Home, Sweet Doorway

Drugs and alcohol. Substances first found in nature by man which made him feel good. Taken in larger quantities they made him see God. Literally or figuratively. Either too much was taken and the taker died, or enough was taken to create hallucinations which made him think he was seeing a hidden, magical world that was beyond this humdrum existence. At any rate, drugs became something to be used in rituals that marked the milestones of life. Alcohol, as well, though this substance eventually became commonplace, more antiseptic to drink than water. Also more pleasant. But man isn’t good at knowing where to draw the line. So, some people eventually abuse something that is really meant to be used on special occasions. Because it makes them feel so good and forget all their pains. And it’s nice to withdraw into a magical world where they can become demigods. Or to escape from a life that offers no happiness.

In my father’s hospital room there is a patient also recovering from pneumonia. He talks very little and I am never one to intrude upon a person. I’m not like the typical village woman, who on the first day would drag out of him his entire personal history. The few times he has talked, he has done so intelligently and well. He has quite a few old books, which he reads assiduously, as well as the daily papers that are delivered to the floor. When I checked the local online paper yesterday, I was surprised to see his picture. He had told his story to a reporter, asking, “Why does it bother people more to find a defecation on the street and not a homeless person on that same street?”. His story is much like that of others who have fallen into the traps of drugs and alcohol. But with a difference. He is an intelligent man and made his choices consciously. He consciously chose to try heroin when he was bored and depressed with his regular, workday life. He also made the choice to start drinking cheap wine. Now he’s been clean from heroin for about three years, and the dose of methadone to wean him off it is going down gradually. He’s been free of alcohol the month he’s been in the hospital, but is not too sure about leaving it completely. He thinks he can, but doesn’t really see why.

He once had a normal life, just like everyone else. He even served in the Spanish Foreign Legion, which he would not have done if given a second chance. He found jobs like so many others, as a waiter, delivery man, and in a photography lab. Then he found a job in a factory on an assembly line. The monotony of that job ended up depressing him and he realized that to form part of society one sometimes had to sacrifice personal happiness and become another cog with a function that had little to do with living life as it should be lived. That was when he decided to try drugs. And he ended up on the street. The truth is, though, he doesn’t want to return to his former life. He does not want to be a little worker ant again. He affirmed to the reporter that he prefers to be a happy beggar, rather than a depressed worker. He said that when he looks back at his life and remembers his stint on the assembly line, he realizes he wasn’t as happy as he is now. The only things he wants now is food, clothes, and a roof. He has even spoken to the mayor of Santiago and mentioned that the best thing to do would be to use unsold houses owned by the banks in the center of the city as municipal apartments for those who can’t afford a rent or mortgage. He believes that would be a dignified way to house the homeless, without treating them as children or lesser humans.

But he sees the that the homeless are almost always treated as less than human. He complains that the police and the municipal government simply don’t like to see the homeless in the tourist areas, and that they prefer to sweep the problem under a rug and hide them away in other parts of the city. I suppose that was the reason the reporter found him and wrote the story, to try to bring an everlasting problem to people’s eyes. In truth, the man’s question to the mayor was a good one. All those empty houses could be used to house people who would otherwise have to sleep in ATM booths and doorways. And when we see someone sitting on the ground, wearing dirty, ancient clothes, we should realize they are people just like us. They love, they hurt, they hunger, they shiver. Life takes many turns and someday we might be sitting in that doorway. 

Unfortunately, being in need is the worst thing that can happen to a person in this society. Without a roof and money in your pocket, you become invisible. Nobody wants to see you. Nobody wants to help. It's a way of punishing those who don't fit the preconceived ideas of a person's worth. Of punishing those who don't want to just be another cog of a system that praises those who stay in their little niche without asking for more. Yes, the system tolerates those who are different. But only while they are amusing and don't ask for anything. Those who are different, yet don't amuse anyone and have a need, are shunted to one side and are made to disappear into the doorways and shelters.