" Went to see the captain, strangest I could find
Laid my proposition down, laid it on the line
I won't slave for beggar's pay, likewise gold and jewels
But I would slave to learn the way to sink your ship of fools "-Robert Hunter
We all share space here in San Diego with the homeless, and sometimes it can be overwhelming. You can turn a corner on a city street and find the senses shocked by a sprawling urban camp. The sights and sounds and the abject human suffering seem to be something we should not have to face. It does not need to be shouted at me: these people suffering on the streets should not have to face this kind of suffering. I mean no disrespect. Writing about things is a coping mechanism, like my imagination.
Some of us help where we can. Some of us turn a blind eye, but we all share the environment. Sometimes, the scenes can be appalling. As uncomfortable as it might be for us, the washed and housed, try to imagine yourself under a dirty blanket on a cold sidewalk, too exhausted to feel the cold.
Can you?
One thing I learned through voluntering for some works in Africa, is that you cannot help everybody. You have a certain amount of time and resources. The reality is, somewhere along the line, there is an unofficial and unspoken elimination process where some people get helped and others do not.
One of the other thing I learned is not to boast about having done mission work in Africa because there will always be someone who suggests that there are people here in America who need help more. Almost invariably, when you ask the person what they do to help out here, the answer is, nothing.
All of us are confronted with this problem daily as we live and commute in San Diego. We see the shanty shacks and trash tornados. We see the cities and states throwing what seems like endless money at the problem that only seems to get worse.
Faced with something that seems like it should be unimaginable, my creative nature sometimes tries to cope with this sensory onslaught by imagining that these people are living their best lives somehow.
When I first moved here in 1988, I recall people blaming Reagan and closing mental institutions, but here we are two generations later, and the current solution seems to be to allow these people to live and die on the mean streets.
I have a small business, and during the lean years of The Great Recession, it was hard to keep myself busy full-time, let alone hire good people, so I would turn to those young men standing on a street corner holding a sign that said, " will work for food. " I'd roll up holding both a dollar bill and a business card with a trick question: " Which is more valuable, this dollar bill or a day's work tomorrow? "
Using this method, I'd sort through the lost and unemployables, and give a hand up for a while to actual homeless guys. I learned some valuable lessons along the way . I got a chance to basically interview several of these men, and learned that, like a hot plate or the sharp end of a knife, some things are best left, not picked up.
After a few years, I found myself coping with the seemingly hopeless nature of these tragic people by resorting to gallows humor and my active imagination. It’s hard when you are trying to help someone and it ends up hurting and becoming a toxic trap.
As a young man, I had heard the term, "There but for the grace of God go I. " And, I recall it sticking with me because I didn't understand it, but somehow the words felt solemn. I don't remember the day or how old I was, but I remember when it made sense: when I first encountered an un-housed person.
There comes a point for most of us when we realize that somebody has to pay the rent, that the lights don't pay their own bill, and that the internet is only free for kids.
" The poor folks play for keeps down here; they're the living dead. " Van Halen
This brings me finally to the Tale of Trash Island.
I think most of us recognize the difference between a drunk or crack addict and an unhoused senior citizen. There should not be unhoused senior citizens. It's shameful for us, collectively. The alcoholics hardcore drug addicts, and able-bodied men who seem to choose to lounge about cannot evoke in us the same feelings of " we've got to do something" that we all should feel when we see a person who should be retired in a home somewhere, sitting on a bench with all their worldly possessions in carts and bags. Simply put, it is not humane to allow people to live like this, and the homeless industrial complex that has arisen out of this, with its typical grift, corruption, and lack of effectiveness, demonstrates that for all its talk of compassion and services, the streets of San Diego and the rest of California are ruthless. This tale is one way of coping with this seemingly insurmountable problem. It does not contain a shred of disrespect for the unhoused. Any implied contempt is directed at the state and its well-paid henchmen and women.
