It Started With a Phone Call
It started with a phone call. “Happy Easter Di, It’s Ryan. Sorry to bug you at home, but Global TV is here.” “No problem,” I assure him, “I’ll be there in a few.”
As I drive to the shelter, I am of two minds. The PR is good, people need to know that there are others who don’t have what they have, but, man I hate putting our people on display. When I arrived the media was gone, but I decided to stick around for awhile in case someone else showed. I walked in, plunked myself on a chair in Ryan’s office and wished him a Happy Easter. In walks a woman, long grey hair, open sores on her face, late 50’s, early 60’s and says that she’s donated before, 20 loaves of homemade bread a week, but now she needs help. She’s not able to work, and a recent accident has left her with 23 broken bones and her collar bone is still healing. Long lost relatives have dropped in on her from Yellow Knife and she has no food. She tells me she has met her 18 month old grandson for the first time and describes in great detail how beautiful he is.
Ryan gets busy to find her some food. I get up and go to the main floor and, as I’m walking through, I hear Happy Easter Diana! I turn and see Paul, he gestures that I should take a seat. I’ve known Paul for a few years. He always struggles, like a man treading water, he just wants a job. I sit down, people are eating ham, scalloped potatoes, veggies—it smells good. I wish Paul a Happy Easter and turn to a man at our table I’ve never met. His name is Bill. Bill is a ticketed carpenter and loves the arts. He’s been in Calgary since ’83 and in that time has built many a set for theatre productions in the area.
I realize I haven’t eaten yet and excuse myself to grab some food with the promise that I’ll be right back. When I return, a young woman seats herself with us. She’s telling Paul that she’s sick, she’s been to the clinic and they’ve given her inhalers and a script, but her throat hurts and she wonders if Paul has any of them fishermen’s friends. He hands her one, she says thank you and leaves for another table. I watch her walk away, sit down, and lay her head on the table.
“I want freedom,” says Paul. This statement piques my interest—freedom being a concept that truly intrigues me—one that I seek passionately. “I want the freedom to come and go as I please, to make a decision to do something and have the freedom to do it.” Bill looks thoughtful and adds, “You know…I used to think I was free, but they’ve stolen my individuality. They make us conform…why should I wear a seat belt in a car, it should be my choice.” I tell them I have met people in the alleys, those who don’t come to shelters for food, who have told me that living on the streets is their freedom and that they don’t have to obey any rules and they have intentionally chosen homelessness. I wonder to myself what would make someone choose that and I am drawn out of my thoughts when I hear Bill speaking again.
“You have freedoms Paul, you can take that backpack to a park and lay your head on it and look at the beautiful sky.” I smile at Bill—he has the soul of a poet. “Yes I can do that, but she has more freedom,” Paul says as he points at me and then turns to me and adds. “Sure you have responsibilities and bills to pay, but you can come and go as you please.” I feel for Paul—I am helpless to do anything about his situation. He wants so much but has never made a conscious decision to do anything about it. He is a victim and I silently pray he becomes a survivor—it has to come from within himself.
“Perhaps no one is really free; we are all bound in some way.” I say out loud, much to my own surprise. The table becomes quiet as each of us gets lost in our own thoughts. “What are you thinking Diana?” Paul’s question brings me back. I smile at him, “Nothing really Paul, just processing,” I laugh. Paul smiles at me and wishes me a happy Easter again.
-Diana Schwenk
