Duh! The bus stop right there has a clock, idiot!”
She smoked a cigarette.
She’s pretty sure she’s pregnant.
Brenda told me about the people she knows: the workers in the surrounding stores who she chats with, friends who stop by. We had to wrap up our talk before 5:30 because someone was coming to pick her up. We talked about her husband, his complaints and gripes. At one point, someone named Austen stopped by with chocolate. We hung out, talked about piercings and tattoos we had or wanted, ate the chocolate and he left. I gave Brenda a 20. I left too.
I had a strange feeling as I left my meeting with Brenda. I couldn’t really place it at first, but the next day I was talking to my parents about the whole thing, and it began to make sense.
“The article isn’t going well.”
“Oh?”
“I spent like an hour talking to some lady yesterday only to find out she’s not even homeless.”
Resentment.
I went on to explain Brenda’s story.
“Zack, that sounds pretty bleak.”
They were absolutely right— Brenda’s situation is terrible: no job prospects, no upward-mobility, a husband with chronic illness and constant pain, and a baby on the way.
Unpacking Moral Standing
Initially, my resentment puzzled me. Yesterday though, the conversation I overheard in the grocery store made things click.
In our society we value kindness, and a person’s moral standing is often based on how socially aware they are. The problem that speaking to Brenda showed me is that sometimes we become dependent on other people for our moral value, and therefore, our self concept. The way our actions are perceived by others becomes more important than the actions themselves. In order to preserve our value and virtue, we objectify those around us. By being overly socially aware, polite for politeness’ sake, we use the people around us as ladder rungs towards moral superiority.
The resentment comes in when the person we are trying to objectify ruins the fun by defying our expectations. This is what Woman One did in the grocery store after Woman Two “allowed” her to have her rightful spot in line. Woman Two tried to take the moral high ground, Woman One flipped the script, Woman Two bristled in resentful silence.
It’s also what Brenda did to me. Throughout our talk, I was constantly trying to put her down with my sensitivity.
“Is it hard living out here?”
“Did you lose your wallet in some traumatic way?”
“Are you constantly mistreated?”
“Poor you, having to take the bus.”
Every step of the way, I was trying to diminish Brenda’s subjectivity. By trying to ‘relate’ to her, I was actually working to widen the space between us so I’d have a broader gap to bridge, making me a better person.
Listen and Being with the Other
The realization I did this makes me feel queasy now.
Every step of the way, Brenda defied me. Every time I tried to cast her in a more downtrodden, dramatic light, she refused to fit the narrative, and (at first) I resented her for it.
In my first article for GWN, I argued that our society is disconnected and riddled with isolation. But the disconnect is easier to fall into than I originally thought. Even when trying to be more related to one another, our moral insecurity can get the better of us, drive the disconnect deeper. I think Brenda taught me to be more aware of that
Remembering this meeting, I keep returning to Austen. He just came by, shared some candy, hung out, left. No pretenses, no bull. He was simply generous with his chocolate and his time.
