“I really hope he can get into Elmwood Prison”

I needed to cover 100 houses and the sun was bright. The heat doesn’t bother me, but the bright sun without the shade of trees is relentless and draining.

Door knocking during a campaign is exhilarating and inspiring. Most of the time. You learn from the people you meet along the way, their life stories, and their perceptions of how government isn’t working for them are a revelation.

But it can also be exhausting. So, as I walked to the next house I noticed that the small cement landing pad for the porch was in the shade and I was hoping the resident was home.

I knocked on the door and noticed a pair of men’s underwear on the doormat. A gentle older woman opened the door and smiled at me. I told her who I was and that I was interested in talking to folks who live in downtown and what they thought about changes in the quality of their lives during their time in D3.

She looked down at the stoop and asked me if the underwear had been there when I arrived. I smiled and said “I hadn’t brought them with me”. And before I could stop her, she picked them up and pushed them to the side.

Downtown is covered in a wide assortment of trash and picking it up without gloves, even if it is on your doorstep, isn’t advisable.

We spoke about many concerns but most of it came down to homelessness. We talked about how often times unhoused people protect themselves by managing dirt and filth — how they make their immediately surrounding environment so nasty and revolting as to be an impenetrable moat. And no one would dare to disturb them. And we talked about mental health and the impact it is having on everyone.

But she kept bringing me back to one question in particular. “Have you actually talked to someone who is homeless”.

I have.

I talked about my experience working in a triple door locked facility for minors with severe mental illness, and how that experience helps me understand some of the folks who are currently living on the street.

She asked again, and I explained I have spent time with the MCAT police, the mental health arm of the police, and how we had gone out to numerous encampments and spoken to residents about their experiences.

She continued, and I told her how I see those invisible people every day on Santa Clara Street, on First Street, in so many places it’s hard to count.

I began to wonder if she was either lonely or somehow, I just wasn’t able to answer her question correctly. Perhaps she was looking for an answer I couldn’t provide. I had 50 more doors to knock on and I told her I had to move along and asked her if she could email me with further questions.

She said okay, and I turned to leave. I faced her street, which was just a few small yards away from her porch. And I was shocked by a vehicle in front of her house.

It was a dark two door sedan, directly in front of her living room window. It was surrounded by six tires on their side as if to protect the car but not allow anyone in or out. There was a cardboard box on top of the roof. There were multiple sheets of cardboard covering most of the car’s exterior. And there were pieces of clothing, curtains and other items strewn about the car and the windows.

“What is that?” It was a knee-jerk reaction question to a surprise appearance, something unexpected that I hadn’t recognized when I walked up.

Her response was similarly surprising. “That? That’s my son.”

My spirits sank; I knew what was coming.

“My son set the bedroom on fire a few weeks ago and I can’t have him stay in the house. So now he lives in the car out front. It doesn’t work.”

“My son is an attorney, you know. He clerked for a California Superior Court judge. He was really smart. I think he did some drugs. Now he’s really paranoid and blames everything on his brother, they fight all the time and it’s horrible to watch.”

I asked if she’s had any complaints from her neighbors. “No they’re being so kind and compassionate. But I’m not sure for how long. And fires can be dangerous for everybody.“

“The best place for him is Elmwood”, she said. “I really hope he gets in soon.”

She interrupts our conversation to answer her phone, explaining that it might be the police because he was arrested last night. She hangs up as it wasn’t him and continues to talk to me.

“I don’t think Elmwood is a good place for your son, “ I said. “He needs help and healing. Elmwood just won’t be able to provide what he needs. We need to help you get resources.”

“Resources? Resources for me?” She was incredulous that possibly there might be some help for her as she tried to help her son. And that there might be some help for her son other than Elmwood.

I told her “I’m not going to be able to help you and your son today or tomorrow. But I recognize this horrific situation that you’re in. I see you. You’re in my thoughts and in my prayers. And I won’t forget you and I will fight to get you the resources that you need.”

After I said this, I realized just how empty the promise of tomorrows help must have felt. It is an utterly helpless feeling to only offer thoughts and prayers in the moment of crisis.

In these days of Covid and social distancing it felt awkward to offer a hug. But it felt disrespectful of her experience not to.

I held up my arms and said “how about a virtual hug?” With one long quick step she was in my arms. With one of those hugs where you think you’ll never let go.

We could have stayed on her porch for a very long time but needed to say our goodbyes and I remembered why I was there; so I just said it. “Would you like a yard sign?”

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why would that be?“

“Would you wanna sign in front of my house?“

This woman who had so many problems and no help, was worried about me; wanted to protect me from some misperception between a yard sign and her son.

“You had better believe that I would want a sign in front of someone’s house who is stronger than she knows and is going through something she shouldn’t have to. I’d be honored if you take a sign.”

“ OK then. I will take a sign.”

I left her there on that small shaded porch and the next week returned with the yard sign and a list of mental health resources from the County. I could not have felt more inadequate.

Irene Smith, JD PhD

3/3/22