Commentary : Curbside Picnic Received With Thanks : Homeless: Slumbering street people rise for a midnight meal from a stranger, whose momentary feelings of optimism have since turned to doubt.
It had been a typical holiday celebration, made memorable by the bowling-alley location that afforded us a chance to play as well as party. As is so often the case, there had been more food served than the celebrators could consume. I decided that, rather than throw the leftovers away, I would deliver them to a homeless shelter downtown.
I was uncertain about my exact destination as I drove away. The late hour made me nervous--would any shelters still be open at 11:30? Compounding these worries were the typical fears a woman experiences when driving alone, late at night, in neighborhoods that seem rundown by day and dangerous after dark.
The food containers shifted precariously as I maneuvered my battered VW van down dark side streets, seeking out the shelters I had visited only a few times before. My earlier visits had been in daylight, usually with another person along to navigate. As I continued south, the golden lights of the Coronado Bridge appeared in the distance, sweeping in a graceful arc across the San Diego bay. About the same time, I found some of the homeless people I had been seeking.
They were not in a shelter, but rather sleeping on the sidewalk alongside a warehouse. At least a dozen figures were huddled under blankets, spread out along the full length of the block. As I drove by, my fears dissipated, to be replaced by doubts that could only evolve from a safe, middle-class existence: Would these sleeping people be upset at being awakened at this late hour, by a person bearing leftovers that were rapidly growing cold?
I drove for several more blocks, harboring doubts that, in retrospect, were absurd. I passed another group of sleepers, different from the others in that they slept cuddled together, sharing their warmth. As the lights of Horton Plaza came into view, I realized how ridiculous were my fears--these people would probably welcome food at any hour, served at any temperature. I made two illegal U-turns, pulled up alongside the sleeping forms and jumped out of the car.
At first, only one head poked out of the tangle of dirty blankets. I recognized the straight black hair and dark complexion of a campesino from Mexico or farther south. “ Quieres comida ?” I asked in my limited Spanish. “ Comida, si! “ came the rather hoarse, but enthusiastic, reply. “ Tengo carne, y frijoles, y tortillas ,” I announced as I began to haul the remnants of the “burrito bar” out of my van.
The commotion was waking the other sleepers. They stretched, then grinned at me sheepishly, marveling at this midnight catering service. Suddenly a bright light. Even before I had unpacked the food, a patrolling police cruiser had noticed the disturbance, and was shining its spotlight at my car. I muttered a short curse under my breath--I knew it was illegal to “serve” food on the street without a permit--but I continued grabbing the tortillas and meat. Fortunately, just as quickly as the police car had appeared, it continued on its way. A “happy holidays” gesture, perhaps?
The food was disappearing as rapidly as I could produce it--the marinated beef and chicken, refried beans and rice, were all consumed happily. The fresh salsa produced exclamations of “ Oh, salsa mexicana! “ making me wonder where these men were from--Guatemala? El Salvador? However, I was too busy spooning the last of the food onto disposable plates ( “para manana--desayuno” ) to ask them about the details of their lives, and I doubt I would have been able to understand anything beyond our basic conversation--their accents were different from those I had had experience with.
Suddenly, one man spotted the bright blankets that we had used as tablecloths for the party. As he pointed at them, I realized he would prefer the long-term warmth they could offer over the dinner that would soon be gone. “ Lo siento, no estan mio “ (they aren’t mine) I said in my fractured Spanish, but then I reached back inside the van and pulled out a blanket I had purchased in Mazatlan years ago. I had been attracted by its unusual weave and rosy color, but decided its warmth would be much more appreciated by this man, and I impulsively handed it to him.
I topped off their midnight, sidewalk “picnic” with a large cheesecake, making the occasion feel downright festive. They didn’t understand the name at first, but as I walked back to van, their “oohs” and “aahs” made it clear they were enjoying it.
As I prepared to leave, murmurs of “ Feliz navidad “ and “gracias” made me pause. I am a second-generation American, with relatives in Mexico and Central America. In a historical sense, I am very recently removed from the plight of these people, who--by choice or desperation--are living on the streets of a strange land.
I suddenly felt embarrassed--I had arrived late at night, bearing “table scraps,” and for a moment believed I had “done my share” for the homeless in San Diego.
What about the dozens I had passed as I drove to this corner? The hundreds more who were concealed, sleeping under bushes in Balboa Park? I was chagrined at having let this one curbside handout briefly make me feel like I was part of the solution.
Now, as I sit at my computer, I think of the old clothes I have given to relief agencies and wonder--why not take them directly to the people on the streets?
Why separate myself from these men and women, maintaining the myth of being so very different, and trusting unseen others to take care of the “problem”?
I tell myself this morning that I will not soon forget the sight of the sidewalk dormitories, but I know how life is, how quickly we move on, return to work, read the newspaper or watch television and soon feel overwhelmed by some more current or fashionable social problem.
I have no answers, no more leftover party food. I have only questions and doubts, and the memory of “ Feliz navidad “ emanating from the folds of dirty blankets, clutched up tightly to the chest against the cold December night.
