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About Street roots. (Portland, OR) 1998-current | View Entire Issue (Sept. 28, 2012)
Street roots Sept. 28, 2012 The kindness of strangers, and the wisdom of a child t’s been a weird few weeks. Starting with a raccoon and ending with Peter Pan, Ramona and I have been plugged into the karmic wheel from every angle — and it’s been quite a ride. It all started with a trip to the in-laws’ in Ashland. A fine Sunday night walk before Labor Day, the fading blue moon over the great trees in the pioneer cemetery on East Main Street that turned dark when a raccoon leapt out of the bushes and charged Vera, our dog. Ramona Melissa Favara screamed, my husband tried to pull M elissa Favara the leash away and teaches E n g lish in succeeded in slipping Vancouver a n d lives the dog’s collar off a n d writes in North and landing on his Portland, where she own tail in the shrubs parents R am ona, age while the raccoon 5, hosts a bi-monthly jumped, clawing and reading series, a n d counts her husband snapping, on Vera’s a n d her city as the back. My father-in-law two great loves o f her shouted, the dog life. cried, and just then, an SUV screeched to the curb. Out of it raced a burly young man in a backwards ball cap, his car door hanging open; he seized the snarling raccoon by the scruff and flung it into the darkness. He was fearless, and he joins a pantheon with the sweet, hippie girl passerby who knelt to comfort snuffling Ramona while we examined Vera for damage and the gruff but gentle vet who came in Labor Day morning to administer Betadine and antibiotics. Bad night, good people of all stripes. I Flash forward: Back in Portland, Vera’s The car turned out to be cheap to fix, Ramona decided she loved her new school, wounds had finally healed and it was week the weather held to keep ripening our two of school for Ro. A busy Thursday rush tomatoes in the garden and we felt hour; I had just finished writing lessons for unspeakably grateful and in karmic debt. So all of my classes and was bustling down we signed up to join Ramona’s Uncle Will, Alberta to pick up Ro from aftercare when my Work Spouse (we trade grammar our 20-year-old Volvo abruptly stopped handouts and gossip at my college) in the bustling with a chug and a clang. Then alarming lights all over the dashboard and Portland AIDS Walk. To be fair, the motivations were not silence. In the middle of the intersection of entirely unselfish. Alberta and MLK. At 5:15 p.m. Though I Will and his friends and the owner of the spent a minute and a Matador, who half enduring horns, Jt mao who look like sponsored our team hand gestures and he had much to spare harsh words before I to benefit the stopped lo a iia f his bike oa could remember how Cascade AIDS thp t o Project (CAP), are a to put on the hazard wflifeiv q w iw I m I o flw fine smiling group of lights, humanity came hilarious young men off OK when, 90 machine and silently hand with nifty tattoos and seconds into the me an all la y pass» The next great style, and we panic, a smiling face atop a freshly pressed time 1 grump about knew it would be fun to walk because we button-down shirt homaoltyF smack me» walked last year. was in my driver’s Actually, I walked side window while Ramona rode informing me that he’d be pushing me through the intersection her scoot bike, marveled at the costumes and pronounced, “Mama, drag queens are to safety, which he did, pausing to remind so pretty — can I be a drag queen when I me to take my foot off the brake, please, grow up?” and just steer around that Toyota and he’d But this year we actually joined Will’s have me out of the bus zone. team, solicited donations and discussed at The next morning, running late via public great length the importance of what we transportation for a couldn’t-miss teacher’s were doing: The translation that Ramona meeting in Vancouver, I yipped as the train fully got was that there was an illness out approached while the Yellow Line MAX spat there that was making some people sick, out error messages at me and my debit and some other people afraid of the sick card; a man who didn’t look like he had people, and this organization was helping much to spare stopped loading his bike on people to get better, not get sick in the first the train to wordlessly feed five wrinkly place, or get not-afraid of people who were ones into the machine and silently hand me sick. She liked that. Together we checked an all day pass. my donation page each day and were The next time I grump about humanity, underwhelmed but still pleased when our smack me. Why Kids Love Hawk and Stoney total hit $60 the night before the walk. Then, as I was putting Ramona to bed, my phone dinged with a message from CAP: “Melissa, we’d like you to know that (your favorite professor who taught you Queer Theory and Victorian literature eons ago whom you haven’t seen in years) has just pledged $100 to your walk.” Seriously? Professor V. just got his wings. And there were many more wings at the march, where Ramona puzzled over the free condom in her goodie bag (“That’s a special kind of balloon I’ll tell you about when you’re older - No, just give it to me”) and marveled at the bedazzled fairies, shirtless Roman gods and, yes, the legion of Peter Pans and Tinkerbells who smiled at us and high-fived Ramona as we giggled with Will & Co., glad that our last-minute donations from my mom and my husband had brought our contribution for the day to a healthy $400 for CAP with our sponsor’s generous matching. I had brought a five for the MAX home from downtown, delighting Ramona with the two Sacagawea dollars we got as change for her allowance. She played with them sleepily as we arced over the river toward home, lunch and a nap. Walking up Mississippi, we passed a woman in a wheelchair whom we frequently see, who politely asks for a dollar and graciously forgives us when we don’t have one; I’d given the last of my cash to Ramona and promised next time. Ramona chewed her lip for the next few steps, then darted back, handed the woman one of her coins and ran back to me. “What did you do, Ramona?” “I gave her one of my dollars.” “Why?” “Because I’m not afraid of sick people and she needed a dollar and I have enough.” She held up her remaining dollar. “See?” CENTRAL CITY by John R. Brown A six-year-old boy understands right away Grown men, old men, men working long past retirement age, men named Dizzy and Pee-Wee, Dusty and Rusty and Sparky and Bucky. Years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Herzog and Mr. and Mrs. Ford gazed fondly at their beautiful new-born baby boys and exclaimed, “Let’s name him ‘Whitey’!” Ty Cobb became the Georgia Peach though Georgia Prick might have been a better fit. The mammoth man-child George Herman Ruth, endowed with a life-force so powerful that he could not pass an orphanage, a speak-easy or a whorehouse without checking in to ask, “Is everybody happy?” Ruth, whose name became an adjective, was too big for just one nickname. The Sultan of Swat and of course the Babe. Which brings us to a man named Scooter, the un-Ruthian Phil Rizzuto, infielder, broadcaster, executive, coot in pin-stripes, never confused with Ivan “Scooter Libby. Baseball’s Scooter never needed a note from the President to stay out of federal prison. Celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Hooper Detox & Sobering Monday, Sept 10th 4:30 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. Lett Bank Annex 101 N. Weidler Commemorative coins to the first 400 people! w w w . centralcity concer n . or g 503-294-1681 Street Roots is a proud partner wïth Jesuit Volunteer Corps Northwest and Americorps. If you need help with any of the following: 4^- Food Resources Health Care Public Agencies Legal Services Employment Resources Counseling/Support Groups Housing/Emergency Shelter And Much More! ■ The easy-to-remember telephone number that connects people in need to community resources. ■ 211 is answered by trained information amd referral specialists - no confusing menus or voicemail systems. ■ We speak your language: Information can be provided in over 150 languages. From your cell: 503-222-5555.
