A beautiful day in the neighborhood. If I had had a baby pool...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
A beautiful day in the neighborhood. If I had had a baby pool we may have all invited one another to roll up our pants and stick our feet in. And I would have loved that.
Another man living rough out here mentions that the BLM protest on Commercial Street last night was the most moving thing he had ever witnessed. Silent, he said.
'It was amazing....' as approximately 2000 people layed themselves down on this street we stand on.
'Amazing...' he says, gently shaking his head and walking his bicycle away.

He has bright aqua eyes that disappear in the crinkled folds of his endearing and disarming smile...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He has bright aqua eyes that disappear in the crinkled folds of his endearing and disarming smile. He makes it clear to me that though he is struggling, he is getting a place. An apartment. And soon he says he won't be on the streets like this. He has a job but got laid off back in March and hopes to be able to be rehired.He's having trouble making any ends meet at all.
He is hesitant to take too much of the resources. Won't take any clothing because he can get that elsewhere he tells me. But he is clumping around in a pair of oversized and cracked heavy leather and rubber boots. He lit up when the sneakers arrived.
'My feet are a mess.'
Mostly he wanted to thank you. He wanted to thank whoever Dear Anonymous is. He is really grateful, and a bit stunned.
The last thing he says is 'When I get back on my feet, I want to give back. This has helped.'
Prayers for his sore and painful feet.Thanks, Dear Anonymous.

Haven't seen him for a week or two. Every day I wonder about his whereabouts...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

Haven't seen him for a week or two. Every day I wonder about his whereabouts and guys offer me their sightings. But today he is here and giving permission for a rare image. He apologizes for his hair. 'It's ugly.' he says.
I don't see that and I'm not havin' it.
He is a formidable man, size 15 shoe. And has the softest voice. He asks for sage and crumples it in his palm and then pockets it. He is more talkative this morning than many mornings I encounter him. My hearing is poor and though I miss many words I don't miss his sweetness. His internal quiet. Something about him that runs deeper than street talk. Something immensely gentle. 

'We're trying to find that innocent part of ourselves again. Before the world twisted us into what trauma twists you into..."

 
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'We're trying to find that innocent part of ourselves again. Before the world twisted us into what trauma twists you into. You know it's a return to innocence and it's a return to being childlike again before these f***ing things come in and reshape and turn you into the f***ing Joker. And that's what it was turning me into. I started getting feelings of hope.'
- Justin Downey

An excerpt from Trauma, Addiction and the Greatest Life Cheat
https://www.joannearnold.com/posts/trauma-addiction-and-the-greatest-life-cheat-a-conversation-with-justin-downey

They always ask how I am. Which is not a given. Which is not a question one can assume will be asked...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
They always ask how I am. Which is not a given. Which is not a question one can assume will be asked. When folks are really struggling there is little energy or ability to ask a question like that. I ask about those that don't show up. Where's Ed? Chandler? Grey Wolf? The list goes on. The responses vary from shakes of a head to exasperated sighs to knowing silences and sideways glances at the sidewalk.
They ask 'Why do you guys do this? Why are you guys kind to US?' I note the tone of self deprecation. Of loathing.
And the answer is, Why would we not?
Thanks Dear Anonymous for the help with coffee cards and socks and clothing. It all helps. Thank you for connecting.

Outside Portland Police Station. All is quiet at the moment. The sun has just risen...

 
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Outside Portland Police Station. All is quiet at the moment. The sun has just risen. There is a bit of trash on the sidewalk. An overflowing trash can. A ripped open package of water bottles near the steps. A news team just finishing taping a segment across the street. And RIP GEORGE FLOYD spray painted on the brick wall of the station.

They wanted to be photographed. But I don't have direct permission to reveal their identities. They were unable to attend the protests yesterday. The feeling, and it is feeling based only on a few sentences of communication, that they wanted to be part of this moment. Wanted to be seen. A certain pride in making this stand, perhaps? An urgency to speak up? A mix of deep distress and relief, like an exasperated unspoken 'Finally...'.
Speculation on my behalf?

I leave their faces blank. Not to rob them of their identity but maybe as a space for us to place ourselves. A space to place ourselves in if we have not already tried on the cloak of our injustices. Our uninvestigated racism. I leave the space. White. Open. Making a stand.
Strip away the privilege. The entitlement.
There is no where to go back to. We are all from away excepting the Indigenous community that has survived our genocide. Yes, genocide. Only here to go from. I wonder and implore, how will we be? 

'So the f***ing thing that trauma did, which was to make me hate people so much...ended up being the rescuer of me. It was people....'

