Speaking Up Does Make A Difference

Comfort zones are the end of us.

Photo by Beau Horyza on Unsplash — Cobble Stone Streets of Old San Juan

I have been quietly observing and digesting the information coming through in the news. A war is taking place, ICE continues to terrorize our communities, and the citizens in this country (i.e. the United States of America) are navigating polarizing environments everyday of our lives.

Historically, times have never come easy, if you think about it. There has always been some kind of injustice to call out for, there has always been a sense of inequality to contend with, and there will always be something that can be done better. It is the nature of things, and our good humanity requires us to stay vigilant.

I grew up in the Caribbean and have close ties with Latin American families and people that I have met throughout my life; they are my friends and I have navigated life alongside them. I have listened to countless stories of economic inequalities, dishonest political maneuvers, and loss of life that goes unresolved. This kind of terror is the stuff movies are made of, but sadly, it is not a movie for the people that live through it.

In the face of this reality, the United States have always stood as a beacon of hope for those that aspire for a better future. It turns out, however, that life here is not the paradise that most of us have thought it to be. It is hard to build yourself in a capitalist society that confuses wealth with greed and abundance with prosperity. The news shows us exactly what this country is made of and understanding that the President was chosen by the majority already hints to what the majority is rallying for. I am not privy to the majority’s agenda, so all I am able to do is observe and digest.

What infuriates me the most is the sense of fear that these times are pressing on all of us. The democracy in which we have built our realities on is feeling less reliable each day. Innocent people are dying in the name of freedom of speech, and I can only imagine how many are deciding to stay on the sidelines of conflict so that they can avoid any repercussions landing on their lanes. I guess free will is the grace in which we can all meet in the middle, and nobody can force no one else to stand up and have a saying on the things that matter the most.

All this thinking I’ve been doing has led me to remember one time when I stood up for something and it made a difference. It was a long time ago, I was a different version of me then, and I wonder how my current self would handle that situation today.

So, let me tell you now the story of how I helped a homeless young man, and what happened as a result.

I worked as a tour guide during my college days. Old San Juan is the capital of my hometown, my island of Puerto Rico, and I had the privilege then to work at the Governor’s historic House, La Fortaleza (def. The Fortress). The mansion sits along the edge of the fortress walls that once surrounded the whole San Juan island, and it has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is heavily guarded, since it serves both as the Governor’s private residence as well as all the Executive offices. I had never visited the premises before, so it was a great experience to see it firsthand an get to know all the behind-the-scenes intel.

The job itself was fun. I got to meet tourists every day, I would brief them on the history of the place, and answer questions as we moved along the tour. I got to practice my English, and my historian geeky side would be thrilled with all the conversations that would spin around the people I was crossing paths with.

The job also got me going to Old San Juan at least three times a week, walking the same cobble stone streets up an down from the parking lot to the House. I would see the same street vendors, I would browse my usual favorite shops along the way, and I would also see the usual homeless crowd gathering at the same places. All these scenes would intertwine and become one big story unfolding right before my eyes, with the same characters always interacting with each other.

Among the homeless crowd, one boy stood out. He was noticeably younger than the reset of them, and from his appearance, drug addiction was evident to be the culprit to his precarious situation. I would often notice him, and I think he took note of me as well. After all, I was becoming a regular to the area, so my face was part of the story unfolding on their end as well. He was taller than me and so thin, with hollowed eyes, and he was particularly quiet. I would see him curled up in a corner most times, and others he would be walking around the area alongside his other homeless comrades.

One afternoon, as I finished my shift and was walking back to my car, I noticed an unusual rattle further down the street. I quickly paid attention and tried to focus on what seemed to be someone running towards me. The young homeless boy met me and looked straight at me, as he grabbed my hand. He was trying to speak, but for some reason his voice would not come out clearly. He was mumbling something in an urgent manner, and all I could say was, “What’s going on? What’s going on?”. He dragged me to a well-known bakery, one of those spots I knew and would stop for a coffee and a “Mallorca” (def. a Spanish pastry known to be soft and sweet, often coiled into a snail like shape) every now and then. As soon as we stopped at the door, the owner came out screaming towards us. Little did he know that the homeless boy had brought back with him a young woman ready to speak her mind. His face was clearly shocked when he saw me.

“What’s going on?”, I asked for the last time, genuinely concerned by the whole situation.

“This bum comes here every day. I am tired of having him around!”, he screamed at me.

“What does he want!?” The boy immediately pointed to the window to a freshly baked pastry they had just put on display.

“Food? He wants food!”, I exclaimed.

“Give him what he wants! I’ll pay for it.”, I firmly said, taking out whatever money I could find inside my purse. The shop owner agreed, gave out the pastry, and I watched as the boy snatched it and dashed off, clutching it tightly like a treasured possession he had just acquired.

I stayed quiet throughout the remaining interaction with the manager. I gave him the money, he took it, and before I left, I said, “I don’t think food should ever be denied to no one.” The manager stayed silent, not a single word spoken.

That experience has stayed with me since, and it gave me a powerful lesson in compassion. However, the story didn’t end there. Time would show me much later how the impressions we make along the way matter greatly.

I moved on from that job to other things. Throughout those years, I did internships that had me traveling over the Summer to different parts of the United States. One year I worked with farmers in Missouri, assisting them in all their financial needs with the federal government, and then on a different year I went to Washington D.C. and worked in the Department of Commerce, finding myself learning all the ins and outs of international business and how Capitol Hill gets involved.

I finally graduated, and got my first job. I started a very serious life too early in my journey, if I may say. But that is a different conversation for a different post. What matters now is that I settled into the real, grown up world, and with that, I started reading the news in the mornings with my coffee.

One day I was doing my usual browsing, when I spotted a headline that caught my attention. It spoke about a new initiative going on in Old San Juan regarding the growing homelessness that had taken over. Since my days of working at La Fortaleza, the problem had grown significantly, and it seemed that finally someone was ready to do something about it.

The story was siting a non profit organization that was moving all the homeless in the area and was assigning them temporary housing, in an effort to get them better situated and out of the streets. I was really moved by the idea, and as I kept reading, the article mentioned how the interviewee had been a homeless person himself. The last words in the article sited the man acknowledging the goodness he found from strangers when he needed it the most, and how he felt he had to pay it forward to those he sees are in need now.

I felt suspicious about the whole story, since it felt familiar to me. I clicked on all the links the article had, until I made it to the non profit organization’s website. And there he was: the face that I remembered grabbing my hand, desperate for a piece of sweet bread. The boy had become a grown man, and it seems that he went on to live a much better life.

For the record: homelessness continued to be a hard situation in San Juan, and later on became a politicized issue.

[embed]Khruangbin — People Everywhere (Still Alive)

Thanks to Activated Thinker for adding me as a contributor.