July 18, 2005
Greetings from out in the fringe,
Any place I have ever visited I have gotten up early to
run. There is a different taste and
smell, a different feel in the early morning, and I am always curious what a
place is like during that time. I enjoy
the freshness and promise of the new day; it would be all that I write about if
I could come up with a way of not repeating myself.
I have seen incredible beauty. I have been inspired by sunrises, awed by
creation, in nearly every place I have traveled. I’ve watched the sun come up over Edinburgh,
Dallas, Atlanta, San Diego, Sydney, Chicago, Wounded Knee, Baltimore, New York,
St. Thomas, New Orleans, and countless other places. On beaches, in parking lots, in giant cities,
in small towns on nameless roads, I have gasped for air while I run, and had my
breath taken away by God beginning the day just for me.
And I’ve seen something else, almost without fail. I see the people who are waiting.
In the dim light of the predawn hours, I see them drifting
together in small huddles, talking in low voices, or just waiting. They are the people waiting for work.
The migrant workers and day laborers. They are clustered around light posts or
under trees on corners where they know a man will come by with a truck looking
for few guys to do something. They squat at the curb, or sit on rocks or lean
against trees, waiting. Waiting.
Waiting.
I remember running through Atlanta; even in the early hours
I could feel the heat from the buildings, baked in from yesterday’s sun. I ran by an agency that hired day laborers
and even at that early hour there were hundreds of men lined up, waiting for
the doors to open.
I run by people waiting for buses that will take them to
their jobs. Women in maid’s uniforms,
men in coveralls, standing beneath the bus stop sign, where the grass has been
beaten back to bare earth from the many people who waited there.
I always say hello because it seems polite, but in the dark
they are not always comfortable answering.
Sometimes they watch me go by, maybe they will wave. Some just stare ahead or look away to avoid
contact with me. Others seem not to
notice me.
There are others I see when I run. They are waiting for something, but it’s
impossible to know what it is without knowing their story.
I see men sleeping in doorways, surrounded by their
belongings, wearing their net worth in order to keep warm. Cardboard, newspaper, scraps of clothing are
pulled around them to give them shelter while they sleep. I see others waiting next to shopping carts,
or under awnings, or sitting on exhaust grates to keep warm. Some are toothless, dirty, unshaven, wrapped
in rags. Others seem remarkably well
kept considering they live on the street.
I run by these people in the cracks and crevices of our
society; offer a hello or exchange a nod with those who look up as I pass. We do not fear each other. They know I have nothing to offer them, and I
want nothing from them. I think we have
curiosity in common. They must wonder
what compels a normal person to get up at this ungodly hour and run for no
reason. I wonder what they are waiting
for.
We don’t call them bums, because it is derogatory, like they
have no ambition and that’s how they end up living on the street. But the truth is, some are bums.
But many of them are not.
They are someone’s parents who couldn’t handle the stress, or someone’s
daughter who became an addict, or an alcoholic or worse. Some are victims, true casualties of racism
or mental illness or violence. They have had bad breaks, or made bad choices,
or been handed a bad deal. And now they
wait.
They wait for someone to give them spare change, or to offer
them a meal or to give them a ride or a place to stay. They wait for a guy who owes them money to
come back, or for their lotto number to hit, or for life to get better. Some wait to be saved.
I can run by and run on with my life. I am working on my cardio, I am not the guy
to save people. My nature is not to pity those who wait. I want to pull them up and tell them to quit
waiting, to do something. But I don’t
think that is what they are waiting for.
You will never see most of the people who wait. They will be in shelters or at the food bank
or in jail or in the unemployment line.
Some will be working a lousy job waiting for something better to open
up.
By the time sun is up, these people who wait will
evaporate. They will have made their way
into their day, to work or to panhandle or to sleep in shade or out of the
snow. They will have been prodded along
by policemen or shop owners or by the jackals that prey on those who wait.
I feel compassion for the people I run past in the waking
hours. I will probably not save anyone
but I can do what I can do, same as you.
I can be kind. I can give money
without being cynical. I can offer my time to help where it matters. I can offer encouragement. I can point out the sunrise. I can tell you about the people who wait.
Hope this finds you with your hand out,
David
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