Invisible Readers
I’d just gotten home from work last week, on a very cold and icy day, when my nextdoor neighbor called and said, “I have 3 coats and 12 blankets. Could you go out with me?” This very fine lady, who is a first grade teacher by day at a very expensive private school, was concerned about those living under the bridges. Years ago, she’d volunteered to help out at her mother’s parish in the inner city, and rode along in the van that visited people where they lived on the streets, in the parks, and under bridges. She’s been at it ever since, meeting people, learning their stories, and seeing the world through their eyes.
It was a Thursday night and already dark. The forecast called for a hard freeze on top of the snow and freezing rain we’d had in the previous days. The church van, which depended upon already over-committed volunteers, wouldn’t be going around until Sunday night. Her husband, who couldn’t go with her, didn’t want her to go alone. So, she called me.
I was waiting for the cable guy to come and fix our signal. I’m not much of a TV person, but our household depends heavily on the internet. It seemed like a ridiculously trivial thing in comparison with preventing hypothermia, but this would be the 4th time waiting for a repair, so I asked her to wait until after he came.
She did, and we went. Colleagues and parents of her students know her well and had given her most of what we’d be giving out. I suspect some had picked up an extra pack of men’s thermal socks while Christmas shopping, or perhaps MC had herself, and she’d had volunteers help her assemble gift bags for women. There are more women than ever on the streets now and many services haven’t quite caught up to their day-to-day needs. So we had a box full of easily carried bags of soap, shampoo, combs, feminine hygiene supplies and other necessities.
As we started, I asked about emergency shelters for nights like this. There were some, MC acknowledged, but not enough and many of those she’d met were reluctant to go. They felt they were dangerous, they were hard to get to, and there was no guarantee of space once there. If there was any issue with substance abuse or mental illness – and both are common, either the cause or the result of chronic homelessness – they’d be turned away.
As we came to a traffic light, MC slowed down and deliberately got the attention of a young woman walking along with her cardboard sign. This was probably a relief to all the other drivers who were studiously avoiding making eye contact. “Get a bag and a blanket,” MC told me as she rolled down the window and asked the lady, “Could you use an extra blanket tonight?”
The lady certainly could. She took one for herself and told us where others were shivering a block or so away. She almost cried with relief when offered a bag of hygiene supplies. In the space of a few moments as we were talking, I began to notice details about her that I probably wouldn’t have if I’d been on my own, even if I’d glanced at her briefly to give her money. She had long wavy red hair, a little dirty and matted now, but probably lovely in another place and time. She was young, perhaps in her 20s or 30s, and was breathless and cold. She took from us only what she could carry and told us where other women were. Then we wished each other well and went on our way.
Our car had been stopped through a couple of light changes in mid-lane with its hazard flashers on, but I noticed that cars behind us weren’t honking impatiently. Most were waiting for a brief opening in the lane beside us to whip around, but I heard no swearing or signs of anger. As we went on, MC noted that those she met seldom took more than they needed for one day or even one meal if they knew she was headed toward others who didn’t have anything. They also tended to share with each other. When things are that desperate, they only had each other. The idea was that if you shared food with someone one day, they were likely to share with you if they got something the next day. Or maybe it was a deep empathy that those of us who’ve never truly wanted for food or shelter simply don’t have.
We looked for the place the young lady had indicated. MC parked the family minivan and called out, “Is there anyone here who could use a blanket or a jacket?” A few voices called back from the distant shadows. A man came out with a thin coat and was offered a jacket. He tried it on and found it didn’t fit. He told us where there was an elderly gentleman who could use it and took a blanket instead. A young couple appeared and was given blankets after agreeing that the jacket should go to the old man. They took some socks, and the woman accepted an offered hygiene bag with the same relief and gratitude as the previous young lady.
While we were stopped, a man pulled up behind us. He’d also brought blankets, and scarves and gloves. I don’t know if he’d done it on his own or representing others. He didn’t have much, but everything went to someone who was glad to have it.
When those who took what they needed went back into the shadows, the man said - almost as an afterthought - that he had a bag of books. He was going to find a place to drop them off unless we thought any kids were there. They were all children’s books.
The couple had told me that they had kids, but they were not with them in the park. They said the state had taken them into foster care temporarily, because they didn’t have a safe place for them to live. They were going to see them at Christmas and were very excited about that.
So we called into the park again to say that we had books for kids if any were interested. The woman called back with almost as much enthusiasm as she had when given the hygiene bags. Her kids loved books, she said. Could she have some?
When he heard this, the man fetched them from his car. After chatting with the couple for a few moments, he gave them the whole bag. He seemed very happy as he drove away into the night. Perhaps it was because handing over the bag of books meant one less errand for him to run before going home, but I like to think it was for the same reason I was surprisingly happy: a devoted reader recognized others when he saw them. For a reader, sharing beloved books is almost as joyous as reading them.
