Story of a friend

I’m a waitress. I stand, I look bored, waiting for customers to wave me over and ask for a napkin, or something just as trivial. So I stare out the window.

The other day, a woman I know walked past. She smiled as she saw me, and as she passed the doorway called in “Looking good, sister!” That made me laugh.

I waved to her.

That was my action.

Why, you ask, is waving to a woman who walks past the cafe an action? Because my boss looked at me questioningly, because some people would never talk to her, because most people ignore her, or verbally abuse her. It was an action because I was giving her back something which had been beaten and stolen from her: her humanity.

Her name is Rose^.

She was homeless.

I don’t know if there is a one for everyone, in the sense that everyone has a perfect match in love. But I do know that some people, without reason, motivation, gender, social status, age or race just match. Two people can find each other and see something in another person that no one else can. A beauty in them that has no source, except their essence and yours are similar.

I was lucky enough to find a new friend who had the same essence as me. At first I didn’t talk to her. But when I finally did, I saw she is sweet, compassionate, strong, and has the same sense of humour as me.

Initially, moving from a small town, I was convinced that homeless people were dangerous. That they were homeless because of drugs, they were mentally ill, or something went wrong in their lives that was their fault, and in turn, were not the people we should associate with. In fact, they were less than people. Just a category.

For a while, when she begged for a dollar for food, I told her I had no change. It broke my heart, but I had convinced myself that she’d use it for drugs, or some other ill-intent.

And then one day, I actually spoke to her and discovered every conception I had about homeless people simply didn’t apply to her.

She was sober, she didn’t do hard drugs, and she was on the street because her boyfriend was. And now they aren’t together anymore, but he still gets into a rage and beats her in the street for all to see. And she can’t escape the street, for no one would give her a chance.

I heard the people around me, my bosses, customers, people on the street jeer at her, saying “Get a job!” Telling her not to beg, to live off other people’s hard-earned money.

Then I thought about the simple truth.

No business would employ a woman who cannot go home and bathe. No matter how hard she would work, she could not meet the presentation standards of our society. No matter that she worked harder than anyone, with more enthusiasm, or more appreciation that anyone ever employed, she would never gain a job. Without a home she could not get a job. Without a job, she could not get a home.

I wondered: what if there was just one woman who happened to be homeless, who existed, who didn’t do drugs, who didn’t steal, who simply, honestly, got the short straw in life, and no one believed her, or gave her a chance because of the poor reputation of “homeless people”?

So what if I believed her? While I was not in the position to give her any money, or buy her food, or give her a home, or shelter, there was one thing I could do.

Give her humanity.

She had none of the characteristics which one attains any status in our society. Which meant, in the eyes of many, that she wasn’t human.

But she is.

So I’d ask her how her day was. How she was going. If anything had happened recently in her life. We’d talk about the weather. About my job. My homework (of avoidance of). How I never quite manage tennis.

Anything to remind her that she is a human. If she has nothing else, she has someone treating her with value. Because she is valuable. She is precious.

She makes me laugh, and she is sweet, and so appreciative of any loose change that I can spare a fortnight.

But I’m fairly certain that it isn’t simply my money she appreciates, but the time I spend with her, giving her back her humanity and sense of self-worth which had been robbed and beaten from her.

I began to get very concerned about my friend Rose. She was on the street and her ex-boyfriend was giving her a particularly hard time, but I was in no position to give her anything: I have no money, I can’t fix her life.

So my flatmate and I realised something we could do, which was simple and could help change things for her—we gave her information, and in turn, hope. And I think hope is a big part of regaining humanity. Without hope there is little existence.

We wrote her a letter, containing the phone numbers and addresses of Refuges and Shelters she could access. She was both homeless and a victim of domestic violence, so several places fitted her criteria. We just went online, did a search, and then wrote up a list. The decision to give it a go, to change her life, was now in her hands. We just made it a little easier for her to get the information she may not have know how to access.

She called the shelter. She went there.

While that shelter didn’t work out for her, she, I believe, could now see that things could change.

Currently, one kind woman let her enter her home to work and live.

Life has its ups and downs, but I think those on the fringes of society, stripped of humanity and hope, deserve as much as we can spare. A smile, a greeting, may be all it takes but it can mean the world to someone whose only possessions are the memories of a kind stranger who smiled and asked with all sincerity “How are you today?”

^ I’d love to tell you this woman’s name. She’s precious, and I wish the world knew of her strength and courage. But without her permission, I’d like to keep her name undisclosed.