It’s been a while now that I’ve been hoping for a normal, regular, uneventful weekend in which I can relax and play Half Life 2 all day, after doing the laundry and tending to the front garden. Unfortunately, each weekend has brought a bit of an adventure, lately.
Yesterday evening, having nothing better to do and finally taking pity on our slowly wilting front lawn, I decided to go out and give it a good watering. Two weeks ago we went camping to Cachuma Lake, and no one was available to do the watering for us. Last week I was busy and, I’ll admit, too lazy to do anything. It felt nice, to stand in the evening sun and finally figure out how to set up the watering hose to automatic.
I noticed, quite contentedly, that our neighbourhood isn’t very ugly. It’s nicely lined with trees, people take care of their lawns, the cars are neither flashy nor dirty. It’s, in essence, a working class neighbourhood 30 miles from Los Angeles. It’s a suburb, really, on the edge of an industrial area. People work anywhere from 20 to 30 miles from their homes, and have both large cars (for their families) or cars they use for work.
The houses are usually nicely or at least somewhat painted. It’s a green neighbourhood, with people who are conscientious about how much they spend on water and gardening supplies, while at the same time keeping a nice face to their neighbours. There are no lawn competitions, but every once in a while the lady from across the street will stick her head out between her window shades when she sees us watering our lawn, and will come out to do the same.
People usually wash their cars on a Sunday evening. Monday’s coming up, of course, and we’ve got the hose out already; why not? Out come the scrubbers and the towels, and the slightly-more-expensive car wash detergent. Those with large cars (trucks and SUVs) wash the car out in the street in case they get yelled at by the city for spilling too much water. Others with smaller cars (sports cars for example) don’t mind washing it in the driveway.
I sometimes like watching the Cessnas that take off from our local airport. They seem to go around San Fernando around noon and come back later in the evening. It’s quite a sight to see 3 or 4 in a row, gleaming in the sunlight as if from some convenience store postcard. I noticed that the front neighbour’s dog likes watching them too.
On such an evening, listening to the Yukikaze soundtrack, a man started walking down our street. Not having my glasses on, I didn’t notice him until he was a couple of houses down from ours. I saw he was limping, and figured he was bow-legged or something, as some older people are. He seemed to try to get the attention of a person who was washing his car in the driveway. The person shooed him away enthusiastically, and the man kept walking. About 4 or 5 minutes later, he was close enough to where I saw he was not only limping, but also tipping from side to side.
“Oh man, I wonder if he’s drunk” I thought to myself, and eyed him wearily. He stopped a few feet away from me, and very kindly wished me a good afternoon. I replied likewise and noticed a long deep cut in his right arm. It was dripping blood slowly onto our sidewalk. He insisted on asking if I was alright, and told me that nothing would happen. Vehemently, he assured me I would be alright.
“I’m ok, but do you need help?” I asked him, now concerned. The thing is, he didn’t smell of alcohol, at all. Usually for a person exhibiting his disorientation and lack of equilibrium, they’d *reek* of alcohol. This gentleman didn’t at all, and I was downwind. If anything, I could smell a slight tinge of soap. He was well dressed: sleek and shiny salt-peppered hair combed back, two necklaces (a dog-tag and a catholic cross), clean white shirt, clean light blue jeans with a black belt, and polished black leather shoes whose laces were neatly tied. His arms, though dark and tattooed, were clean, if bruised and bloody.
I immediately thought of my dad’s condition, and what I had read. Sometimes when a Diabetic person’s blood sugar goes very low they exhibit disorientation and lack of equilibrium leading to loss of consciousness. If he had maybe passed out and fallen, it would explain the large cut on his arm.
“Please stay right here, don’t move, I’m going to get help,” I told him, and he nodded sleepily. I ran into my house, and told my mum and dad what happened. My dad went outside while my mum got her cell-phone and handed it to me. “Don’t call just yet,” said my dad, “Maybe he lives in the area and he just needs help getting home to a relative.” Dad went outside to chase after the man, who had taken off surprisingly quickly and kept walking down the street. He found the man almost at the end of our block.
Some very confusing things then happened. The man tried to salute my dad, in a military fashion, while my dad tried to ask his name and address. Then the man wobbled more, and tipped over, falling against a truck and sliding under it. Dad was able to pull him up and over to some grass. The man at first resisted to be sat down, then gave up and laid back on the grass. He passed out of consciousness for some time. While that happened, I dialed 911 and was able to get someone to take the details of what had happened. By the time he began to regain consciousness, two fire trucks and an ambulance were coming down our street. I flagged them down, and they lined up.