As we drove to the next stopping point, MC talked about the reading habits of the person we’d be visiting next. He was an avid reader, she noted. One hot summer night, she’d found him under a streetlight reading Frommer’s Guide to Italy. He’d never been out of the country as far as she knew, but he loved to read and would sit down with anything he could get his hands on. “He and others like him steal from the library,” she said. “It’s not really stealing though; they always take the books back when they’re done. They just can’t borrow them in the usual way because they have no address, and you can’t get a library card without a verifiable address.”
The man was an introvert apparently. He lived near the garbage dumpster of an office building. MC noted bags of trash on the outside of the metal bin and speculated, “He’s inside. When it’s really cold, he pulls garbage out to make room for himself and sleeps inside to stay warm.” She called to him a few times to ask if he needed anything, but got no response. We went on.
There were a few more stops until we ran out of everything, and as MC predicted, everyone was gracious, concerned about someone else down the block or on the other side of the park, and touchingly happy just to see a bag with a bar of soap and some tampons. Only one guy took more than one pair of socks and when we ran out of gloves just as one resigned fellow with very cold hands was next in line, it seemed ridiculous to hold on to my own. I had several pairs at home, conveniently tucked in various jackets and coats in my closet. Sadly, I had nothing then for the fellow behind him, and the other ones behind that one. No one argued or fought. They thanked us and went back to where they’d been huddling.
On the way home, I imagined a scruffy loner wandering through library stacks on a cold day and a compassionate librarian looking the other way as he left. I imagined summer nights under streetlights with a book and what it might be like to sleep in the shade of a garbage dumpster during the heat of the day. I imagined the couple visiting their kids on Christmas, with the little ones squirming to climb on laps for a story, and then crying angrily and piteously as mommy and daddy had to leave them behind once again. Did those shared stories give them a little imaginary space where they could go to and be together, if only in their hearts? Was it enough to make their lives more bearable?
I wondered if the fellow who’d given the bag of books had had the same sense of suddenly seeing the couple as genuine people as I first had with the red-haired young woman. Had the love of reading transformed each from a nebulous, distant “homeless” category to someone he could identify with, parent to parent, reader to reader? Does he, like me, now wonder when he passes by bridges and park benches: who is here at night? What are their stories? Are they warm enough? Are they hungry? Do they have books to give them a kinder space to be than we as a society have given them?
And the writers of the books they read, have they any idea of what the world they call into our imaginations means for someone who has no home anywhere else? Traditionally, most of the readers of writers were unknown to them. They co-create worlds in imaginary spaces, but not in real time and place. Social media sites such as Goodreads, make it easier for writers to catch glimpses of their readers, but there’s a world beyond where readers are invisible. Even so, we have a responsibility to each other. To paraphrase Dickens: mankind is our business. So perhaps I’ll keep a few paperback books in the car now, along with spare gloves, and hygiene bags. I seldom have spare change or cash on me, and have conflicting feelings about the best way to help a person begging at traffic lights. But I think now I can look at them as individual human beings and simply start with, “I’m done with this book now; would you like it?”
It was a Thursday night and already dark. The forecast called for a hard freeze on top of the snow and freezing rain we’d had in the previous days. The church van, which depended upon already over-committed volunteers, wouldn’t be going around until Sunday night. Her husband, who couldn’t go with her, didn’t want her to go alone. So, she called me.
I was waiting for the cable guy to come and fix our signal. I’m not much of a TV person, but our household depends heavily on the internet. It seemed like a ridiculously trivial thing in comparison with preventing hypothermia, but this would be the 4th time waiting for a repair, so I asked her to wait until after he came.
She did, and we went. Colleagues and parents of her students know her well and had given her most of what we’d be giving out. I suspect some had picked up an extra pack of men’s thermal socks while Christmas shopping, or perhaps MC had herself, and she’d had volunteers help her assemble gift bags for women. There are more women than ever on the streets now and many services haven’t quite caught up to their day-to-day needs. So we had a box full of easily carried bags of soap, shampoo, combs, feminine hygiene supplies and other necessities.
As we started, I asked about emergency shelters for nights like this. There were some, MC acknowledged, but not enough and many of those she’d met were reluctant to go. They felt they were dangerous, they were hard to get to, and there was no guarantee of space once there. If there was any issue with substance abuse or mental illness – and both are common, either the cause or the result of chronic homelessness – they’d be turned away.
As we came to a traffic light, MC slowed down and deliberately got the attention of a young woman walking along with her cardboard sign. This was probably a relief to all the other drivers who were studiously avoiding making eye contact. “Get a bag and a blanket,” MC told me as she rolled down the window and asked the lady, “Could you use an extra blanket tonight?”
The lady certainly could. She took one for herself and told us where others were shivering a block or so away. She almost cried with relief when offered a bag of hygiene supplies. In the space of a few moments as we were talking, I began to notice details about her that I probably wouldn’t have if I’d been on my own, even if I’d glanced at her briefly to give her money. She had long wavy red hair, a little dirty and matted now, but probably lovely in another place and time. She was young, perhaps in her 20s or 30s, and was breathless and cold. She took from us only what she could carry and told us where other women were. Then we wished each other well and went on our way.
