Around this time last year, I spent a week in San Francisco on business. Even though I live in Silicon Valley, my manager and I agreed that the commute was too much for the long hours I was going to work so I booked a week a four-star hotel in the city and went on my merry way.
I am a Bay Area native and have heard new reports practically my whole life about the "homeless problem" in San Francisco. When I was newly licensed driver, my dad took me to the city to make sure that I didn't get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood. Every time I have come to San Francisco, I have seen people living on the streets. But something about this business trip made me more aware of the issue. Instead of seeing well dressed financial folks and wide-eyed tourists, I could not take my eyes off the people of the streets.
In fact, my week in San Francisco has haunted me ever since.
I watched a disabled veteran get into a scuffle with a gawking tourist. I saw men older than my father sleep on the street. For all the women dressed in glamorous clothes as they power walk to their high-profile job, there was as many homeless women wearing the only clothes they own. There was more than one man in a wheelchair and a woman asking for money with a baby on her hip. An elderly man was drinking from a brown paper bag while he sat on the steps of a church.
My heart raced when I walked down a street where a group of homeless are clustered. I am not used to this. It's uncomfortable. I was afraid. When did they become the enemy? Something to be feared instead of someone to save?
Most of the time, I walked by and ignored them. Ignoring them feels wrong. I know that I shouldn't just keeping walking, avoiding eye contact, staring at my feet. I cannot pretend that they don't exist. But walking with my head held high, smiling, or saying hello didn't feel right either. I felt like a fake. A phony. A jerk.
These men and women need more than a friendly smile. They need access to so much more than I can provide. Health-care for their ailing bodies and minds. Access to detox and drug rehab. Training to land a job. Counseling to make sure that they don't land back on the streets. Full bellies and a roof over their heads. They need a lucky break, a second chance, a miracle.
During college, I took a Community Studies course that required volunteering at a local Soup Kitchen. I remember going to meet the regular volunteers who were there day in and day out. They didn't seem so pleased that the folks from the ivory tower were coming in for a day to get a little college credit. The leader put me in charge of serving the soup - Split Pea. One ladle of soup per bowl, I remember, was the order. Any more than that and we wouldn't be able to serve everyone. A restaurant had sent over the leftover salad from a salad bar; today the first 75 people would get a small salad too.
I filled over 300 bowls of soup that afternoon. The volunteers pulled out boxes of stale, cold pizza (another donation). We didn't feed everybody that day. Those who were fed still left hungry. The one meal that some of them counted on wasn't enough. But it was better than nothing.
I only went to the Soup Kitchen during that semester. When the class was over, so was my obligation. I fulfilled my course requirement and my life continued unchanged. Now all these years later, I feel more changed by the memory as I walked the streets of San Francisco. It's taken me over ten years to learn the lesson of my Community Studies course.
It takes a village. A whole village. And while some may do more than others, we all a responsibility to our tribes. Last time I checked, ignoring a problem never actually makes the problem go away.
So I started volunteering at a Soup Kitchen. I'm still trying to figure out how to use my talents to make a difference. Until then, I'll be dishing out soup once a week to people who need so much more. And I'll be involving my son. Instead of teaching him the "bad parts" of the city to avoid, he'll be learning that is where you start.
Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog
