Her name was Karen

This morning Peter and I strolled leisurely down to the corner of University and Acton to grab a cup of coffee before he had to go to class and I hit the road for Santa Cruz. It was a beautiful morning in Berkeley, a sunny Tuesday, and there was no line at the coffee shop. I contemplated a newspaper and then reconsidered when I imagined the angry honks around me while I absorbed myself in it instead of driving in a straight line on CA 880. Oh well. Coffee was good.

On our way back toward Peter's ghetto-pad-in-a-nice-neighborhood, a girl asked us to stop for a minute, if we happened to be going her way, and could we please help her? By girl I mean a woman about my age, wearing a nice wool coat, and for some reason laden down with what looked like everything she owned. My first thought was that she had just alit from some invisible bus or train, and that nobody ever told her how to pack light. I was just about to lecture her on said rules of traveling when she said, "My arms are so tired, and I'm only heading a few blocks up, could you please take this bag?" The look in her eyes was so sad. Without being prompted, she said, "It's been a long day."

It was only 9 am.

Peter and I each took a suitcase, and hesitantly began to walk up Acton Street in the direction that the three of us were suddenly mutually headed. I had to ask. "Where are you coming from?"

"A homeless shelter," she replied. Oh. "And I'm on my way to a woman's center a few blocks up where hopefully they can help me with housing." Oh. And I, ever suave in awkward situations, replied.... "Oh."

It was a slow quiet walk, and only three blocks. It turns out she literally was carrying everything she owned. She began to slow down and I could hear her breathing like she was either as close to tears as it is possible for a woman to be without openly weeping, or completely exhausted, or embarassed, or on the verge of getting sick; maybe it was a wicked combination of all of these things. At one point, about a block from the shelter, she looked me in the eye and said, "Can we switch? I can't roll this thing anymore." She was referring to a rolling suitcase/laptop/sleeping bag/blanket combo that she had obviously been struggling with for a while. I gave her the small suitcase I was carrying and took the rolling monstrosity. We were just about to the door of the shelter when I decided to ask her name.

Karen. From Michigan. Had lived in the Bay Area for about a decade, graduated San Francisco State with a liberal arts degree. My age. Homeless. Nice coat. Not crying yet. Its been a long day, too early for that, what she means is its been a long week. Or month. Or life. And I get it.

Only I don't because I'm not living her life. Suddenly Karen put things in perspective for me, and without knowing any more about her or her situation, I was instantly more grateful for my own. Peter (who had tact enough to remain silent for the entire voyage) and I walked/rolled her to the door of the shelter, where she was going to begin the process of checking in. She was shaky after putting down everything that she had been carrying, and was obviously nervous and even more obviously grateful. And was trying to say so, when I gave her a compulsive hug. She held on to me and said "Thank you......" and her tears finally came. I told her the only thing I could, that it'll get better. And good luck. And then I disappeared as an intake worker came to collect her.

Peter and I walked out of the shelter in silence, fresh coffee cups still in hand, still hot. The entire thing had taken place in less than ten minutes. I knew Karen for less time than I believe I've ever spent picking out a pair of shoes, and she changed the way I saw things. I want her to be ok. As Peter and I looked at each other slowly, I said, "Well. That was different." Yep.