So, there I was, piloting my drone and flying camera, killing some time near my home in Santee, where the San Diego River runs through it. There, near the end of the trolly line sits a vast swamp and wetlands, where the rainfall from El Cajon Mountain filters down, This has created both an oasis for nature, and a space for a squalid sub-culture to dwell, because it will always be undeveloped. And, as we San Diegans know, every tree or bush in this town will become a domicile for the vast population of those who are without normal homes, so where you have the crossroads of a trolly termination, a riverbed and nearby big box stores with the open public restrooms, a population will begin to grow.
All pockets of society develop social structures and hierarchies. These homeless camps are genuinely lawless, in the normal sense.
Flying my drone, the first thing that caught my eye was that I had found an island. There, between the Walmart and the Food For Less, close to the pedestrian wood bridge, there is a tall palm tree on an island. As I flew overhead, I saw what appeared to be machinery, but as I got closer, I realized I was looking at the “ most perfect homeless camp ever.” It was on an island, surrounded on all sides by a mote-type water barrier about twenty feet wide. The island had multiple tents, lounge chairs, solar panels, batteries, and a dresser...it was like a little pirate kingdom but where all the treasure was trash.
I flew closer and determined it was currently uninhabited. Over the course of several flights, I was able to deduce their transport system and how the furniture was moved.
Realizing my mouth was open as my jaw had dropped at the scale of the camp, I landed and went to fetch my dog. I thought it was time I had a word with those I could hear and see, the inhabitants of this filthy paradise. After all, this is my neighborhood. My kids walk these trails and will sometimes mention that a person stares at them as they pass by; it's a problem for us all.
Like many of us, I grew up with working-class parents, and eating at restaurants was a rare luxury. For some reason, as a young kid, the grainy black and white films documenting World War II were a subject of interest, and to this day, some of the images are etched into my mind, as vivid as memories. I recall scenes of atrocities and footage of an older man scavenging through a garbage can for any scraps of uneaten food.
I remember thinking that eating from a garbage can was unimaginable. Yet, now I see young men, older women, and homeless vets digging through trash cans, looking for discarded food. Here. In my fucking town. In our age and not grainy relics of people long dead in old footage
My somewhat cynical imagination sees a reality show where the contestants have 15 minutes to gather scraps from the bin. Then, the homeless cooks are judged by celebrities with gleaming teeth. All of this in a flash in my mind at a stop light, waiting for the person in front of me to get off social media long enough to drive a day before.
Now, walking across the footbridge with my dog, I expect to confront these hooligans I hear building their fortress on that dank island at night. I pay exorbitant rent here, after all. How quick my resolve withers.
Across the bridge is the first of the shopping carts.
( from here on in my story, please read any text in italics in a pirate's voice. ) The shopping carts feel something like boundary markers. After the bridge the Walmart parking lot is near. To the left is a flat area where a young couple has made camp. They look sort of clean and out of place on the stained mattress. The girl has weeds in her hair and pretends not to see me.
I, of course, wonder where they do their morning business, as we all must do. I walk past a sign talking about not littering in the watershed, and I know where they go.
It is risky to talk to the homeless, to be honest. Conversely, it’s dangerous to NOT speak to them if they are talking to you ( yes, usually asking for money ).
As I am viewing this dystopian wasteland I come to the sidewalk. There a woman lies, sleeping or dead. I try and imagine the previous night for her, and I shudder. I had spent it shivering under thick blankets. She had a light jacket. I could not ascertain her life status. I felt my mind beginning to seek the coping mechanism of the imagination.
Then, a voice from my left, asking me if I had a light.
He was about early thirties. At first glance he appeared to be on his knees on the sidewalk, next to a wheelchair. As I walked closer, I saw that he was actually on bare stumps. Somehow, he had lost both his legs.
I happen to have a lighter, so I handed it to him, expecting him to light a cigarette. Instead, he began to unroll some tinfoil and set up his lab.
If I was going to stand here, I was going to watch this guy smoke or shoot up.
