It takes a village
Around this time last year, I spent a week in San Francisco on business. Even though I live in Silicon Valley, my manager and I agreed that the commute was too much for the long hours I was going to work so I booked a week a four-star hotel in the city and went on my merry way.
I am a Bay Area native and have heard new reports practically my whole life about the "homeless problem" in San Francisco. When I was newly licensed driver, my dad took me to the city to make sure that I didn't get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood. Every time I have come to San Francisco, I have seen people living on the streets. But something about this business trip made me more aware of the issue. Instead of seeing well dressed financial folks and wide-eyed tourists, I could not take my eyes off the people of the streets.
In fact, my week in San Francisco has haunted me ever since.
I watched a disabled veteran get into a scuffle with a gawking tourist. I saw men older than my father sleep on the street. For all the women dressed in glamorous clothes as they power walk to their high-profile job, there was as many homeless women wearing the only clothes they own. There was more than one man in a wheelchair and a woman asking for money with a baby on her hip. An elderly man was drinking from a brown paper bag while he sat on the steps of a church.
My heart raced when I walked down a street where a group of homeless are clustered. I am not used to this. It's uncomfortable. I was afraid. When did they become the enemy? Something to be feared instead of someone to save?



















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