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Today was tough. Tougher for her than me.

I have some friends, friends that are really compassionate. Moreso than I. Often I am reminded about my lack of compassion. I grew up poor. Food stamp poor. Not homeless poor. But check to check, foodstamp, government cheese poor. Those years were few. 4 or less as I remember, but the four of us lived in a 900 square foot home that was rented for 15 years. Over half those years our landlord was my father’s employer.  More than most of my peers, I know the direct correlation between work and sustinance. My dad would have died working if it meant putting food on the table, or caring for my mom or us boys.
Today I was face to face with poor. My nostrels full of the stench that is homelessness. Forced to check my preconceived notions at the door and man up to help someone. In the end I am not sure how I helped. I felt more co-conspirator or enabler than helper. Those compassionate friends I mentioned above. They met a lady in downtown Dayton that lives in a park. In the shadows of law firms, bank buildings and million dollar sporting complexes, she lives outside.

My job today, bring her back to her spot from a hotel. She had sought refuge from the sub zero temps for two days in a cheap hotel south of town.  No big deal. I can check my notions and emotions and provide some friendly transport. God I wish it had been that easy.

She has lived on the streets for some time. Resistant to any changes in her situation, my friends help her as they can. Some food, laundry days at our church, new bungie cords, or a new box for her goods.  A ride here, some food there, check on her every week to see if she needs anything.  When I picked her up from the hotel I was hit with her stench. How could she stand it? Then, like a ton of rock onto my heart, it hit me. How could I stand myself for judging her.

I loaded up her cart, box and bag into my warm van. It was at that point, in my LL Bean Anarock and Under Armour ankle socks that I noticed her boots. Covered in duct tape, Wal-Mart plastic bags peaking out from the top with mismatched socks. She wore three layers of pants and covered those with some wool cargos that hadn’t been in good shape in years. Two coats covered a bevy of sweatshirts and scarves. Her little frame enhanced by the textiles she piled on.

Loaded up I drove her to the front of the hotel to check out. I watched as she finished a shot of coffee from the reception area and lumbered back into my van. With the volume down the small talk began as the short drive back to the cold streets began.

We talked about the hotel. She made the bed before departing. She likes to stay south of town because it is safer than the cheap hotels in town. I agreed. We talked about the lunch I brought her. A sliced turkey with american on whole wheat. Granola bar. Apple. Breakfast bar. Peanut butter crackers. Chex mix. She thanked me after I assured her it was pork free.
She reminisced about a colder winter once before when she stayed in a rooming house with poor heat. The weather has been bad since October. Rain. Or wind. Or cold. Not conducive to a street lifestyle apparently. We talked about the homeless guy my wife and kids fed on South Dixie for a couple of weeks and how that hotel is good to those who need a place to stay. She chatted about the benefits of hanging out in the library for hours. She loves reading. She spoke as if she was well read. I learned tonight she has degree from Ohio State.

She sheepishly asked about my kids, my work, and we discussed the homeless woman that lived in our house for 4 months. She couldn’t believe that we had someone we didn’t know in our home for that period of time. She seemed to enjoy the conversation. I seemed ashamed of my comfortability. I bought us coffee. 6 sugars and 5 creams for her. One sugar for me.

We arrived at her spot. I parked at her instruction and we moved to the back of the van. I unloaded her box and cart, then her bag, as methodically as she instructed it be loaded. With little more than a thank you and you’re welcome, she was arranging her items on the curb, staying close to the building hiding from the wind, she began to fix her coffee. At that moment I felt totally culpable and helpless. Selfish. Ashamed. Sad. I worked every day in the warmth and comfort only blocks away.

I searched for a business card. A number for her to call when she needed.  Call me friend if you need me, he can always reach me. If you need anything. She never asked for anything. Just a ride. I took my warm and clean self back into the warmth that my van provided and left. As the tears fell I wrestled with what had happened. Why was I dropping a woman off in a downtown park in 20 degree weather.  Why. Why was that the right thing to do. My visa, mastercard or discover could have paid for a month at that hotel with change leftover. I could have paid that and my wife and kids would have never suffered. Why?… Tears. Why?… More tears. Why?

To soothe my shame, anger, sadness and confusion I remembered that she had been offered an apartment. The very friends who called me to help, had offered her a place. Safety. Warmth. Assistance. She declined. In the end I can’t change her. They can’t change her. I, we,  can only respond to her requests for help. No matter how crazy it seems to me. She is a wise woman and can handle the elements better than I can handle her surviving them.

This story went absolutely no where. No moral to the story. No happy ending. Just a woman, living in a park, downtown, with nothing more than layers of dirty clothes. I am here. Warm, typing, trying not to cry all over again, documenting this so I never forget what happened today.

If you see her, or that guy from south dixie, or that other dude that hangs out behind the pump house in Veterans park, do something. Offer a cup of coffee, offer a turkey with american on whole wheat, offer a friend conversation. Perhaps knowing them, like my friends know her, is the first part of helping. I will do that, and try to be content helping to the level that she, they, want help.