Going to the Masque of the Dull Death

Dear Diary,

You may have noticed that I'm not writing in you from the usual place this weekend.  This takes some explaining.

You see, I recently broke the one rule homeless people must never break at the University:  I slept on campus.  This is what I was doing when my backpack was stolen, in fact, so I've already been punished.  But also, this has led the University's police to settle a disagreement against me.

See, some people think any time I empty my cart, I'm setting up a camp.  Now a University police officer has explained to me that this is true, and therefore I may not remove my satchels from the cart on campus.

This situation has inconvenienced me, and has also posed some peculiar questions for me:  Does a campsite require an empty cart, or was I automatically camping every time I brought my satchels onto campus without a cart, for years?  If I used a different kind of cart, would that make a difference?

But it's mainly good news.  See, if all it takes to set up a camp is to empty my cart, then obviously when at night I also empty the satchels, and build my bed, I must be doing something much grander:  setting up an ENCAMPMENT.  And that in turn qualifies me to be swept.

Now, in your pages, dear Diary, I've already explained how sweeps can entertain or even ennoble us, so I'm sure you see how this could be good news.  But it's much bigger than that.

Everyone knows that the only way to get housing help in Seattle is to have your grandparents sign you up for it when your parents are born, but this is not actually quite true.  Five categories of homeless people can skip the line.

Two because it's proper:  Veterans can jump ahead, as can parents of small children, and nobody should gainsay them that.

Two because it's practical:  It may not be much comfort for the rest of us, but it does society some good when petty criminals or troublemaking addicts get housed out of turn.

But for most of us, the only serious chance for help is to be swept.  No, really, dear Diary, I know this sounds crazy, but I read it in the newspaper, so it must be true:  Get the attention of a Navigation Team member, and you can get housed.  And since my own encampment is just me, surely I could get their attention if I were to be swept.

So just think of it, dear Diary.  Any time now, I could become just like a normal person, complaining about having to stay inside all the time, instead of complaining, as I do now, about having to stay outside all the time.

This kind of reversal seems characteristic of my life recently, and the case of masks - no, dear Diary, this page's title isn't "bait and switch" - is obviously related.  Many homeless people - many of the sheltered, and most of those unsheltered who sleep in neither tent nor vehicle, like me - Many of us are effectively "in public" all the time.  What does a recommendation to wear masks whenever "in public" mean to us?

I told you some time ago I hadn't worn a mask once.  But I bought one from a profiteer weeks ago, just in case I caught the virus and needed to go to a hospital.  So when the directive came down to wear masks in certain indoor contexts, of course I did as I was told.  But this has made me even more aware of how others see me, when I'm masked, when I'm not.  I got a few days off from the quandary since all my masks were in my backpack, but now I have more, and have started, experimentally, wearing them a bit more.

Friday, the day I got the new masks, I went downtown (Freeway Park's restrooms still closed, water fountains running in Pioneer Square but not in Occidental Square), among other purposes to get the charger that allows me to write in you, dear Diary.  And somewhere downtown I came across a letter blowing in the wind, a letter written by one of my peers.  I got his next of kin's permission to present it in you.

To my friends:

Like most of you, I used to think all these face masks were just the latest craze among the housed, not something we homeless could or should concern ourselves with.  But then I saw an article in The Seattle Times that explained how and why we homeless people should wear them too.

I had to think about it a bit, but finally I concluded that in times that turn grocery workers and pizza delivery guys into heroes, this is our own chance at heroism.  Sure, I'll miss eating and drinking, but it'll only be for a few days, right?

Tell ____ ________ about this, please.  ___ is my next of kin, but hasn't been proud of me for years; now I can finally hold my head high in front of ___ again, at least in spirit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something to think about, dear Diary.  I'm going back downtown tomorrow, and then putting new wheels on the cart.  Then I expect to spend a few days visiting parks and telling you all about them.