A Living Magazine - Day 54 - Ana and the Poverty Prejudice

The sun was finally close enough to rising, that I felt I could walk downtown and actually do things. Of course, since having my wet and wild night, the very first priority was laundry. Even if my sleeping bag hadn't become a leaky boat the night before, I was still way overdue for a wash.

Carved into the boulder I sat on by the river. Each rock had the poetry or sayings of children.

I was amused that this Portland had its own floating restaurant...

For folks in other states, Maine's Portland has a floating restaurant too: DiMillo's.

This guy was dancing down the empty street.

Coincidentally, I'd located a place called, Belmont Eco Laundry--a coin operated place (which also had credit/debit card swipers right on the machines!). I just had to cross back over the Hawthorne Bridge, walk back up Hawthorne Boulevard and take a left on Cesar E. Chavez again, then take a right onto Belmont Street. Belmont was also a "district" unto itself.  

I went to Burger King, which was just at the head of the east side of the bridge, but I realized I couldn't buy anything if I was going to do laundry. It was a quick walk back up Hawthorne and I had no trouble finding the laundromat, after the 2.5 mile hike.

The place was pretty nice! They even had Wi-Fi and AC outlets. There were plenty of machines, and only a few people. Doing laundry is a tricky affair. Something always has to remain unwashed (besides myself), so that I can do only one load and not be naked while it runs. Unlike my last laundry, in Redding, California, this place had a bathroom. I went in and changed into my swim trunks and blue button down shirt, then went back out and found one of the credit/debit machines. I noticed that the sign said they would put a pre-authorized hold on $5.00. I quickly checked my card balance. It was $5.16. So, I went back to the machine, loaded it up (the sleeping bag can only be washed in a front loader), added the detergent (I had a small bottle of Tide left over from the Dollar Tree), and swiped my card. The machine started up and I let out a sigh of relief.

I was still concerned about the tarp. It was nearly wringing wet when I put it in my backpack, but it would have to wait. The sleeping bag itself had been in a plastic trash bag that was now wet. So I threw out the plastic bag, and asked the attendant if she might have a new one for me. She was very kind and gave me one, without charge.

I settled in for the 26 minutes, getting online and also transferred pictures and videos. I felt like this overdue wash was the best thing I'd done in days. It took almost floating away on the Willamette River to force me to the laundromat. Still, the nagging, ever-present fact that I only had a pocket full of change left and no idea when I would have more money, offset my tentative satisfaction. This money-stress was like a chain to uncertainty around my neck; one that I often (perhaps through the necessity of having to stay sane) would recede for small period of time. But, just touching my wallet would bring the reality of the situation back again.

I thought about what I would do if I had plenty of funding. I decided that I wouldn't change a thing about my methodology, nor rough camping. BUT, I would get a room each week. And, I would eat more steadily (maybe twice a day instead of just once). Like the impractical dreams of being discovered by national media, the only thing about fantasizing that did me any good was the way it could let me escape from my circumstances even for a moment, and feel relief.

The washer beeped. I walked over to it and was very pleased to see how the spin cycle had removed the water so efficiently that the laundry was almost dry. That meant less quarters for the dryer. I hauled it all out, transferring it to a cart, wheeled it to a dryer and inserted four quarters, for 28 minutes. I talked to the attendant for a little while and told her how nice I thought the set-up was there. She was pleased to hear it, and I could tell a lot of folks had said the same thing. She told me that not only do the machines take credit/debit cards, but they (the machines) will actually send you an auto-email when your wash is done! Cool!

I walked back down to Hawthorne and continued back toward the bridge, taking shots along the way.

I realized I still had a dollar left on the card, and had filled out a Burger King survey that rewards with a free sandwich, if you buy a drink and fries. I poured the coins into my hand and counted out enough to cover the fries. I knew I could cover the drink with my card. Knowing this would be my last meal for a while, I planned to enjoy it to the fullest.

The place had three other homeless guys there (or very low income--all with backpacks), and one woman. I ordered my food and sat down, getting online. that is when I posted about how much the homeless woman looked like my mother--but very lonely. I imagined she was for a moment, and started to choke up a bit. NEVER would I be able to see my mother in a situation like that and not be crushed. Her clothes were faded and fraying a bit, but they looked neat on her. She was wearing slacks, a pink fleece coat and white sneakers. She had a dirty pink backpack and a large purse, stuffed.

All the images of all the poor and disabled people I've seen broke through their eggshell barrier and flooded into my mind, overwhelming me. I had to keep wiping my eyes. I truly FELT the severity of the situation that these people face. It was REAL. In the pre-journey past, whenever I'd see homeless folks, I'd always feel bad for them, but it would pass as I'd move on to another activity. I knew that's what my readers who had never experienced homelessness were likely to be doing too.

When I thought I'd pulled myself together enough, I packed up my stuff and pulled on the backpack, making a mental note to use the restroom before I left, then walked over to the woman's table. She looked very surprised to see me standing there. I said "Hello." She said nothing, but half-smiled.

I asked her if she was OK. I'm not sure what I'd expected to do if she wasn't. I certainly had no money to give her (something else I would do judiciously and infrequently for certain people, were I better funded). She squinted her eyes, and said something in Russian.

It dawned on me that we would not be having a very deep discussion at that point. I said I was sorry to disturb her. She had know idea what the words meant, but she seemed to understand my tone, and smiled. When I saw her smile, with perfect teeth--just like my mom, I teared up again. I couldn't stop myself, and a streak ran down my face, which I quickly wiped away. She looked at me with such sympathy and compassion, that I forgot we couldn't understand each other. She stood up and put her hand on my cheek, saying something with "Imya" in it. I knew that meant "name".

