Stephanie Jiang
Creative Writing Piece
I am The Homeless
The cold wind sneaks its way under my wool coat and sends chills up my spine. my hands instinctively reach into my satin pockets ,except one of the pockets is full due to my bulky wallet. I grace at the thought of the slight discomfort I’ll have while waiting to cross the road. I ponder at how our grad photos will turn out. “Will we make it there on time? Will my make up get washed out in the photos?” As my mind flips thought the thoughts relentlessly,I notice a homeless man a few feet to my left sitting against the pole. I don’t think much of him, as he’s just another homeless person on the streets of Vancouver. Another chill runs down my spine, I close my eyes in frustration of the slow-changing light. Suddenly, a faint voice interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Hello?” My eyes shoot open.
“Friends? Is anyone there?” My heart skips a beat, he continues to call out.
This is different, he is different. Why is he calling out for human interaction instead of money, or even food?
Before I knew it, my mind flashes back to Wednesday’s English class. We were all seated, sheltered, and warm. I look at the binder in front of me, it is flipped to the narrative essay of “Suitcase Lady” by Christie McLaren. I begin to zone out as the substitute teacher lectures about the symbolism of the story, but when she starts relating the old woman in the story to the homeless individuals in Vancouver, I am suddenly interested and listening carefully. She explains how many times they haven’t had any form of human interaction in weeks. My breath is caught in my throat as she says the words “sometimes they just want someone to talk to”.
“Are you okay?” My friend asks me, her words taking me back to reality. I should be asking him that, I think to myself. Why am I afraid to offer small talk to this weak, vulnerable man? Did I learn nothing from Wednesday’s class? I become more and more frustrated with myself and disappointed at my words compared to my actions. I claim to be compassionate and fearless, yet I’m letting the doubts in my head stop me. “What if he’s dangerous?” “What if he’s dirty?” I try to shake these thoughts out of my head as I look down at my sparkly, brand new shoes, then stare across the street at the bright red hand, waiting. The longer I ignore the calls for help and wait for the walking blue man to replace the red hand, the more blurry my visions become. I start to feel sick in y stomach, I’m drowning in self-loathing and guilt but I do nothing. Just as I can hardly makeup the shape of the red hand, the light turns blue.
The sound of birds chirping replace the calls of the homeless man as I speed walk to the other side of the road.
“This will come back to me,” I think to myself, I’ve always believed in karma.
The feeling of relief trickle down the sides of my body as I completely disregard what has just happened. As I come close to the skytrain station, I once again instinctively reach my hands into my pockets, this time to take out my compass card. My hands swim around in my pockets, but it’s not there. I take out my wallet and flip through it, the compass card is nowhere to be found.
I begin to pancake but soon realize that in order to arrive on time, I will have to start asking those around me for change to purchase a ticket.
“Excuse me, do you have any change? I lost my—,” people shake their heads, kindly apologizing, or avoiding eye contact with me. I keep asking more people but they all say no, and with each rejection, I feel smaller and more vulnerable; I feel that I am worth less than them.
Then it hits me: I am The Homeless.
This is how each and every homeless person must feel when begging for money to feed themselves or take care of themselves. No wonder many fall into mental illnesses like depression; how can one be mentally healthy when they feel worthless compared to everyone else? When the privileged, general public looks down at them and even avoids eye contact because they see them as lesser, or even not human?
That moment, I was standing in the homeless man’s show, asking for the attention of strangers who don’t care about my well-being, who see me as a burden that will only cost them money out of their own pockets. All of a sudden I am no longer wearing a pretty black dress and a nice wool coat, I no longer feel presentable even though I have a full face of make up on. Shame flushes on my face. I realize that so many ties I just need to make the connection. I am able to see from a whole new perspective because of my realization, and that taught me about true compassion.
