Block-long faceless buildings slowly become neglected Victorians as Karen, George, and I leave downtown San Francisco on wet, tired feet. It is getting quite dark as we begin to walk through the jungle of the Fillmore district. Not a place for three young whites to be wandering about at night. The conversation is sparse. We try to appear confident, heading for the free crash pad on Golden Gate Avenue where we will spend the night, if there is room.
I am foreign to this environment, this place of storefront homes and street-corner bars. Its contrast with my background overwhelms me. That makes me remember who we really are: students involved with Westmont College’s Urban Program, a semester spent living and working in San Francisco. Our Urban Studies class begins with an “urban plunge”: a two-night, three-day experiment in city survival, our resources being only $1 and an ID.
But I try to forget the program. I must try to feel, to know the pain of being cut off from any other life. I do not hate as these people do, nor can I know the powerlessness of the unfortunates I’ve seen today. But I have to try to understand. I must know, even for this short time, what it means to be society’s victim.
The only signs of life I see lurk behind closed curtains. Is this place really as evil as I’ve been taught? Such thoughts occupy me until we see a crowd gathering on the sidewalk ahead. We recognize other Westmont students waiting outside a house that we realize is our destination. We try not to show our relief at seeing familiar faces.
A sign over the door strikes me: "We are a Christian group, interested in telling you about Jesus. If you need food and lodging and want to hear about the Lord, you are welcome. If you have no such desire, you are asked to seek help elsewhere ... " But wasn’t Jesus’ thing unconditional love? It just doesn’t sit right with me. I peer into the window; people are gathered around a dining table, seemingly unaware of their crowded porch.
“They’re late in opening up tonight,” a stranger tells me, “I’ll bet they just want to make good and sure that we’re wet to the bone.”
The three of us find an empty spot on the porch to wait. Karen snuggles close to me but keeps fidgeting.
“How ya doin’?”
“Oh, I’m just cold, that’s all,” she replies.
My wool sweater has been good to me. We decide to trade off its goodness between us.
The sleeves dangle beyond her fingers; she gathers them up in her fist. It feels good to meet such a basic need of someone else. I don’t remember ever doing that before. I suppose when people have what they need, they can’t know the beauty of giving or receiving. I wonder how many else are cold and wet tonight, in need of warmth from my sweater.
I was warmed today by a waiter in the Height district who gave us a bowl of soup and crackers for nothing. Not even an explanation -- ours for the asking. I know we are not very enjoyable company; not revealing our identity was an agreement that the class made when we took on the experiment. Thus, our every word had to be carefully planned and consistent with our pre-formulated story: that Karen and I had just dropped out of school and met George here in the city. It got us by.
Eventually the door opens. A man and a woman mechanically take our names and proposed length of visit (maximum of three nights). Karen, George, and I are among the last in. Entering, we find a meagerly furnished living room spattered with small talk, strained smiles, and bright lights. A thin female wearing too much make-up and cheap, faddish clothes approaches.
“Hi. I’m Sharon. What are your names?”
Basic question, basic answer. We continue with such basics until she hits us with the heavy.
“Do you know Jesus?”
Well, I think, somewhere I’ve gotten the story on him. But I’m not sure I know the same one she’s talking about.
Vague question, vague answer. She takes vagueness as a golden opportunity to chalk up another convert. Tells me her story of drugs, sex, and then getting high on Jesus. I think my face is affirming her because she keeps going, stronger by the minute. She gets so high on Jesus that I’m left somewhere behind.
We are herded into the dining room for soup and French bread; now they’re talking our language. Silence descends as first bites are taken. The soup is too bland, but thank goodness there’s not much they can do to ruin French bread.
Nine-thirty, time to turn in. The hosts remind us that wake-up time is 5:30, since they have to go to work tomorrow and get us all out by 6:30. Women are directed downstairs to two small rooms. There’s bedding for about 15, but with tonight’s overload of 22, some of the hostesses will have to sleep on the floor. I am given a lower bunk to sleep on. No mattress, but there is a plywood board to keep me from falling through to the floor. A blanket and my redeeming sweater-coat will keep me warm enough.
Karen is combing her hair, removing her outer, wetter layers, and climbing into a sleeping bag on a bed nearby. Her nearness provides the security I need to sleep in all this madness.
When I wake to the sound of a shrill alarm, a smile and a good-morning-how-ja-sleep from Karen reminds me of where I am and the fact that in an hour I’ll be back out there.
The newness of the day is overwhelming as we step out into the dark morning in dry clothes. We hope they’ll stay that way. The downpour has stopped, but the damp air is giving us the distinct impression that another one is soon coming.
We wander around in the sporadic rainfall until St. Anthony’s Dining Room opens its doors. We get into the weaving line of hungry men, each of whom we suppose to be a part of the 2,000 who regularly eat the free daily meals. The filth is appalling, but somehow I am grateful for the attitude that it is creating in me. I am here. I am really among the least of these.
We arrive at the food counter. We pass by, giving our order to the servers behind. For once I don’t hide my joy. I think I’m brimming with gratefulness. Thank you so much, I say with my eyes. I think they know I’m not one of them.
After downing the colorless food, we leave and discover a small Catholic library near St. Anthony’s. I browse in the stacks for a while, until drowsiness and indigestion leads me to a chair. I set my head on my folded arms, hunching over a table. The next thing I feel is someone shaking my shoulder.
“No sleeping in this library!”
I wake with a start, and then realize that I am being treated like dirt. Why can’t I sleep in here? I stand up to get more alert and suggest leaving to the others. I feel funny here, but the uneasiness doesn’t leave as we return to the streets.
I am dirt; I look and act like it. Passersby remind me of the fact with their condemning eyes. I realize now that in order to survive here I must disregard their indifference. Dependence on anyone but myself could be risky: I become alien and apart.
Not until the next morning as I walk up the stairs to Lone Mountain College, our residence in the city, do I dare think. Now I realize that I am re-entering the other side of society. In a few more steps, I will be a “have,” with all the resources I need to become anyone I want to be and suppress anyone I want to suppress. Power. Money. Now I know that the two are inseparable. And I am an oppressor, as grim as that sounds. And what’s worse, I’m running to embrace that power, pleading that it will forever protect me from the evil I have experienced for the last two days.
But where does the evil lie? I recall some words I have never understood before: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
When this article appeared, Dana S. Powell was a student at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California.
Got something to say about what you're reading? We value your feedback!