I am there, sitting on the subway, under layers of ragged clothing. I am clutching a trash bag filled with random, meager possessions that I have collected hoping they can provide some value or comfort. As you enter the same subway car, you beeline for a seat near me, initially unaware of my presence. However, the moment you finally notice me, in a cluttered mess of cloth and trash, you promptly make a wide berth to the other side of the subway car. Does my appearance scare you? Do you worry that my unkemptness will rub off on you? Is it the stench of not having showered in years that causes you to cringe and stand away?
I am there, crouched at the street corner, holding a cardboard sign. I am hungry and tired, fighting every day against the elements of cold and rain or heat and sun. There are sores on my bare feet and ticks in my limp hair. The dirty plastic cup sits in front with a few coins, and I secretly dare someone to trip over it. While hundreds of you, pass by me every day, busy chatting or rushing somewhere, not a single one of you take a pause and look at me. Am I merely an extension of the sidewalk? Yet, if you cannot see me, then why has no one knocked over my cup of change? If you cannot see me, then why do you gingerly step around my cardboard pieces?
I am there, wandering the streets, muttering words, probably considered nonsense. Perhaps my mind is rather mixed-up, after years of abuse, malnutrition, and drugs. I walk unsteadily because it’s hard to see and my mind plays tricks on me. I have haunted these streets for longer than you care to know. It’s the only track that my legs know, for I have lost control of my body. You quicken your pace and turn up your coat collar. I am shouting at you, but I am not shouting at you. Do you hear my words? Do you see the pain that has diseased my body? Where else can I go, what else can I do, when my screams of hopelessness are ignored by all?
Don’t pretend you cannot see me. You walk by with eyes averted or staring blankly while pretending not to see. Yet see me, you do. You take in my distraught state, and sigh with relief that it is me on these streets and not yourself. You choose not to acknowledge my existence, but that does not mean I am not there. You see me and look right through my hollowed shell of a body with cold disdain, judging what ill-fortunes have led me here. To those of you who can truly see me, I have no excuses. To those of you who choose not to see me, I am but a shadow at the edge of life.