 
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'So the f***ing thing that trauma did, which was to make me hate people so much...ended up being the rescuer of me. It was people. I was like, this is a f***** up lesson. The thing I hate the most is what ends up returning myself to me. Wicked ironic.' -Justin Downey

Excerpt from TRAUMA, ADDICTION AND THE GREATEST LIFE CHEAT: An Interview with Justin Downey
© Joanne Arnold
From trauma, violence and hate to hot yoga, goldendoodles and chanting.Thank you for sharing your honesty and insights Justin Downey.

The entire interview is available at:
https://www.joannearnold.com/posts/trauma-addiction-and-the-greatest-life-cheat-a-conversation-with-justin-downey

He can't keep much down. Which is not unusual for him....

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He can't keep much down. Which is not unusual for him.
In my own life I imagine the toll irregular eating would take on my body. Of dubious and unpredictable nutrition. Of the effects of irregular sleep on my GI system. Add to that addictions. Past and present. Gives me a stomach ache thinking about it.
It takes its toll. It exacts its price in flesh.
Meanwhile, a regular has disappeared from the streets. He told me he was waiting for a bed in rehab up in Lewiston. Praying he is in that bed. Another has been on such a tear with alcohol everybody just shakes their head when I ask about him. Praying he will find his way. I know this has been his way.
Socks, coffee cards, a few tshirts and boxers today. And no, I never imagined handing out mens boxer briefs on the street. My imagination was not strong enough to imagine their gratitude.

He had requested a little book. He said it helps him to write things down...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He had requested a little book. He said it helps him to write things down. Makes total sense to me. He smiles when he receives it. Tells me it will help him budget for the next month and rattles off the cost of rent and expenses against benefits he receives. Organized. Clear. Off he goes, coffee cake in hand.
Thank you Dear Anonymous. Thank you. With recent donations we were able to gear him up with pants, sneakers, new t-shirt and boxers. A bounty.

He is sitting amongst his stuff. A worn out shopping bag. A folding camp chair. A backpack...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

He is sitting amongst his stuff. A worn out shopping bag. A folding camp chair. A backpack slipping off his shoulders. Hood up and head down.
He waits for others to get their coffee cards. Their socks. And then he hands this to me.
'A gift for you.' he says without fanfare. Without the other guys seeing it. They have since left.
'For you.' which I translate here as to 'us'. To Dear Anonymous.

I believe, but I am in no way certain, this is a statuette of the Hindi Goddess Durga, also incarnated as Kali, Bhagvati, Ambika...and more. She is known as the embodiment of feminine and creative energy. The protective mother of the universe. Multi limbed, (eight arms) she is prepared to do battle from any direction. And yet she sits quietly in lotus position. Two of her hands, palm pressing to palm in front of her heart. If there are folks more intimately familiar with Hindi or maybe Tibetan Buddhist iconography I'd love your clarification.

He seems to be unaware of any story at all. He simply bought it 'off a homeless person', he tells me. To offer as a gift. And so like the streets, she is broken in many places. Hands and fingers missing. But still she persists. Doing what she can even with many of her weapons missing.

I imagine him, he who really struggles to put a card in his pocket, who repeatedly fumbles placing socks in his backpack, he who can barely find his own pocket to put the wrapped coffeecake in....imagine him carrying this porcelain goddess with him on the streets. He who is challenged to hang onto that chair. That bag. His mind some days.
I simply cannot imagine how he has managed this.
With great humility I accept it from him. For all of us. Him included.
All of us out trying to protect the universe with a calm heart and broken fingers and missing parts.
Totally humbled.

I had not seen him without a heavy coat. Neck wraps, scarves, hats, gloves. All necessary just a few weeks ago...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

I had not seen him without a heavy coat. Neck wraps, scarves, hats, gloves. All necessary just a few weeks ago. He was always so cold and woefully underdressed. Today, without hat and heavy gear I feel like I meet him for the first time. And he stepped right into the social distance a lens offers. And that smile. A good start to the day.
And for those who may notice, no one is wearing masks out here. A few carry masks with them if they want to use the bus.
And many are hobbling. Sore, swollen feet. Held captive too long in heavy boots. They have to be able to walk. That's where the sock urgency comes in. It becomes obvious all too soon that foot health is paramount to life on the street.

Sometimes the body fails. And there you are on the street. No where to go. No way to clean up or change...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
Sometimes the body fails. And there you are on the street. No where to go. No way to clean up or change.
It's like this sometimes.
A blanket (thank you Dear Anonymous) a new, clean pair of pants (thank you Dear Anonymous) and a coffee card go some distance to supporting a fragile moment. Mike, like all of us would like to be seen in our 'best' moments. But Mike has the heart to share how it is too...when things are not 'best'. Thank you. May you know some comfort today. Some solace from pain. Some relief.