Before I get to my list of titles, you, dear reader, should know that Craig and I truly love where we live. We have a great house, and we have good neighbors. There are days though when the poverty, addiction and waste that pervade our neighborhood overwhelm me. I have always thought of myself as a liberal; one who espouses progressive ideals, a champion of the underdog. Spend a day with me in Macon and you will understand how that identity is challenged by the very emotions my neighborhood and its inhabitants evoke.
With that in mind, here’s my list:
Who are the people in my neighborhood?
We need to get the heck out of Dodge!
In which my bleeding heart stops beating
In which I curse a lot to feel better
Dude, that’s my lawn.
How come everyone I see is either drunk or nuts?
Are we freaking crazy to live here?
Poverty sucks!
Disabused of the notion of the American Dream
Caught between a homeless shelter and a free church breakfast
Yesterday as I was about to leave the house to run errands, I watched a man, trashed beyond belief, pull out his equipment and urinate as he was walking down the sidewalk outside my house.
What the #$%@!
Although previous offenders were more discrete, this isn’t the first time I’ve watched someone do such a thing. Urinating outdoors--in full view--cuts across boundaries of race and age in Beall’s Hill. As far as I can tell the only limiting factor for this behavior is sex (I haven’t seen a woman pull down her pants, as of yet).
I did what I always do under those circumstances; I called Craig to the door. He chased the man down to tell him in no uncertain terms that his behavior was unacceptable. Even though his pant leg was wet and his fly was down, the man didn’t even know that he had urinated. He didn’t know it.
What are we supposed to do with these experiences?
We laughed—even though it wasn’t funny. We cursed—even though the man was addled and addicted. I cried because my two babies were playing in the living room, oblivious to need. I felt lost because this event isn’t isolated to my neighborhood. There’s not one place I can drive to in Macon where I don’t pass prostitutes (male and female), addicts, the homeless, and the insane. This isn’t a once a week occurrence. It happens daily. On my drive to Grace’s school in the morning I see at least three bag ladies; all of them certainly psychologically disturbed. At the supermarket, I am regularly approached with offers to pay for my groceries with food stamps in exchange for cash. And on Sundays, we watch as clusters of people migrate down the middle of our street toward the free breakfast offered at Centenary Church. For some this is their only meal. For others it is a free meal, a chaser after a night of drinking. A half hour later, we will watch them retreat back up the street, leaving the detritus of their meal, styrofoam cups and plates, to accumulate in our yard.
I am left with unanswered questions. How do you help the helpless? What happens to the disenfranchised and disengaged as our neighborhood progresses and improves? Why are there so many living on the edge? Why do I want to run so badly?
My brother Matt, a recovered addict himself, gave me some advice a few months ago when he said “If I approach each day with a little gratitude, I find that everything, from the mundane to the complex or difficult, is easier to handle.”
Right now I’m reaching, deep down, looking for gratitude.
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