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
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partner wïth Jesuit
Volunteer Corps Northwest
and Americorps.
If you need help with
any of the following:
4^-
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And Much More!
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number that connects people in need
to community resources.
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information amd referral specialists
- no confusing menus or voicemail
systems.
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Information can be provided in over
150 languages.
From your cell: 503-222-5555.