At the corner of Hawthorne Avenue and Broad Street, the nameless woman stands holding her cardboard sign. “Homeless. Anything helps. God Bless.” I try to meet her eyes, but she looks downward at the sidewalk.
A thought comes into my head—the homeless have no voice in this election. It’s as if they don’t
even exist. But they do exist. All over the Classic City.
Even though I can’t see her eyes, I see the emptiness in her careworn face. She wobbles slightly.
Her arms are thin, like her face. Although she never looks up, as my car idles in the line of
traffic, I can tell she is aware of all of us—and of the community that has forgotten her.
The light turns green. The cars pull forward. I steer right onto Broad. I pass by the woman, still
looking down at the concrete.
Years ago I was walking downtown on a Saturday when I stumbled upon people serving food at
the intersection of College Avenue and Broad. They were volunteers providing free hot meals to anyone who asked for food, whether or not they were homeless. Everyone was welcome to eat—no questions asked. They offered me spaghetti with a side of garlic bread. I stayed for an hour and watched people come and go. Some were students. Some were homeless. One man was simply passing through Athens on a cross-country walking trip.
Inspired by their goodwill, I asked if I could help. I volunteered with them several Saturdays that
year. On Sundays I often came downtown with slices of bread in Ziploc baggies to pass along to
homeless people on the sidewalks. Some of them were frightened of me. I could only imagine
what they’d been through to cause them to fear a woman offering food.
Since then, I looked for other opportunities to offer food to homeless people in downtown
Athens. If I encountered someone on the sidewalk, on the way back to the car, I’d ask them if
they would like to have the take-home container of food from the restaurant where I’d just
eaten.
A few years later, I was walking down Clayton Street when I ran into a married couple who
were friends of mine. As we were chatting, a homeless man stopped and asked us if we had any change.
The husband snapped at him. “Hit the road, Jack!” The homeless man sulked away.
His wife didn’t say a word. Neither did I.
I felt so guilty about not speaking up, and I still do. I was scared to confront my friend. But I also
remember feeling shock, horror and sadness in that moment. It happened so fast.
I felt like a coward. Looking back, I wish that I’d asked, “Why did you talk to him that way? Why
didn’t you just say, ‘No,’ and leave it at that?”
Shortly thereafter, the couple stopped answering my text messages. I got the point. Perhaps it
worked out for the best.
A home is a sanctuary. It is safety and peace of mind to come back to at the end of the day. It is
stability in the face of an often uncertain and chaotic world. My hope is that the day will come
when every single person in Athens, and across this nation, will each have a place to call home.
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