“Street People”

There is something that I haven't blogged about yet. I haven't talked about it for several reasons. First of all, it brings up an incredible amount of discomfort and inner conflict for me. If I talk about it, maybe the inconsistencies and prejudices in me will become too obvious. Another reason is that it's unpleasant and I don't want people to worry about us or see our life here in this light.

We live on a bit of a hill, out of the main part of town. Our property is behind a little strip mall. There are three houses and the mission office on this hill- all owned by the mission. It's a peaceful area with both bush and town around it. It's also a place where a lot of "street people" hang out. I say "street people" because I don't know what else to call them. They aren't all homeless. I can't call them "drunks" because although many are often obviously and obnoxiously intoxicated, they aren't always all drunk. After several weeks here, I was able to recognize some of the regulars. But there are others that come in from a reserve for a week or two. Some have homes in town. A few stay at the shelter- at least in the winter. Some work at tourist camps (where alcohol is not allowed) as fishing guides during the summer and are street people the rest of the year.

They don't hang out close to our house, but toward the bottom of the hill. We pass them every time we go in and out. I can clearly see them and sometimes hear them from our house. There are footpaths that go through the bush, so we see a lot of traffic. There is also a low rock wall that people stay at for much of the day. (See the photo. The ravens are where people often sit.) They sit there or lay there. Sometimes we see police cars down there and a policeman talking to the group of people. I've seen two policemen literally dragging a man to a car. He wasn't resisting and they didn't seem overly forceful- just taking an intoxicated and uncooperative man to the car. I've seen men start shoving and getting angry. I've seen a man trying to help his intoxicated friend stand up and walk, then getting frustrated and kicking at him. I hear loud laughter from the house. We see these same people walking around town, visibly drunk. They are also the ones that are visited by the ambulance around town.

I'm concerned for my boys- not so much for their safety, but what they may end up witnessing. I have been told that the street people would tend to be kind to children and that they aren't generally violent toward outsiders. They seem to keep to themselves. First Nations people have a long history of being oppressed. When I drive by, they get out of my way and don't pay much attention to me. I can almost sense their feeling of inferiority. They won't usually "bother" a white person. I feel ashamed that my feelings of general safety around these people come at the cost of their personal sense of worth and value. Their history and now culture of oppression has made me feel fairly comfortable that they would only have problems with each other and not with me as a white person. I think I'm fairly safe because I'm on a higher, more untouchable level.

One night I was trying to leave in my car. An ambulance was in the way so I sat and waited. They were trying to get an old man who had been drinking and having chest pains to go to the hospital with them. I was sitting there with my windows open and down a little hill in some trees I could hear a group of drunk people. They were shoving and flirting.

Another night I was at the store right in front of us. I was in the dressing room and I could hear someone talking loudly to "Sandra." Sandra was insisting in a croupy voice that she was fine and didn't want to go to the hospital. The paramedic was being very kind, but insisting that Sandra go with her. The paramedic said, "I saw you in the hospital last night. Did you get the pills for your cough today? You went out drinking instead?" When I left the dressing room, I could see another drunk person being led to the ambulance followed, eventually, by Sandra.

I finished my shopping and was standing at the counter to pay. I was close to the door. I heard the door open and glanced over. There stood a tall native man with blood all over his face and no shirt on. Shocked, I looked away. (Good Christian that I am.) He said to all of us, "I want a t-shirt." I was frozen. After an uncomfortably long silence, the cashiers started talking to him. "Stuart! What happened to you? Get him a tissue." The girl behind me in line had gone back to the clothes racks and pulled off a t-shirt. She kept the price tag and tried to give him the t-shirt. He was so out of it that he hardly knew to take the shirt. He was trying to give her a $20 bill while she tried to tell him that she would buy it. The cashiers tried to get Stuart to sit down and put a paper towel against the gash on his nose. He said that he had gotten into a fight. They helped him put the t-shirt on and called 911. The woman on the phone said, "Stuart, were you assaulted? Who fought with you?" His answer was, "I did." Finally they had him sitting with a shirt on and a paper towel against his injury. His bloody money was lying on the counter. The cashier got back to taking my money. I left. As I walked around the building, down the drive where these people hang out, there was Stuart's bloody shirt lying on the ground right in my path. For some reason, seeing his shirt right there where I needed to walk to get back to my house really shook me. First of all, I was ashamed and confused about my reaction in the store. Then I was angry. What if I would have left the store 7 minutes earlier? Would I have found myself right in the middle of someone's violent exchange? And what if I would have had my kids with me? What will they have to see? How am I supposed to think about all of this? What is the Christ-like response? And if I knew what it was, would I be brave enough to do it? How does being a woman and having children play into it?

It actually seems hopeless to me. These people are caught in generations of addiction. Those chains are so strong. If I am friendly, will I soon have people on my doorstep asking for things? I certainly don't want them to notice my children.

In all honesty, and it's horrifying to put this into words, I don't see them as truly valuable. I mean, I know they are, but are they really as valuable as everyone else? Are they truly real people like I am?

So much conflict within me on this. What appear to be conflicting "truths." I don't know how I need to respond to this. I try to pray and believe that there is hope. I still don't talk to them.