I pointed to myself and said, "Alexander...Alex"--realizing, as the word left my lips, what a good Russian name that was as well.

She smiled widely and pointed to herself, saying "Anastasia", then held her fingers closely together without touching, and said, "Ana." This was her nickname. She pointed to her watch and waved to me, picking up her things. I felt that the moment had been special but was now passing by. I waved too and said, "Do svidaniya." She laughed, and nodded, returning the goodbye, and walked out and down the street.

I know longer felt so bad. It is strange isn't it. I felt sorry for her, but it was she who comforted me. She must have thought I needed some attention--that I might be lonely. I chuckled at the thought, and walked out into the parking lot. After leaving, I remembered my mental note and walked back in.

I asked the manager for the key to the bathroom. He said that was fine, but I'd need to leave my backpack out in the dining area. I told him I just needed to pee. He told me it was their policy. I replied that I wasn't going to leave my backpack, for fear that someone might steal it. He said, "I'm sorry sir, but we have a 'no backpack' policy for people who use the bathroom. Enter the poverty prejudice.

I felt my blood pressure rise. The old feeling I had, the one in Gallup, New Mexico, when I was told by the jewelry store owner to leave, because I had a backpack on came back in full force. I was NOT happy. With the lack of money, the soaking and lack of sleep, the heartache of seeing Ana, and now THIS, I raised my voice, and said so loudly (without actually yelling) that every head turned--most of them homeless themselves, "Having to use the restroom is a human need! You demand that I leave my backpack here and risk it being stolen, for what? Policy?! This is discrimination against a class of people you don't understand!" He just looked away and began fiddling with the cups behind the counter. I figured my point had been made, and got my anger under semi-control again, but as I went to open the door and leave, I turned around and said, "I bought my sandwich today by filling out your online survey. I will be mentioning this situation when I do it again." He never looked up, and just kept fiddling. Two of the guys sitting in the back gave me the thumbs up. I left.

It took a while for me to calm down completely, as I made my way down Madison toward Washington Park to explore it and find a sleeping place for the night. My days seemed to be ruined and saved, in alternating waves. It was a bipolar experience, nearly every day. Like the blisters on my feet, I would be rubbed raw by negativity, and then moved to tears of joy by its opposite. The more days I spend out here, the less middle ground there seems to be, to just rest my emotions.

As hotheaded as I was, I still couldn't resist taking pictures of the interesting things around me...

Green growth along the outside of a building.

This bridge was easy to "troll" under.

I entered the park and walked up the first stairway I saw...

The entire park was located on the side of a large hill, with each level being a different are of interest. The rose garden was near the top, so that's where I headed. I thought I'd take a short-cut path, but it ended up being a much longer and harder slog...

I saw some narrow gauge rails, and thought I'd take a picture of the switch, since I showed the big version the day before...

I heard music echoing around the hillsides and deep ravines, so I followed my ears. They led me to the roses in a beautifully set up (and apparently award-winning) garden...

To its side was a nicely formed amphitheater, with a fantastic jazz band, called the Tizer Quartet, pumping out some very tight and funky tunes...

The Tizer Quartet

Sorry for the audio quality.

I sat and listened to them play their last three songs. It was nice. I was covered in sweat, and had just been pretty angry. There were so many ups and downs, all in a 24 hour period, that to just sit and listen seemed to be the antidote for what ailed me. I got up and walked around. There was a telescope that charged 50 cents to see what I could zoom in on with my camera...  

Going back down to the stage area, I saw this odd statement on the wall, along with other photo-worthy scenes...

A tree datura (Brugmansia), with gorgeous golden flowers and the most beautiful

and interesting fragrance. Very dangerous and rare (for this region) plant.

I learned that this special concert was part of the Washington Park Summer Festival. From what the pianist said, one of the guys in the band won a Grammy and another was nominated twice.

They were done playing and the sun slipped below the horizon. I kept wandering around the garden, monitoring the crowd as it dispersed. I slowly cased the edges of the garden and saw a hidden pathway with a spiderweb across it. Spider webs mean no recent use. I slipped around the edge, so as not to disturb the spider and walked out onto the little path. I could hear the maintenance guys loading up a truck right next to my location and lowering the storage house's door.

I listened to them talk about their boss, commiserating. They were very funny. The driver opened the door of the truck for the other guy. I heard the passenger joke, "Gee thanks darlin'! I had planned to crawl over yer lap!" They both cracked up.

Then, the driver replied, "Yeah, well, that wouldn't be the shifter you feel, bro!" They shut the doors and backed out, with the lights partially illuminating my position. When they had gone, I pulled out the still-wet tarp and laid it on the ground. The night was cool and the humidity was mercifully leaving the air. The tarp dried quickly (nice thing about tarps), but it smelled a bit musty when I finally got the sleeping bag out and laid down. I would have to wash the tarp too at some point.

Finally, I was alone and comfortable. In front of me was a huge steep cliff, behind me, an empty rose garden. To the sides, the path arched away from the spot. It really was a good find. And, believe me, this time I searched high and low for sprinklers and irrigation equipment. They are tricky to find sometimes. Many of the municipal ones I've seen lately sit flush with the ground until they are turned on by the timer, at which point they jut upwards to do their thing.

I fell asleep at about 11:30...

Portland Sleeping Place 2