Walking...Meandering

I could see him walking toward me in the distance. He was stumbling up the road. It was clear he was drunk even from several blocks away. He would walk straight for a few steps, then veer to the right, catching himself and straightening out his gait. As he crossed the street, I was worried he would get off course again and walk into the middle of the street, but he didn’t. He kept getting closer to me, stumbling and swerving. I had a momentary pang of nervousness, like I wanted to find an alternative route to walk. I’m not sure why entirely. But I realized it was not only impossible to change my course at that point but I felt terrible that I was treating this poor man like a pariah and diminishing his humanity with each glance to find a way out of interacting with him. And I knew I would have an interaction with him. I seem to attract the attention of inebriated older men. It’s never a scary thing, but it is always awkward and uncomfortable for me.

Like the time in Buffalo when I was walking to a local café one morning. My boyfriend was with me, but that didn’t matter. The man came directly up to me and started telling me about how he was just released from jail. Basically incarcerated for being drunk in public and having nowhere to go. You see, I seem to inspire conversations with these men about their lives and struggles. So I listen. He told me that I looked like a kind person and he kept telling me he was glad he ran into me, thanking me for listening to him and giving me a hug. He smelled of alcohol and stale cigarettes. He wanted nothing from me except for me to listen to him.

I think some of it comes from my penchant for walking. No matter what city I’ve lived in, I am compelled walk around it as much as I can. I make sure I don’t just view where I live from the false security of the car. You miss a lot about a city when you just drive through it. When you walk a city, you take in a lot of subtle undertones that make the city what it is. You are forced to interact with other people, animals, nature, the buildings—even if it is for just a moment. These interactions taught me how to feel out people and figure out when it’s okay to smile and say hello as I pass and when it’s better to just look straight ahead toward my destination. You learn a lot about yourself in those moments.

So this man kept walking toward me and I was struggling for the best way to pass him. Do I make eye contact and smile? Do I look at the ground and pretend to be in my own head space? I think I was struggling because on my walks in Fargo, I have not had to face this type of situation. I know it sounds strange, but it was out of context. It was a Sunday morning. It was Father’s Day and here was this older man walking toward me visibly under the influence of alcohol. You see, this town is good at hiding its problems with alcohol and homelessness. You don’t really see homelessness in Fargo unless you really look for it. It’s the only city I’ve lived in that didn’t have a visible homeless population. And it’s not because homelessness doesn’t exist here. I think that is the misconception. Instead, I think the homeless population is marginalized and rendered invisible by a city that misunderstands what homelessness is and who is affected by it.

It’s unclear if this man was homeless, but I could not help but wonder what kind of life this man lived. And what led him to this moment when our paths crossed. I know a lot of strange things led me to that moment, so I can’t even begin to imagine the circumstances that led to his presence that morning. To see this man was out of context for me in Fargo and it immediately transported me to other moments, other walks in other cities when there was dynamic public space with a variety of characters and individuals that would enter and exit my life.

Working at Bulldog News on University in Seattle was always an experience with the local homeless community. One older gentleman would come in regularly. He was probably in his 70s. I can still see his face. Thick white whiskers all over his face. Long eyebrows with eyes sparkling and glistening as he spoke to me. His face had deep wrinkles and you could see how the sun and dirt had darkened his face and neck. His clothes were stained and worn and he usually had a stale and pungent odor. He had a shopping cart overflowing with newspapers and books that he would push around. He would park the cart at our door and ask me to watch it for him. He would then browse all the political magazines for the evening. He never bothered me. Often I would work the night shift with only one other person—the barista. So, he would talk to me at length about various political conspiracy theories. You could tell this man had one of those brilliant minds that disconnected him from ‘normal’ life--whatever that means. He would never answer my questions about his life. He would only talk about politics and his current quest for a book or information. He always reminded me that looks are deceiving and you cannot judge a person by their appearance. I would see him often as I walked to work or school or wherever I happened to be going. Even after I left the job at the newsstand and started working at the university library, I would see him there, coming in on the cold wet days to read. I’m not sure if he knew I was the same person from the newsstand but we would still talk politics and about various theories he had about the government.

As the man came closer to me and we were about to pass, I looked at him and smiled. I realized it was the appropriate response. Nothing about him made me feel I should worry. But then I noticed he was saying something to me, so I removed my headset and stopped. He looked at me and said, “You are beautiful.” I had no idea how to respond, so I just thanked him and told him to take care. Again, the awkwardness was there, but it was only for a moment. He continued on his path and I went on mine. As I walked, I looked back to see him still stumbling and swerving.

I continued on, realizing how much I missed living in a city that afforded me various opportunities for interactions with people outside of my small social sphere. But then I also realized I, too, am responsible for my insulted day-to-day life. It’s not just Fargo. It’s also this life that I’ve created in Fargo and the place I am in my life. I miss taking chances with strangers and being reminded of the diversity of life out there. It’s too easy to create a protected world in this small community. It is too easy to make excuses for myself, worrying about what image I’m supposed to project as a professor at a university. I miss the moments in which I felt the freedom of nothing to lose and everything to gain. As I passed that man, the heaviness that marks my small world became too oppressive to ignore. And all I wanted, as I walked on and finally stopped looking back at him, was to allow the walls I built around my world to shatter, releasing the pressure and density of my fears into the expansiveness of this open flat plain in which I live…. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” –Kris Kristofferson