Voices of the Queen

What’s your story, I wonder? How did it come to this for you?

There’s probably a clinical word that aspires to encompass your whole existence. Schizophrenia comes to mind, and I mean it without judgment. When I think of you, the thought that you might one day find peace from your wandering, both mental and literal, makes me wish I could make that happen.

We’ve banned you from our public spaces. You needed help. You needed shelter. You needed a safe place to live your life. We couldn’t - or wouldn’t - give that to you. You’re probably in the worst place in America to be homeless.

I’ve seen you on street corners at busy intersections, talking to yourself. Who answers you, I wonder? They seem friendly, or at least on good terms with you.

You kept a meticulous notebook, full of writings that were almost calligraphic in their neatness, but so scattered in their meaning that I couldn’t make the connection that was undoubtedly there for you, in your mind.

You must be strong. You have to be. There’s no other way you could survive in a place like this city. The people who live here, vote here, conquer here, they look down on people like you. They see you standing on your corner, talking to yourself, and they lock their car doors. They assume you’ve done some kind of drugs, or maybe…

Well, maybe I'm misjudging them, too. Like you, they too have a story that only they know.

It’d be so easy to see you as just another example of the kind of people our society fails. I could effortlessly point toward you when I judge them, invoke your name when I point out their hypocrisy and laugh when they claim that they “love like Jesus.”

But…I don’t know your name.

I’m sorry, Queen. On behalf of all of us, I’m sorry. I wish I could morph this world around you, take it by the collar and make it do the decent thing. You’d have a home. You’d have clothes that weren’t falling apart. You’d have a place you could contribute, to express your passions, if you wanted that. At the very least, you’d have a place where you could exist as you are, without worrying that that existence could be ended by a driver hopping a curb while they stare at their phone.

I have to go to Lowe’s now. The closet in my guest bedroom doesn’t have an overhead light. It’d be convenient for anyone who stayed there…not that anyone ever does, but…