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c e l e b b & t ik g
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street roots
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Education * Dialogue* Independence
Writing is Art
By Ja nel le C. Jeffries
FACE
Free Allowed Content Exceptional
My words are music |g|
Writing'is my Art
Living is my FACE
You know the heart
Sings in letters
My soul puts on paper
Can you feel this pulse?
Moving, flowing, feeling
Like the warm wind
Kissing my cheek
When you see me—
Say hello
Your beat catches me
I can hear the shrill violin,
The mystic mandolin .
Reading my writing, .
You are reading my. notes
Art has never had such a-wonderful
FACE
People—you brighten ,
My day and make me sfnile
Thank youfor feeling me—getting’ me
And all that I am
You never know who’ve you’ve touched
Until you look them in the FACE
The
Urban
Gypsy
Julie McCurdy resides in ,
Portland an d is
experiencing homelessness
with her Italian greyhound,
M aggie.She tsa re g u la r ■
contributer to Street Roots.
On the
Yellow
Line
By Thea
Constantine
iolence'has exploded"around me
w ithout warning. Jesus, this shit is >
real and unlike TV movies. I can’t
switch the channels or walk away, so I sit
here frozen with stunned horror watching as
the paramedics haul the victim away. .
His arfti muscles hang out through his
leather jacket. His face is slashed and
possibly his neck. See that! They are putting
something in a body bag. Could he be the
perpetrator — who knows? I can’t tell
because right now, I have to remind myself
to breathe both in and out.
Right now, I have to become ready to do
triage to the participants. Right now, I don’t
have the luxury of sitting here frozen with
shinned horror because there are more lives
on the line in the next week if people don’t
focus on de-escalating the tension
threatening to explode in the air. The man
that has been stabbed is a crippled man
whose offence was being in the wrong place
at the wrong time. He was attacked by a
man obviously intoxicated on some
■
o board the Yellow Line requires very
little action and virtually no
preparation, barring the required fare
and a knowledge of where you’re headed.
This is freedom. I’m going on vacation and I
count myself extremely lucky in this. The
only drawback to thé entire proposition is:
getting there.
My vacation requires air travel, the most
humiliating of all travel options these days.
Goitig to the airport and getting o n p plane is
no simple thing in the 21st century. As a
matter of fact, the closest I can come to a “
synonymous experience is that of going to
jail, I was talking to a friend Who was taking a
trip last week and we were commiserating on
the fact that both of ds.at one time were
enthusiastic air travelers. I have always been
lucky in that among my various (and
numerous) neurosis, fear of flying wasn’t a
problem. This is no longer true. While
neither oi us were actually afraid of anything
happening to the plane, I now become
apprehensive simply entering the airp o rt
The tragedy of 9/11 changed everything,
and among those changes seems to be a
license to treat people in the most inhumane
fashion while declaring it is for your own
good and you should be ashamed to complain
about it. My friend told me her first
experience after 2001 had been so rotten she
hadn’t boarded a plane since. We snapped
stdries of luggage restrictions and gung-ho
security goons. It was here I began to make
the analogy between entering the penal
system and air travel. You begin by being
issued a number. Then you join an endless
line which may or may not be the right one
,and which can change at any time on the
■
substance. A woman stood between them
and certain death till two other men could
get there to help.
On a side note, three weeks later I can
' tell you, neither participant died of this. St
Francis Dining Hall was closed two days
later. My tent was wrecked by a man who
thought to attack me. He apparently thought
I was someone else. The personal violation
and community tension has eased for the
moment.
Three weeks later, I am back to the land
of the semi-coherent. The shell shock is
beginning to wane and my eyes have
stopped spontaneously leaking without my
knowledge or consent
Three weeks later we are calm for the
: moment, and this week poverty and despair
haven’t turned us feral.’ The difference is
here and now. With my eyes gritty from lack
of sleep, I realize I am forever changed. I
honestly don’t think I’ll ever see things the
same. But then that’s the way that goes—
here in paradise.
whim of your captors. Your belt, shoes and
keys are surrendered. You can be subjected
to bodily searches, clothing removal, and the
inspection and confiscation of your property.
You can be held against your will, and you
will not have the option of legal
representation. You can be profiled and
treated poorly simply because you fit the
description of someone else. If you are lucky
enough to actually pass initial m uster you’ll
find your ordeal has just gotten started.
Nqw you will be seated in a plastic chair
which has been bolted to the floor for a
period of time which may or may not be the
one you were told to expect. After another
long line and inspection of your assigned
number and papers; you are then confined to
a 2x3 foot area where you are strapped info a
another seat which is bolted to the floor and
which you may only leave to join another line
for the privilege of using the stainless steel
to ilet Your inedible meals are servedto you ,
on a plastic tray at a randomly chosen times
by Uniformed staff. Upon arrival you count
yourself among the lucky if your property is
returned to you intact.
My friend asked me if I had any handy
travel tips.and I told h e r she could print p u t .
herLooking slip 12 hours in advance. When
she looked at me funny, I realized I had
meant to say she could print out her
bbarding pass in advance. After a good laugh,
we realized maybe it wasn’t so funny after all.
My fantasy is that perhaps one day air
travel will be as simple as boarding a Yellow
Line train. It is then that we will know that '
mankind has truly reached its golden age.
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