Vancouver

Again, it's not dissertation related, but hit me so hard tonight as I'm here to present my research that I have to share this.

Vancouver

At the conference center,

Abuzz with excitement,

Talk of measurement

Evaluation

Social contexts of learning

And social justice,

I am awed

By the mountains

‘cross the water

and the breeze

that drifts by

as hydroplanes

swoop down

and gulls glide by

and all seems still

people stop

at coffee bars

at department stores

at art galleries

awed by beauty,

enjoying their freedom

in the midst

of conference talk

and business talk

and busy talk

I walk

Out the doors,

Up five blocks

And turn on Granville

Towards my hotel

It doesn’t take long

Before the scenery changes

The busy streets

And shops

And happy people

Are still there

But every few feet, every block

Someone is lying down

Under an awning

On a heated grate

By a bus shelter

The first man I pass along the way

Is sleeping, as he was when I walked by this morning.

I know it’s the same man, though I never see his face

His clothes are the same.

Black pants, black hoodie pulled up, and curled almost into a ball.

He doesn’t beg.

The next man is sitting next to a store

 by the entrance and singing

The next is a group of drummers

 sitting next to a store entry and working together in rhythm.

This feels more like the indie music scene

I was told about in this neighborhood

But I know it’s not quite.

I see their clear plastic starbucks cups

And the sign that says “please”

I walk by the old theaters,

The symphony,

The giant record store across the street

People are talking, laughing,

Dressed for concerts

Walking quickly

By people sitting quiet, dirty, with cups

Signs that say “any change will help”

And no one seems to see them

And I just can’t get over the contrasts,

The disparities I’m seeing.

Then I’m on the block I hate.

The one that breaks my heart,

As I see him again.

The kind boy with the dark hair

And beautiful dark eyes.

He talks quietly to each person that passes by

“Please, miss, do you have any change?”

I say yesterday that I’m from out of town and have no cash

(It’s true.  I didn’t take any out and don’t have a debit card with me)

“A penny even?”

“not even that,” I smile at him sadly.

Today, I can’t even look.

I know he won’t remember me,

But I see his face,

Hear his quiet desperation

His kind words to all those who walk by

Most don’t even acknowledge that he’s there.

Then something worse happens.

Something I can’t really believe.

I hear a clanging sound ahead of me

And notice a man,

Sitting under the bus stop awning

With his clear starbucks cup

Sprawled several feet in front of him.

They at least sort of stop to say “sorry.”

She says “oh. Sorry,”

and he says, “yeah, she’s sorry.”

And they keep walking

Never stopping to help.

After the boy,

and not having any change to give  him myself

I stoop and scoop

And he says “thank you miss”

Over and over

And I just say quietly,

“I can’t believe they didn’t stop to help”

“I can’t believe it either.  I’m 64 years old and I can’t believe it either.”

We don’t talk after that, just attend to the work

Another girl stops to help

And we leave when we’re done.

His cup was mostly full of pennies,

with a few nickels

and one quarter that I saw

I can almost justify the young boy on the street.

Teenage runaway, perhaps?

But the 64-year-old man,

Who wasn’t yelling like some of the other street people

Or talking to himself

And just kept thanking us for helping

What’s the reason he’s there?

No one who’s old enough to be a grandfather

Deserves to be on the street.

Where are their families?

Downtown, all is beautiful

Especially by the Harbor

And where the Olympic buildings are

Gastown tells the story of a booming drug traffic,

But only in certain parks and on corners

Most tourists wouldn’t see

Yorktown and the Granville neighborhood

Where I walk to

Back to my room

Tell a different story

The story I was compelled to tell here

Of how easily

People become invisible

And how even in moments they are visible

When the coins spill

Most people choose to let them become invisible again.

I never thought I’d leave Vancouver

With a heavy heart

And a lasting impression

Of the sadness in this city

Instead of the conference

But I think this is what will follow me home.

Hopefully tomorrow, if I see the boy,

I’ll remember to stop and ask if I can get him food

I may not have cash

But I still have power to notice

And to respond

To human need.