I was driving up Alcatraz Avenue...it's a long East/West street that ends near my house and leads down to the San Francisco Bay. From where I live, the street itself frames Alcatraz island and the Golden Gate Bridge...a stunning view that most of us who live here just take for granted.
Anyhow, I was driving up Alcatraz the other day when I saw a sight out of Fellini. An elderly woman was standing in the middle of the street with cars passing on either side...and she clearly did not know she was in the middle of the street. It was not even clear if she could even see much in front of her. She had her arms out; she was shuffling.
I stopped my car.
That stretch of Alcatraz is working class and poor, largely African-American. It always bugs me how fast people drive through there...and how little drivers respect the cross walks, since in other parts of Berkeley and North Oakland observing crosswalks is a kind of a religious aspect to civic life. It's almost like folks see that stretch of Alcatraz as second class and not worthy of slowing down...or noticing an old woman in the street.
But D, as I'll call her, was not walking in any crosswalk. She was pretty clearly blind. She had made her way, as I later figured out, unattended from a senior center on a quest for, of all things, some peppermint candy. As I walked her to the side of the road...leaving my car blocking traffic...it was clear to me that D's grasp on where she was and how she was doing was fading.
I walked her to the side of the street, and, as I safely parked my car, she stood there looking nowhere. When I rejoined her, I spoke to her and tried to figure out where she'd come from.
D was guarded. Unclear. She understood me when I told her that she had been in the street and that that wasn't good. I could tell she hadn't traveled far. I knew she must live nearby. So, for whatever reason...I guess sheer anger and frustration at her predicament...I decided "what the hell" at the very least we could get her her mints while we tried to figure how to get her home.
So we walked to a corner store a half block away. As we walked, D's arm in mine, I asked about her life. She has four sons. One who looks in on her from time to time. I asked D, 'Would she tell that son to make sure she doesn't end up in the street like that again?' D replied, 'Yes, yes she would'.
I asked did she have grandchildren? She grabbed my arm harder. 'Do I ever have grandchildren.' She said it with pride. That fact was important to her. We talked about them a bit.
When we got to the shop...two blocks from the senior center I now surmised was her home...I asked the shopkeeper if he had ever seen D. He said no. Figuring that she would know what she wanted, I told D to pick out the mints she liked. She paused and told me to pick them out for her; standing not three inches from a rack of candy. I realized that D could not see much of anything, not near or far.
We got three bags of mints...with her money...handed over without any idea of how much she had given the man...and walked back to where I was pretty sure she lived. (In retrospect, I was lucky that I was right about that, I guess.)
As we walked, D told me she was from Mississippi. She told me that she had come to California during the war, to help with the war effort, and, like so many African-Americans who call Oakland home...she had stayed here and made Oakland here new home. Oakland was where she had raised her family. West Oakland was where she had lived her life. I told D about my grandmother...92 years old...in Minnesota, how she liked mints too.
As we got closer to the senior center, D's strength began to fade. She leaned hard on me. I saw two women with ID necklaces on...they didn't seem too shocked to see me walking up with D. I guess they thought I was a mobility counseler or some such thing. At any rate, when I told D that I saw the women with ID's, she said to me under her breath 'My word, now I'll be in trouble, I'm sure.'
I knew then, despite D's foreboding, that I had returned her to her home. All told, it's a nice building. A new building. I can't say whether D's 'escape' reflected a one-time oversight or a chronic failure. I can't say, and didn't choose to find out.
And, like that, it clearly came time to say goodbye. D turned to me and said, in all sincerity, "Thank you, it was so nice meeting you."
I realized, then, that in all likelihood I was one of the last "strangers" D will ever meet, one of the last neighbors she will chat with about life and children and where she's from. This created a surge of mixed feelings for me. I felt a sense of pride that we had actually managed to get the mints. I felt a sense of failure in that D was returning someplace that she really shouldn't ever have left alone. It was unforgiveable she had ended up in the street. I felt saddened, however, that her home was someplace that cuts her off from the world of her neighbors. I couldn't also help but incorrectly feel that in "handing her over" I was in some sense failing D. Of course, the wiser part of me realized that I was doing what was necessary at the same time; in fact, I was doing what I would want done for me or mine
In saying goodbye I wanted to tell D, "God bless you," which I guessed would mean something to her. But all I could get out was..."It was nice to meet you, too" before I turned away, hiding my face and my feelings from the health care workers who rapidly, and quite appropriately, took over. I could hear them blithely chide D for leaving. It was remarkable to me how nonplussed they were that I had found her in the street. At the same time it was very clear that these were the people who cared for D; these were the people who looked out for her.
I asked myself, did I feel sad for D or just guilty for living so far away from my own grandmother, and not visiting her enough? Was my reaction to this incident a reflection of how little I'd thought of the prospect that I too might grow old and frail and have people talk to me like I was a child, or worse, talk about me like a child in my own presence? Did my sudden sympathy for D come from the realization that I too might someday end up wandering blind in the middle of the street as younger people drove by? I don't know.
There's no point to this story really. And that is the point, in a way. That's life. That's the nature of community. That's how soon we forget. That's how little we ever say 'thanks' to those who've come before us, who've paved our way. We're born fragile and helpless...and we grow old to be frail and helpless. Nobody holds an awards banquet for us at the end of our days. We're lucky when we get a "thanks." And, though we pretend otherwise, we are all one step away from an accident or illness that might change our lives. And in the face of these very few certainties...old age, frailty, death...most of us just do like the rest of the world: we drive on by.
A blind woman made me see that. D reminded me of that fact.
On some small level, then, I hope that telling you her story speaks to you, too.
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{This essay, some rights reserved, originally appeared on the blog Liberal Street Fighter. You can find current essays by kid oakland at my blog, k/o.}