Since October I have been thinking about writing about work at the Shelter. Material is abundant and the things I have witnessed seem like they could be important to take with me into the rest of life. Several times I have sat down with the intention of telling the story of one or more of the interesting, and sometimes challenging people I work with, yet when I get down to it, I haven't been able to do it. I haven't been able to put down in words any of the things that I have experienced in this strange, tragic and often humorous world I bear witness to.
Every single time leave the shelter I have a story I can tell, yet the interesting thing is that I no longer do. I did at first and I got a lot of pleasure out of it but somewhere along the way I stopped. Somewhere along the line the pleasure I got was counteracted by the fact that I still went to work each day and saw people who were literally at the bottom of the barrel that is society....and somewhere along the line I realized that by telling my stories I might just be perpetuating the stereotypes about the homeless that I hate so much. For me, laughing about the things that have been put in front of me is a necessary coping mechanism. In order to go to work week after week I have to be able to laugh at the woman who is so mentally ill she accused me of stealing her identity even though the truth is that its not funny at all, it's tragic. Its tragic that she is so mentally ill she talks to people who aren't real and so paranoid she thinks everyone around her wants to steal her identity. Even more tragic is that we as a society have failed her and this mental illness has rendered her homeless. I have found humor to be essential to working at the shelter. It helps me cope with the most difficult of situations, but this week something happened that I cant find any humor in, no matter how hard I try.
As my overnight shift was wrapping up Tuesday morning, with no sleep and weary eyes I was witness to a violent assault. I wont get into the details, mostly because I have already shared them over and over this week in an attempt to perform some sort of exorcism of the toxic energy I carried away from the experience, but suffice it to say it was by far the most violent thing I have ever seen. After dealing with the aftermath, getting the victim on his way to the hospital and putting up with the infuriating Boulder Police I walked away barely able to keep myself together. My heart felt like it wanted to explode with anger, an emotion I wont even admit to feeling most of the time.
How is it that bearing witness to something that was over in less than 3 minutes and didn't even involve me could make me feel something so intensely? It was so much more than a fight to me. I wasn't just angry about the fact that it happened, I was angry about the fact that the world that we live in could create this situation. I was angry that everything in the assailant's life had brought him to a place where beating another man seemed like a solution to his problems. I was angry about the fact that the victim's developmental disabilities made him so vulnerable. I was angry that the police chose to take their frustration about the situation out on me and that their prejudices against the homeless were so blatant. I was just angry. Period.
And then suddenly I wasn't angry, I was sad. It makes me so sad. For me, anger and sadness, maybe its all the same.
The fact is that much of the things that happen in the world make me feel this way, but when it happens in front of my eyes, with people I know, its a game changer. It makes injustices such as this so much more real in my mind. I may not be able to find humor in this assault and by telling this story I may perpetuate stereotypes about the homeless community, but by experiencing it, and telling the story I am gaining a better understanding of the world.
But it doesnt change the fact that I am sad and I am outraged....and right now, that's exactly what I need to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment