June 02, 2004

On a Corner Holding a Sign, Please Help

The years of dust. The unopened certified mail. The half used prescription pills. The birthday cards from her sons. I stop every few minutes, while cleaning my mom's house, and fall-- sometimes into deep thought, and sometimes into an emotional abyss. Sometimes, I just fall.

Maybe it's because she's been particularly absent, forgetting both Christmas and my birthday, but over the past year, I've been thinking more and more about what's happening to my mom. The years passing by without fail, her body following the silent footsteps of her mind as they both wear thin at the edges, the glimmer of what might be that turns into the tear of what could have been.

On all of the onramps and offramps throughout Portland, beggars make camp throughout the day, pleading for change with their crude cardboard signs of misspellings and humility. I hand a man-- he looks about my mom's age-- a quarter and two nickels, and he raises his head just enough so that our eyes meet. He mouths a God Bless, and hobbles back to the side of the road.

Martin: Toby, if we start pulling strings like this, you don't think every homeless veteran will come out of the woodwork?
Toby: I can only hope, sir.
-The West Wing

In an episode of Sports Night, Danny repeats the common argument against giving money to the homeless: "You're not afraid they're gonna spend it on booze?"

Isaac replies, "I'm hoping they're gonna spend it on booze. Look, Danny, these people, most of them, it's not like they're one hot meal from turning it around. For most of them, the clock's pretty much run out. They'll be home soon enough. What's wrong with giving 'em a little Novocain to get 'em through the night?"

I see the man through the rear view mirror. I can't imagine I could ever have the strength to do what he does. To stand there, to look up enough to meet someone's eye, to take the coins and buy something-- food, alcohol, drugs... anything-- it seems beyond what I'm capable of.

This weekend I got a letter from my mom-- the first time I've heard from her in nearly a year. She "didn't have my address or phone number"-- I've lived in the same apartment for a year and a half, and had the same phone number for over three years-- and couldn't contact me. After a few lines, I had to stop and find a corner to sit down in.

The people on the ramps, the dozens I see every day, they seem so far removed from my life. I gave them a few coins from the $135 I made today. I drank from water I pulled out from my little cooler, while they drink from bottles that have sat in the sun all day long. I drove away from each of them at 65 MPH, and they stand, with crutches, and canes, and fragments of humanity. They seem so far away... until I think of my mom. And it seems, then, the line that separates my mom from them is so small that I'm caught with a feeling, a fear perhaps, of connection. But it's not just my mom, with her illness and insecurity, that connects me to those people on the side of the road.

At the downtown Stumptown Coffee Roasters, John Brodie's "Signs, Desperate" collection is being featured right now.

"Signs, Desperate” grew out of glimpsing a middle-aged, apparently middle class person standing on a corner holding a sign. I didn’t see what the sign said, but after thinking about what it could have said, realized the sentiment was relatively irrelevant. Basically, all it needs to say is “ON A CORNER HOLDING A SIGN, PLEASE HELP.” That pretty much explains the situation. This inspired me to make my own signs which could explain my or others present situation, in various states of revelation, which may or may not be in need of help.

We all hold signs. Most aren't asking for help, directly-- our culture isn't like that-- but the signs are there, in our hands, in our eyes, in our memories that appear when we walk the train tracks at night. I've been thinking about my signs lately: the LEDs that won't light up, the road signs that haunt me, the books that sit by my bed. I should find some cardboard to make my signs, to hold my signs, to hold me.

Or maybe I've already found it. Not made from a collection of fibres, but from a collection of people. Not drawn with a black magic marker, but with words and sounds and sentiments shared. I guess, too, I'm more open than I imagine I am-- than I imagine I could ever be.

Some people need help. Some people don't. And some people don't know. But it's something to realize you're standing on the corner, holding a sign.

Posted by Sean at June 2, 2004 02:43 AM

Comments

Posted by: celina at June 2, 2004 05:01 PM

Posted by: Sean at June 3, 2004 12:48 AM