By that time, there was a small crowd of spectators. This is where my fury overwhelms me. This is the part where I need to just get up, go outside, take a deep breath, and do my best to not kick down and destroy everything in front of me, so unbearably strong is my disappointment and rage towards humanity. This might not seem to be such a big deal to many people. In fact, if I numb myself and try to see it from the point of view of the general person, I am not so surprised. But that feeling of comprehension doesn’t last very long. It’s difficult to organise my thoughts when I feel this way, so please bear with me.
How long had this man been traveling in such a condition? There was the first person I saw him talk to, who had shooed him away. It’s difficult to not have noticed his bleeding arm. When he was walking down the street before my dad caught up with him, there were a couple of people outside watering their lawns, tending to their cars. The streets were not deserted. No one offered to help. When my dad had finally caught up with the man, an ice cream truck had stopped to sell his wares. There were children all around the ice cream truck, who would go around us to try to get to it. A couple of them even gave us the “You’re in the way” look, before looking down at the unconscious man on the floor.
After a few minutes of that, adults started coming over. There was a single solitary man who had been watching us before (never offered his help to my father, or support to my sister or myself), who once the man was unconscious on the ground came over to see what was happening. When the fire department arrived, everyone scattered like roaches.
While my dad was trying to get the man up from the gutter where he fell under the truck, and when my dad was struggling to get the man to lay down, no one even got close. If the man had gotten violent, it would have been up to my father, my sister and me to calm him down or even to pin him down.
How I wish I could have yelled to all those life-engorged, self-satisfied, lazy, egotistical excuses for human beings to go away if they would not help my half-blind father.
My anger is one that doesn’t leave room for words. This is the type of anger that leaves me, an otherwise opinionated (I admit even annoyingly so) person completely wordless. Disgust might be a good word for what I felt, maybe revolt. Seeing those people standing there with a sick curiosity in their eyes, with a sense of self-satisfaction, an “I would never be caught in that situation”, judging this man instead of helping him, made me feel as if I was staring into a ditch full of the discarded remnants of a dead animal, covered in maggots and debris. It was like looking at a dead tree, full of plague, or like trying to stare into a dirty fish tank full of dead fish.
Then I remember that maybe there are more people like my dad out there, who are willing to put themselves in some danger to help another person. Maybe there are families as kind as ours, who don’t let even a stranger walk by if he needs help. I remember that there is some sort of good in this world, like some organizations and religions that kindheartedly and honestly give their lives and resources to bring hope and help to people and animals who really need it. Even if the problems isn’t fixed, the fact that one person’s life is made easier, or at least that person is not left alone… At least one more person has hope and some level of comfort.
I remember all the nurses at the clinics my dad used to go to for his eyes, and other health-problems. I remember how social workers really put their own emotions aside to help as many people as possible, and how tired they must be when they get home after a long day. I remember the doctors who spend millions of their own money to help people overseas, and even here in the US. Even the firefighters and the ambulance workers who gently picked him up and talked to him to get him to relax (he was scared by the sirens and lights), were very kind.
I honestly forget where I was going with this, but, I want to urge anyone out there, anyone who reads this: Don’t let people just pass you by. Don’t just assume that tipsy guy is drunk. Don’t just assume the shady guy passed out on the street is there because he wants to be. Don’t just assume someone else will help the old lady struggling with her grocery bags. It’s so easy to shield our eyes from someone who needs help. We set up excuses like “He might get violent” or “He looked like a gangster”, or “The old lady might yell at me” or “Someone else will help”.
If he looks violent, of course seek shelter. What stops you from calling the police or an ambulance? Some elderly people might be offended by a person offering help, but what do you lose for offering it? Do you lose your dignity? Do you lose your pride? Do you lose any money? Do you lose, in fact, even your breath?
It’s… unfair and impractical for every person in the world to actively seek out people to help. That’s nowhere near what I’m asking for. I’m simply asking people to remember that people are people! That transient on the street could very well be your father, or your mother. That old man or woman at the corner might one day be you!
There’s so much distrust in this world, it overwhelms the very essence of our humanity… it’s infuriating and makes me want to cry….
