Noteworthy

The Christmas decorations are up in the dark park. We can see them because of the streetlights and the light coming from the fires in the yellow barrels. It is Sleep Out Saturday, an event held by a local elected official to draw attention to homelessness and my husband and I are there. We’ve been there every year since it began.

There are long tables set up with tablecloths and folding chairs and off to the side there is a tent with a row of warming trays. I know, without looking, that there are sloppy joes in the trays. Crowd food. Food for people who are homeless.

I study the sloppy joe tray in the semi-darkness until I realize it’s pulled pork. I underestimated the chefs. There is barbecued chicken and green beans and a big bowl of homemade potato salad. I worry that I shouldn’t eat, that I should leave the food for the people who are homeless but my husband has already filled his plate and is heading to a table.

I turn around at the tap on my shoulder and it is my younger daughter. She has come to this event in the park to learn about homelessness, a new interest of hers spurred by going back to school. She sends me drafts of a research paper she is writing. Parts of it are pretty good but I don’t want to correct the rest. I tell her it’s all good and to go see a writing coach.

It is months since I’ve seen her; this happens often, days of rapid texting followed by weeks of sailing on the other side of the world. It used to bother me but it doesn’t anymore. We pick up where we left off, wherever that was.

We eat at one of the long tables. In the short distance, people are going through the stack of jackets and hats and gloves put out on a table. The new socks I brought are there, too. I folded back the bag to make them look especially attractive and to wear away any shyness people might have about reaching in. There are good sturdy socks in there, I want them to leave with people. I wish I had shoes to give, too.

A man sits down at our table. He is wearing a white shirt and a jogging jacket. He wants to chat, quickly tells us about problems with his disability check. My daughter looks at him and says, “Are you homeless?” I’ve not known her to be so direct but she’s older now and really wants to know so she asked instead of asking me to ask. She asked and waited for the answer. “No, not now.” But then he told us what it was like to be homeless, to always be searching for the next thing. A place to be safe, socks, food, whatever was next. It chilled us, all three of us, although that wasn’t his intention.

After we ate, the elected official announced that we would gather around the barrel fire for the ‘teach-in’ which I had offered to coordinate. In the dark with only the light of the barrel and with people circled around, sitting on folding chairs, I talked about data I’d printed up on index cards and gave to everyone. How many people are homeless, how many are men, how many women, and so on. And then on the other side of the card, how many homeless people said they had mental illness and how homelessness and even being in a shelter often made the symptoms of mental illness worse. The people in the circle, whom I could barely see, nodded as I talked, and my daughter, wrapped in a white blanket, her glasses slipping just a bit down her nose, took notes. I saw her writing down the things I said. It made me want to be careful, certain.

We chatted with people as the teach-in ended; it felt like the mellowest cocktail party, one where you are automatically accepted and found interesting because you are there. Being there made you valued, valuable, and I could see my daughter felt that way as she went off to talk to a woman who ran a street outreach program, her white blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.

It was warm here in the dark park on this cold November night. Warmer than I ever thought it would be.