" Wow, " I said, realizing now what I had inadvertantly become a part of. Maybe it was because he had somehow made me a part of his self destruction. Maybe it was because, in all reality, this guy could not chase me down, but I found myself both annoyed and heartbroken. The annoyed part of me asked him, " What are you doing? " in a stern voice, like I would to a puppy who has just messed the carpet again.
He looked at me, sounding perfectly articulate; " I smoke fentanyl every day. "
He said this in the same monotone voice a young man would use if I asked him the time of day, or directions.
The part of me that was heartbroken said to him, " You know? I don't think this is working out too good for you. Somewhere, somebody cares about you. "
He downloads his story to me in quick snapshots.
" I lost my legs in Iraq. I got whacked on meds. Nobody gives a fuck about me. This is my life. "
We chat for a few minutes more. In my mind, I'm reminding myself that no one person can help everybody. I'm reminding myself that any money I give him will be used for drugs. Then I remember an epiphany I had one day: Its not important what they do with the gift, its important to give. If the gift turns in to a bottle of vodka, then maybe that is what gives that person comfort, and that's okay. The reality may be that some are so far gone that there may be no viable path to a job, housing, or what we consider a good life. Are they doomed? Maybe.
I believe that many of the one hundred thousand-plus humans who die every year in America from drug overdoses should be recounted as homicide victims. Many of them die from fentanyl they did not know they were taking. That's not an accidental overdose as much as it is homicide. The ruthlessness of the streets is met with generous welfare for those who apply, which creates a death loop for the people relying on public assistance, as the system seems designed to encourage dependence.
Part of what this young man said to me, sitting on a sidewalk in front of the Walmart:
They are not the ones accidentally overdosing on fentanyl. That, he said, happens to people buying other drugs laced with the deadly opioid. Guys like me, he said, I'm an expert with fentanyl. I smoke it because it's very economical. It's like buying a case of beer for the price of one bottle of premium microbrew. I'm a chemist.
I asked him if he knew about the island.
" Yeah. Dave lorded over that place. He made a boat, bro. He died. The cops won't clean that place up! The sheriffs don't have a boat. Someday, fire will sweep it clean. "
I told him to keep the lighter.
I walked home with my dog, imagining that tragic, probably doomed young man named Ben taking over the island now that Dave was dead. He would fashion a set of peg legs and find a fake parrot on Trash Island. He'd get himself on Dave's boat somehow, careful not to tip it over because not only can Ben probably not swim, but that water is foul there by the island. I hope he becomes King of that Island, because the twenty bucks I gave him won't go far.
The real King of Trash Isle is Gavin Newsom
Whatever he does with it, I hope it gives him some measure of comfort. I walk away, feeling stupid for thinking I might “ confront “ the inhabitants of the island. My life is so good in comparison, it’s not hard to feel guilty.
Once my coping mechanism retreats and the King of Pirate Island returns to what he was before my stroll, I realize that the only thing I can do is try to organize a cleanup somehow.
I'd instead help Ben, but he does not want it.
One thing I've learned about the long-term unhoused is that they grow to not desire contact with those outside their world. The lawless environment and harsh sleeping conditions represent to them, a sort of freedom.
What contact they have with us “ Normies “ is often our shaming looks or verbal abuse. What contact they have with law enforcement is usually them taking what possessions they have and sending them to the landfill, not protection, not social services.
Maybe in the end, the government uses its imagination to cope too. Maybe , in their minds they are seeing a scenario where these people are happy and content in their shacks and tarps. Perhaps they use their imagination that they themselves would have marketable skills in this world they've created, where senior citizens and disabled veterans are sent to build their forts.
I ask myself, who are the real pirates?
Nearing home, I begin to imagine the ghosts of pirate island. Dave is dead and his plastic forts decay in the sun. I hear the sound of an owl, in my mind, as imagined moonshadows play over the tombstones and graves that must lie on Trash Island.
I think I’m coping well.