Our car had been stopped through a couple of light changes in mid-lane with its hazard flashers on, but I noticed that cars behind us weren’t honking impatiently. Most were waiting for a brief opening in the lane beside us to whip around, but I heard no swearing or signs of anger. As we went on, MC noted that those she met seldom took more than they needed for one day or even one meal if they knew she was headed toward others who didn’t have anything. They also tended to share with each other. When things are that desperate, they only had each other. The idea was that if you shared food with someone one day, they were likely to share with you if they got something the next day. Or maybe it was a deep empathy that those of us who’ve never truly wanted for food or shelter simply don’t have.
We looked for the place the young lady had indicated. MC parked the family minivan and called out, “Is there anyone here who could use a blanket or a jacket?” A few voices called back from the distant shadows. A man came out with a thin coat and was offered a jacket. He tried it on and found it didn’t fit. He told us where there was an elderly gentleman who could use it and took a blanket instead. A young couple appeared and was given blankets after agreeing that the jacket should go to the old man. They took some socks, and the woman accepted an offered hygiene bag with the same relief and gratitude as the previous young lady.
While we were stopped, a man pulled up behind us. He’d also brought blankets, and scarves and gloves. I don’t know if he’d done it on his own or representing others. He didn’t have much, but everything went to someone who was glad to have it.
When those who took what they needed went back into the shadows, the man said - almost as an afterthought - that he had a bag of books. He was going to find a place to drop them off unless we thought any kids were there. They were all children’s books.
The couple had told me that they had kids, but they were not with them in the park. They said the state had taken them into foster care temporarily, because they didn’t have a safe place for them to live. They were going to see them at Christmas and were very excited about that.
So we called into the park again to say that we had books for kids if any were interested. The woman called back with almost as much enthusiasm as she had when given the hygiene bags. Her kids loved books, she said. Could she have some?
When he heard this, the man fetched them from his car. After chatting with the couple for a few moments, he gave them the whole bag. He seemed very happy as he drove away into the night. Perhaps it was because handing over the bag of books meant one less errand for him to run before going home, but I like to think it was for the same reason I was surprisingly happy: a devoted reader recognized others when he saw them. For a reader, sharing beloved books is almost as joyous as reading them.
As we drove to the next stopping point, MC talked about the reading habits of the person we’d be visiting next. He was an avid reader, she noted. One hot summer night, she’d found him under a streetlight reading Frommer’s Guide to Italy. He’d never been out of the country as far as she knew, but he loved to read and would sit down with anything he could get his hands on. “He and others like him steal from the library,” she said. “It’s not really stealing though; they always take the books back when they’re done. They just can’t borrow them in the usual way because they have no address, and you can’t get a library card without a verifiable address.”
The man was an introvert apparently. He lived near the garbage dumpster of an office building. MC noted bags of trash on the outside of the metal bin and speculated, “He’s inside. When it’s really cold, he pulls garbage out to make room for himself and sleeps inside to stay warm.” She called to him a few times to ask if he needed anything, but got no response. We went on.
There were a few more stops until we ran out of everything, and as MC predicted, everyone was gracious, concerned about someone else down the block or on the other side of the park, and touchingly happy just to see a bag with a bar of soap and some tampons. Only one guy took more than one pair of socks and when we ran out of gloves just as one resigned fellow with very cold hands was next in line, it seemed ridiculous to hold on to my own. I had several pairs at home, conveniently tucked in various jackets and coats in my closet. Sadly, I had nothing then for the fellow behind him, and the other ones behind that one. No one argued or fought. They thanked us and went back to where they’d been huddling.
On the way home, I imagined a scruffy loner wandering through library stacks on a cold day and a compassionate librarian looking the other way as he left. I imagined summer nights under streetlights with a book and what it might be like to sleep in the shade of a garbage dumpster during the heat of the day. I imagined the couple visiting their kids on Christmas, with the little ones squirming to climb on laps for a story, and then crying angrily and piteously as mommy and daddy had to leave them behind once again. Did those shared stories give them a little imaginary space where they could go to and be together, if only in their hearts? Was it enough to make their lives more bearable?
I wondered if the fellow who’d given the bag of books had had the same sense of suddenly seeing the couple as genuine people as I first had with the red-haired young woman. Had the love of reading transformed each from a nebulous, distant “homeless” category to someone he could identify with, parent to parent, reader to reader? Does he, like me, now wonder when he passes by bridges and park benches: who is here at night? What are their stories? Are they warm enough? Are they hungry? Do they have books to give them a kinder space to be than we as a society have given them?
And the writers of the books they read, have they any idea of what the world they call into our imaginations means for someone who has no home anywhere else? Traditionally, most of the readers of writers were unknown to them. They co-create worlds in imaginary spaces, but not in real time and place. Social media sites such as Goodreads, make it easier for writers to catch glimpses of their readers, but there’s a world beyond where readers are invisible. Even so, we have a responsibility to each other. To paraphrase Dickens: mankind is our business. So perhaps I’ll keep a few paperback books in the car now, along with spare gloves, and hygiene bags. I seldom have spare change or cash on me, and have conflicting feelings about the best way to help a person begging at traffic lights. But I think now I can look at them as individual human beings and simply start with, “I’m done with this book now; would you like it?”
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