A Possible Introduction

One day, an old rabbi asked his pupils how they could tell when the night had ended and the day had begun.

"Could it be," asked one student, "when you can see an animal in the distance and tell whether it's a sheep or a dog?"

"No," answered the rabbi.

Another asked, "Is it when you can look at a tree in the distance and tell whether it's a fig tree or a peach tree?"

"No," answered the rabbi.

"Then when is it?" the pupils demanded.

"It is, " he told them, "when you can look on the face of any woman or man and see that it is your sister or brother. Because if you cannot see this, then it is still night."

When I go to the shelter to do the drawings and the interviews, when I send off information about the project to another magazine or media center, and when I give talks about the project to school children, I think I am consciously trying to bring the "light of day" to the homeless.

For this particular project, I picked the homeless. But actually, I could have tried to bring the "light of day" to any number of groups that people in our society fear. The project could have been about people in nursing homes, prisons, mental institutions -- people from different ethnic backgrounds -- or people who are very sick, people who are dying -- all people we don't understand very well. And I think because we do not understand them, we often fear them. We try to hide them, push them out of our sight consciously as in an institution, or less consciously (as in the case of the homeless) by passing them in the streets without a glance.

I am hoping this project will shed light on the homeless that congregate in the shadows of all our communities. I want every one to see them as the real people they are; our sisters or brothers.

And hopefully, in the future, I'll be able to do more projects that will bring light to other groups who also live in the shadows of our society.

How black is your nose?

A t-shirt, with drawings from "The Homeless People Project" is about to be printed. I am excited -- the artwork (a collage of my drawings) is beautiful and the printer promises that I will be surprised at how wonderful the image will look on the shirts.

But first the printer must print one for the approval of the board: the board from the Council to End Homelessness in Durham -- the people who are sponsoring the t-shirts. Some of the board members are already not entirely happy with the artwork for the t-shirt: the two white people look "too black". The concern was that people might think that all of the people on the t-shirt were black, thus all homeless people are black.

The main white person in question is a women, probably in her mid thirties, with thick wavy, long hair, light eyes and much shading on her face (as there is with most of my drawings). The other white person has tones just as dark across his face, but with perhaps more highlights. Lastly there is the women's nose -- it is a rather bulbous, large nose. This I was told, was a black nose.

My first reaction was of disbelief and then sadness. Why would that be a black nose? And how could a whole race of people take on an ugly nose as part of their identity!? Sure, many African Americans do have noses that are flat and wide, but why is that ugly? And why call this particular nose African American, just because it is ugly?

The women in question didn't inherit a very flattering nose -- neither did I for that matter. Practically everyone could say that about some feature they own. What about you? Which feature of yours would you change if you could? Your nose? How black is your nose?

Who is riding my bike?

I can't help it, but every time I see a black male riding a bike past me, I wonder if he is riding my bike.

I think we have probably had 5 bikes stolen from our carport in the last 8 years. The most recent one being last week -- somebody cut the cable (it was a cable this time, not just a chain).

It was my daughter's bike. A bike we bought used, a real special bike; gray and very sturdy. Last year it had almost been stolen -- but I interrupted the theft. I found a young black man riding out of our carport on it when I came back from an errand. Seeing me, he dropped the bike, hopped a fence, ran through our back yard, over another fence -- to safety.

I knew the kid. I'd had dealings with him before. Numerous times he had come by offering to do yard work. The last time I encountered him, I had paid him before he did a job. I was in a hurry to get to an appointment and came back to find no yard work done and numerous yard tools gone.

Maybe the same kid didn't come back for my daughter's bike. Maybe it was a white kid up the block who did it. Maybe. But you would have a hard time convincing me emotionally that it wasn't him.

I don't want to see every black male on a bike and think -- is he riding my bike? How does one get past that? I honestly don't know.

The Kids Educate Edie on the "Weave"

[Note: The following essay is an excerpt from a chaotic interview I did at Genesis Home with 5 girls ranging in age from 7 to 13.]

Your hair is beautiful. What is that called, the way you have it braided?

The weave.

Why are you laughing?

It's horse hair.

You cut it off a horse.

It's weave. It comes like loose, in a bag, with a rubber band.

So that's not her real hair?

No. Some of it is. She ties a knot up here with the weave and braids it how ever she wants it and then they burn it.

