Most Saturday mornings, I walk the half mile downhill from my small apartment in a bosky neighborhood in San Francisco to the farmers market. My usual expectations (about carrots with their tops attached, about the price of berries) were disturbed recently by the sight of three bodies.
That is, I thought of them as bodies; it was not clear whether they were alive or dead. All of them are placed on the side of the road, one is far from my house, the other two, far apart, near the market, which itself is in a place where the need is evident. (Food stamps are often a tender for buying produce.) The bodies were of dirty but fully clothed men – except for one man, who was missing a shoe. Maybe the men are asleep, I thought, or passed out from alcohol or drugs. Or maybe they’re dead. No one passing by – including me – slowed down to pay attention, except to glance.
For decades, I encountered such a situation, I used to stop, and wait to see a moving leg, chest rising. I rarely do that anymore. In high school, I had learned with shock that the poor people of India, the homeless people, were sleeping on the side of the road, while others were just passing by. How bad for those others, I remember thinking. How could they live with them? Shame has come home. We have become accustomed to homelessness – the homelessness of others.
I guessed that the three men on that recent Saturday were homeless, but from years of talking with a homeless man who is now a community leader in San Francisco, I learned not to jump to conclusions. Del Seymour, today known locally as the mayor of the Tenderloin, taught me that a man lying with his eyes closed on the side of the road may have a home, but perhaps he was distracted by temptation or a medical condition on his way there. I also learned from Del, to my initial shock, that some homeless people work full time. I’ve learned a lot about homelessness, mostly from him, but also from my daily Google alert about the news word.
Because those warnings are rarely encouraging, another glimmer of good news recently surfaced. In Los Angeles County, according to recently released statistics for 2024, the number of homeless deaths decreased from 2023. Yay! I thought. Thousands of programs are active! Whether naloxone interventions or tiny houses or new shelters or other efforts (free job training like Del started in San Francisco?) should be praised, I felt a surge of hope. Then I read closely.
Homeless deaths in LA County dropped in 2024 to a hundred or so, as I had hoped to know, but to 2,208. Leaning in the right direction, yes. A reason to celebrate, no.
Too many people know firsthand the emotional and physical pain of homelessness. Almost every other Californian knows the trick and has probably asked themselves the same question: What is a (presumably well-intentioned) homeowner to respond to when they see a homeless person, let alone many homeless people? I know of a nurse in San Francisco who pulls her car to a halt when she sees someone in physical distress and administers CPR if necessary. I appreciate his gesture, but I doubt I would repeat it.
Admittedly, my main and stubborn response is that spending almost a decade writing a book on a topic in the hope that it will have a useful impact, is not an approach that is available or attractive to many. And short-term efforts, such as volunteering at local nonprofits, certainly have immediate results. One common impulse, in which I participate, when it is inadequate and inappropriate, is to give someone food or money, or to call 911 when someone clearly needs help.
Yet any pedestrian, especially any female pedestrian, will testify that the impulse to help someone on the side of the road becomes a challenge when someone is awake, and a man. Does the offering lead to spitting, shouting, chasing? Should we avoid eye contact and move on? That’s not the case.
What I learned from Del is to give something that means more than a dollar or a sandwich: Say hello.
Acknowledge someone whose face is a few feet below yours. This person is part of the family, “someone’s son, someone’s aunt,” Del’s collection goes, and he remains human. Remind yourself of that. More importantly, remind them. Del adds: Don’t stop if someone seems “absurd,” happy to come out with a politically incorrect phrase. If not, slow down for a few seconds, maybe longer. Sometimes, later, and on the same route, you may see each other and have a conversation. For now, keep it basic, but say something.
I listen. Usually, “Hello.”
Almost always comes an immeasurable reward: smiles and greetings are returned. Humbled, I moved forward, and decided again not to let our homeless neighbors feel invisible, or to forget that homelessness, among other adjectives, is something unusual.
Alison Owings is the author of “Mayor of the Tenderloin: Del Seymour’s Journey From Living on the Streets to Fighting Homelessness in San Francisco.”
