Time to stop looking away

We’ve all seen them. And we’ve all walked away, given a wide berth, crossed the street.
We’ve all shut our eyes.
Sometimes they’re smelly, and passing by would offend our senses. Sometimes they’re loud, loquacious, offending our sense of propriety.
Sometimes they do nothing but sit, looking vacantly ahead. We know something is wrong with them, so we turn our gaze, glance beyond them, and then forget about it, forget about them.
Or at least, that’s usually how it works.
Sometimes, however, one grabs your attention
The other morning a colleague walked in, mentioning that she had seen one of them. She hadn’t turned her head away from the sight, she’d looked straight on.
And what she saw upset her.
On her way to work, traveling east on the Lougheed Highway this colleague saw a woman who had planted herself in the dirt, in the boulevard outside the Salvation Army’s Caring Place shelter.
That woman looked to be about 40, but she could have been so much younger — it’s not always easy to gauge, as life comes and goes rather quickly for some, and the years mark themselves on their faces more readily than it does on yours and mine.
Planted there, in this boulevard, rather than sink into the muck, the woman riled against it. Grabbing handfuls of soil, she chucked it heartily toward the roadway, cursing it, giving it hell.
There was no one on the sidewalk to bear the brunt of the attack. The only ones to see were those held safe inside the confines of their vehicles, stopped at the nearby traffic light. There was no one listening to her cry out, no one to take offense to her mudslinging.
But she threw on regardless of a lack of audience. And nobody noticed, perhaps, save one.
And that one who saw came to work feeling heavier, one would think, feeling upset by the incident. She did not look away as so many others had, and as a result she couldn’t help but feel sad.
If she hadn’t seen, if she hadn’t heard, she might still be ignorant to the woman’s plight, and she’d feel better.
But feeling better comes at such a cost.
Was this woman throwing dirt a drug addict?
Maybe.
Are drugs — meth, crack — her biggest challenges?
Hardly.
This woman is mentally ill. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to make this diagnosis. Watching her rail against an invisible enemy, toss dirt into the street in disgust — there’s really no other explanation.
Is this mental illness a result of drug use? Could be.
Did this woman turn to illegal drugs to escape her mental illness? Possibly.
Does it matter why she sits here, what brought her to this place?
I don’t think so.
There are so many in this community from whom it is easier to turn away, and we assuage our own guilt in doing so by making excuses; that’s if we notice at all, if we even take a moment to register the fact that one of our own suffers.
I am just as guilty as the next person. I drove past this woman and remembered spotting her only when a colleague pointed it out.
I walk past a man who, when it rains, uses the awning at this very newspaper office as his temporary shelter. I watch out the window as he picks up the garbage in the parking lot — garbage dropped not by himself, but by those who look through him, those who don’t even honour him with a glance.
He cleans up after people like me, and I can't even spare him a glance, a "good morning," or a couple of bucks — not that he's ever asked.
It's just so much easier to avert the eyes.
It’s just so much easier to make the excuses.
Druggie.

Today people irritate me because....

I know most people are less intelligent than myself. This allows me to comment on the behaviour of those around me with little fear of reproach.
That said here’s what bothers me on this day, Wednesday March 28, 2007. Let it stand on the record that I, Danna Bach, take issue with my fellow human beings.
Often parents tell their children to use their words — instead of their fists — to solve disputes.
I suppose parents ought to be a little clearer on which words, and when it’s appropriate to use them.
For example, while it might be totally acceptable to throw down a dirty word in the comfort of your own vehicle, while situated in front of your own television set during a hockey game, or after you stub your toe on your bed frame when you get up to use the loo in the middle of the night, there are other locales where those F-bombs are about as desirable as a pimple on prom night. A mouse in your Milk Duds. A hair in your hot dog, etc.
Case in point — as I was leaving a packed movie theatre Sunday night, a man began shouting about how “F-----g hot!” it was in there, it was so “f-----g hot, man.”
Indeed, it was so “f-----g hot,” the man nearly “lost his s—t!”
That’s a shame. I hate losing anything, chapstick, socks, eyelash curlers. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose your s—t, especially in a crowded movie theatre. How embarrassing.
There’s nothing really wrong with cussing, the best of us have done it in the worst of times; there is something therapeutic about putting all your frustrations into a single syllable.
But there’s a time and a place to lose your s—t.
The time to do so isn’t while you’re exiting the movie theatre, and it’s not while you’re standing in line at Wal Mart, though so many of us have wanted to lose our s—t in this exact location. It’s not during a loud conversation in a family restaurant, and it’s not while you’re chatting on your cellphone while working out at the gym.
(Yeah, that’s another irritant — who are these people that call people while working out? I understand eating Gummy Bears while working out, they’re delicious, but talking on your cellphone? Come on! Get off the treadmill and go buy a sweater for your Chihuahua or something. I hate you.)
But back to the blasphemy. There are other words that are less aggressive and work well. Good substitutes that I’ve found include “Balls!,” “Jeebus!,” and “Dirty Mother!” Any or all will suffice.
And, keep in mind that the frequency with which you cuss heightens or weakens the impact of the word. Think about it, if Courtney Love throws down, you wouldn’t bat an eye, but if, say, the child from Little Miss Sunshine started cursing up a storm, you’d all stop and look.
And really, even after the plastic surgery, who wants to be Courtney Love?
Nobody.

Dangerous but delicious

This letter was forwarded to me today from a friend who was, decidedly, a loser in the Timmy lottery.
I felt that not only does this letter provide a good warning to those who are also rolling the rim, but might also spawn some discussion around appropriate rim rolling methods.
The letter writer did not wish to be named. You can call her Jennifer Garner — get it, Alias, get it?

Dear Tim Hortons,

Although I do thoroughly enjoy your delicious caffeine beverages and assortment of baked goods, I feel that, in light of recent events, I must send you this letter of concern.
On the morning of March 20, 2007, I purchased a medium coffee from one of your Kamloops, B.C. locations. Having almost finished the coffee, I decided to "Roll up the Rim" to see if perhaps I had won one of a variety of prizes. I first read the disclaimer written on the paper cup: Aucune obligation d'achat. Chances de gagner un prix: 1 sur 9. Response a une question subsidiare exigee pour les residents du Canada. Vour tous les details dans les restaurants participants et a deroulelebordpourgagner.com.
After realizing that I, in fact, do not speak French, I began the arduous task of rolling up the rim using my lower teeth to begin the rolling process. Before I could finish, however, the cup slipped under the pressure of the combination hand-mouth motion and spilled all over my white blouse with particular concentration in the left breastal area. Alarmed, I immediately stopped, dropped and rolled, but this did nothing. Sadly, I was forced to work the remainder of the day wearing a giant coffee stain.
I am not certain if I shall ever recover from the many stares and comments said stain drew from my male co-workers. I would like to think they were simply checking out my left breastal area, however, the accompanying comments led me to believe otherwise. My rack has been forever disgraced by an unruly Double-Double.
As a loyal patron of your coffee houses across British Columbia for many years now, I feel I must send you this letter with the hope that similar tragedies may be avoided in the future.
In 1974 had Tim Horton not gotten smashed and bravely taken his Pantera sports car for an ill-fated drive at 160 km/hour, perhaps he would still be with us. If he were, I ask you, would he stand idly by as people like myself suffer needlessly at the hands of poorly designed corporate contests? I think not.
Déshonorer sur vous Tim Hortons! Yes that's right, I do speak French after all. Doesn't feel good to be misled by those you trust, now does it?
Regards,
Jennifer Garner (get it, Alias, get it?)
Coffee Consumer & Seeker of Free Doughnuts