Oh, you're kidding?! So that really is horse hair?

Yeah, Uh hum.

It comes in the beauty store.

*

Tell me, what happened to your forehead. What are those? [One girl has white spots on her forehead.]

Burns.

Yes, her mom was putting her weave in.

I was putting a piece of weave in my hair, and I made it too short and then when I burned the end of it, the flame wouldn't go out, it just went up, it was getting to burn my real hair! I was so scared I ran through the house whoo, whoo. I ran into the bathroom, I was trying to put it out with my fingers and I couldn't! I was trying not to let it burn my forehead 'cause it kept on getting shorter and shorter. So I was like shhh, shhh and then it dropped off on my forehead and I did like that to rub it out, to smear it out, and it burned [me]. Do like that.

I was taking off the wax, cause when you burn that hair and let it cool, some kind of wax stuff comes out. It's hard stuff, it stuck on my skin. So when I peeled it off, it got burned right here. It burned my skin.

And your fingers didn't get burned?

They was steaming for a long time! [laughs]

*

You got braids too? Your's weavings too? Is that all your own hair?

Most of that is her hair.

So did somebody professional do that?

Her mother did. And her mother did us.

Is that uncomfortable to sleep on, your braids?

Yes, they are.

It hurts?

Yes, when you first get it done. It pulls your hair.

How long do you have that in then?

As long as you want. It can stay in for thirty years.

No you can't!

Yes you can! Yes you can!

You know, this thing you were telling me about the weaving, does that mean that everybody that I see that's got these incredible dreadlocks, or weaving things, that that's not their hair?

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it is? Is there any way that you can tell?

You can tell by the burnt part.

Or you can tell by . . . if there's a knot up at the top of the head, right here, [at the beginning of the braid] like this right here, there's a knot right there, like that.

See?

*

If it burns like this, that mean it's synthetic, it's not really horse hair.

Yes, it is! It's horse hair!

Horse hair will do that?

Yeah.

It's just like it's nylon -- it burns down to a blob.

Horse hair will burn.

They cut it off the horse.

Are you sure?

I mean, they cut it, the tail close off or something, and then they do something to it.

The horses tail, yeah, it'll grow back.

Yeah, they do something to it then. They put it, they stick it in a bag with the rubber band around it and then . . .

*

Sometimes they use real people's hair.

I guess they've got, not their own people, not their own hair, but another person's hair woven in?

Yeah. They use dead people's hair.

Dead people hair?

Sometimes.

Sometimes they use dead people's hair?

But that's horse hair.

That's horse hair.

[Note: Perhaps I shouldn't put the last two sections in because they make the children sound dumb. They're not, any kid could have said those things, but will it do more harm than good in this particular case?]

Cooing and Who You Are

Last night I talked to my husband about my last visit with Tassie [mother of Letia Johnson and two other children quoted in the above essay]. During my visit, she was cooing to her brand new baby as mothers have done all through the ages -- trying to get his attention, trying to get a response and hopefully a grin -- stimulating and bonding, all at the same time.

I told my husband she had put some kind of cologne on the baby and was telling him in many different ways what a good looking ladies man he was going to be.

My husband, who is Jewish, responded with "That sounds like what Jewish mothers do to their babies -- but instead they say 'Oh, you're going to be so smart!'" And then he asked me what I cooed to our own son as an infant. I couldn't remember, but he reminded me that I called him a "clever little lamb" many times. And I suppose, if I were stretching it a bit, I could say my son is soft like a lamb as well as clever to a fault.

But I am sure he is much more than that as I am sure Tassie's son will be much more than just a ladies man. But still, I wonder how much cooing is at the center or core of anyone's identity? I also wonder what my mother cooed to me.

McDonalds

Today at McDonalds, a young black homeless man asked me for money. He and a friend were sitting right next to the bathroom I was headed for. The man was polite, but I found the encounter upsetting and threatening -- I found no appreciation in my heart for his politeness.

How dare he bother me here! Especially at this place, where the people were kind enough to let him lounge, and then he has to panhandle the customers as well! He can work, I know he can! Why should I pay for his drug habit, and so on . . . And then I thought; am I in danger? I'm all alone in this bath room. What will I do if he does come in here?

And here I am, writing a book about homeless people. I own these feelings, these thoughts. What a joke.