PLEASE PRAY FOR THE HERMIT

Things are looking more and more bleak, and I am beginning to understand the loss of heart, faith and hope among the poor.

Today, I woke from a nap to see a strange man staring at me through my window while fondling himself with a red bandana. I freaked out, of course, jumped up from my chair and did my best to wake myself up as soon as possible. I had the typical vertigo that I get when I awake, and it took a few minutes to get my bearings and try to decide what to do. My PTSD adrenaline kicked in automatically. I was spinning around the apartment.

Eventually, I heard a voice outside my door. I opened it to find the transient leaning against the opposite wall where there was an open electrical outlet. (The painters had been using it for their multiple electrical machineries and didn't bother to reinstall the locking cap.) He was talking on his cell phone while he continued to steal the electricity from the building.

The man was about 5 feet 10 inches tall, red haired, highly freckled. He was carrying a big black backpack that was wide open and revealed what appeared very much to be a policeman's baton. You can do a lot of damage with one of those.

My automatic reaction was to yell at him and tell him to get lost. What I didn't know is that he'd been there long enough to defecate ON THE SIDEWALK near my window.

I was flabbergasted, and running hot on adrenaline. I'd called a neighbor with whom I'm friendly. She's older than I am and a little more beaten up, but I wanted some company while I walked the dog. It was time for him to do his business and I didn't feel safe in the parking lot yet.

My neighbor didn't like it that I was upset and reeling from the experience, and she attempted to calm me down by telling me to calm down, which never works,of course. I don't know why people do that. Even though it is natural to be upset about something so bizarre happening to a person, they tell you relax, even though it is stupid and impossible. Perhaps the upset makes them nervous or uncomfortable. They can't themselves remain calm in the presence of someone who has been severely jangled.

There are some circumstances under which being calm is NOT the answer. Generally, I am calm, and I enjoy it, but when transients are violating your dignity through a plate glass window and depositing feces on the sidewalk before casually stealing electricity, being calm would be rather odd, in my mind.

I had to call the maintenance man, completely oblivious that it is super bowl Sunday and that he was most certainly watching the game. He did come out during half time, and I think he is a real brick for doing it. He cleaned up the feces from the sidewalk outside my window while the police office talked to me about what had happened.

We were promised that the police would keep an eye on us tonight, with the hope that the locking plate for the electrical outlet would be fixed ASAP.

This has happened before. Whenever the plate over the electrical outlet goes missing, word gets around the homeless population and there ensues a constant stream of transients outside my door, bellowing their odd personal business into their cell phones while the cell phone charges at the same time.

I told the police officer that I understand that most of these homeless people just CANT live like the rest of us do. If you put them into an apartment, they wouldn't know how to live there. Camping out in the Bosque is preferable to some people, even in the biting cold of winter. I crochet hats for them and give them to the Joy Junction people who send their van out on the cold nights to pick up the willing homeless and take them to their facility. They give the hats to the ones who refuse to go, the ones they leave behind. It isn't just poverty that keeps them in the street or in the Bosque. It's temperament and/or insanity. I understand. I am unusual, in my own way, and, although I have no problem living indoors, I have other problems with some parts of civilization with which most people have no problem coping. Perhaps coping isn't the word, really, because for most people these things are not problems at all.

For the last three years I have been trying to find another place to live, someplace near friends who have middle class lives, near middle class grocery stores. They have comfortable old houses, with landscaping of varying pleasantness. Nothing too fancy. I like it there, in the middle of the road of life. I don't crave excitement, but rather ordinariness and calm.

These friends, with their large families and regular church attendance and duties, are special to me. They are kind to me, and loving. They have been trying to get me to live closer to them so they can help me easier, but finding something suitable and affordable has proven to be impossible, so far. After 3 years, they won't say they would give up. They are sturdier stock than that! They won't give up, but I think they may also be losing hope.

All of the affordable housing is located outside the magical realm of the nice middle class neighborhoods and grocery stores. Every single one is in an awful part of town, on a busy main street. Nothing is available in any residential neighborhood. It is almost as if it was PLANNED that way...a plan to keep the poor away from anything pretty, good, nice or decent.

I wonder if the city planners, when they think of poor people, imagine people like the man who left excrement on my sidewalk. When people talk about what to do about the poor, is it them that they think of? In reality, poor people are mostly elderly and disabled. The homeless, in reality, take up less than 1% of the poor, but they are so visible and their behavior so memorable that they overshadow the rest of us - those who know how to keep an apartment and pay our bills.

If I was a saint, I wouldn't be so distraught. I would not concern myself with my comfort. I would simply feel sorry for the man who is so broken that he would do the things he did tonight outside my window. In reality, I feel trapped and sorrowful, stuck in an ugly life that has room for these kind of atrocities. I feel incapable of wanting to rise to sainthood. I don't even WANT to be comfortable with what has happened here tonight. Not a shred of my being is interested in self-abnegation.

I think about Mother Theresa and the hardships she CHOSE. I wish I was a better person. I don't know whether or not to pray for the courage to remain here, happily, without complaint...or run screaming to some other town or state or SOMEWHERE, anywhere but here, where the stains of that man still mar the sidewalk.

It is a sad night, my friends. Please pray for the little Hermit, that I may become better than I am.

God bless us all.

Silver Rose