May 4, 2023
In the morning, as we round the corner at Haight and Central, Greenberg and I pass a woman lying on the sidewalk, asleep. A light blue blanket is draped over her head, which is resting on the pavement, and a boldly striped sweater is wrapped around her midsection. Her legs are sprawled out, and as I glance down, I see that her bottom half is covered by some kind of filthy and filmy skirt with triangular lace inserts. It looks like the lower part of a wedding dress.
We walk on a few steps, and I am awash with questions: How did she get that dress? How did she wind up here? How has the sweet romantic symbolism of a wedding dress morphed to the harsh reality of sleeping on a bed of cement? I feel like talking with someone about this, so I decide to start a conversation with a larger audience.
I walk back a few steps, pull out my cell phone and snap a photo of the woman, whose face is not visible. A few steps later, still walking on, I turn the picture into an Instagram/Facebook post.
By the time we get home, something like eight minutes later, there are 10 comments. I watch all day as they pour in. Most of my Facebook friends are people who probably think as I do, are horrified by the image and by imagining what has led to it. But one comment, from someone I don’t really know (as a journalist, I met more people than I could remember, so not wanting to insult anyone, I usually said yes to Facebook friend requests), stays with me:
“Taking photos of someone else’s misfortune, just to shame society, is moot, unless you offered them help,” writes one man. Internally, I rush to my own defense: I didn’t want to wake her. If I called 311, authorities would roust her. She didn’t know I was there. Isn’t it consciousness-raising to just display the image?
I go about my business, and by late afternoon, when I pass the corner, the woman is gone. I am still mulling over whether what I posted was virtue-signaling (look how sensitive I am), and wondering what more I should have done.
Later that afternoon, two blocks farther in our standard walk, we come to the northeast corner of Page and Lyon, where some kind of halfway house/shelter for young people has a small front garden surrounded by a wrought-iron fence implanted in a round–top concrete wall about 18 inches high. I glance to my left and notice an elderly woman – is elderly older than old, which is what I am? – sitting down on the narrow top of that wall, about four feet from the corner..
She’s wearing sandals and a flowered skirt, a warm-enough jacket, and she’s carrying a small canvas tote that doesn’t look as though it’s heavy. But she looks exhausted, and she’s breathing hard. She leans forward with her head down, as though she can’t quite get her breath. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Do you need any help?” “No,” she answers. “I’ll be alright. I’m not going far.”
I walk a few steps more, the words of the Facebook commenter, “unless you offered them help,” echoing in my head. I turn back, round the corner and approach the woman again. By now, a shiny black SUV, driven by a young woman, has noticed her and stopped on the corner, too.
“Why don’t I walk you?” I ask the seated woman. “Where are you going?” “Not far. I’m okay,” she repeats, motioning in the southeast direction. “To Haight and Baker, and then up …” she pauses, “on Buena Vista East.” The woman in the car has rolled her window down.
Buena Vista East, which wraps around the park, is a pretty steep street. “Why don’t you stay here,” I suggest to the resting woman, who still seems out of breath. “I live a block away. I will go home and get my car and drive you.”
Before she can accept or reject that offer, the woman in the car leans from the driver’s seat toward the open passenger window. “I’m here, and I’ll drive her,” she says. “No problem.”
I approach the seated woman and tell her I’ll walk her to the car. I offer my arm; she takes my hand, and uses it to pull herself up from her perch. She’s not very heavy.
We walk a few steps to the SUV, and she climbs in. My eyes lock with those of the driver. “Take care of yourselves,” I say, before closing the door.
The driver and I have big smiles on our faces. This is easy.
Writing this, I am sitting at my desk scraping my memory in search of details. And it occurs to me that the first thing I noticed when approaching the woman who seemed to need help is that she was wearing beige sandals and that her feet were clean, well-scrubbed. Of course offering help was easy.
Walking stories
I had the same fleeting thought about the photo of the woman on the street as your thoughtful poster. But this is all very complicated now. And fear for our own safety is a real issue. I have the heart of a 15 year old girl but the body of a very thin, 73 year old woman who couldn't easily run if a situation got dicey.
Sometimes I think just looking a person on the street who asks for money and either handing them a couple of dollars or just sincerely saying. "I'm sorry, I don't have cash on me today.(which is often true) I hope for you better days." with a smile, at least shows humanity where most of these poor folks are shown none, is something.
I've lived in SF for 50 years. This issue eats at me everyday. I can not believe what passes for leadership in the town has allowed and even fostered policies that exacerbate desperate people on the street. Then those poor souls are maligned and blamed for all the ills of the city.
This whole thing breaks my heart.
Thank you for posting. Thank you for helping. Thank you for keeping all of us aware that our humanity is at stake.
There is no wrong person to help. I hope you are not beating yourself up for this.