Seeking the human side of homelessness in Turlock

On the way to my internship at Turlock’s Carnegie Arts Center, I used to pass by a settlement of an incredibly transient nature.

On Fifth Street, between B and C streets, a crowding of makeshift shelters colored the otherwise dull scenery. It was hard to make out individual items, hard to see where things ended or began. A blanket here, a flattened cardboard box there, a rusty shopping cart containing its own micro-assortment of things, and the ever-present black trash bag. I took in these details in the few seconds it took to drive past this block at 25 mph.

I’m a cautious driver, and I was especially cautious as I passed this shanty village, careful not to get too close to anyone who might be sleeping under those precariously constructed tents. I’m careful, cautious, and attentive, but somehow I still managed not to glance too long or study too hard.

It bothered me, I realized, how instinctively I wanted to ignore these people. It bothered me how the beautiful, sparkling morning light shone on the disarray of these lives. I could not ignore this contrast.

One day driving down Fifth I saw a woman in a wheelchair, head lolled to the side, shoulders hitched up to her ears, eyes blue like jewels, wide and unblinking, asymmetrical in some way, skin toughened and textured by too many days in the sun. She seemed to make eye contact with me as I passed, and in her ocean eyes, I thought I saw something hostile yet impersonal. It was a blanket bitterness, an unspecific, uncomprehending cynicism. I could not shake it, the image of this woman, aged and ageless.

“A portion of the population just struggles more than the rest. I don’t know why. It’s not fair, but it’s true.” My counselor told me this years ago. It replays in my head as I see the struggles of others, and it resounded again recently as I learned about epigenesis, specifically, methylation. The methylation of a gene wraps it tighter, making it more likely to be silent, while demethylation switches it on and makes it more likely to be expressed.

Stressful economic conditions can change the degree of methylation for the parts of our DNA that respond to stress, determining our emotions and short- and long-term decisions. Additionally, the genes that make individuals more prone to diabetes and cancer are activated, as well as the ones associated with psychosis. The changes in these parts of our code can be passed down through generations.

The meritocratic label we have chosen to put on our way of life becomes ridiculous in light of this new knowledge. The idea that we possess only in proportion to our effort has been with us so long that to argue the opposite sounds irresponsibly lenient, as though we are trying to justify choices that we deem ill-informed.

But consider for a moment what it would be like to live a life in which all your stability — educational, financial, emotional — hangs from a precipice. Your grip is one-handed, and it is tight, but there are too many other factors you have no control over, such as a strong breeze, the sweat on your fingers, the lack of traction on the ground beneath you. Coming away from that precipice, everything in hand would be a miracle, an event of pure happenstance.

This is what it’s like to inherit the stress responses of ancestors who lived in poverty. To make matters worse, the worse your situation becomes, the more invisible you become to others, because most refuse to recognize your suffering. In this scenario, pain is default. Rest is semi-alert. Nowhere is safe, nowhere is yours, nowhere is sanctuary. Imagine that.

Reading my local newspaper, I was not surprised that some Turlock residents expressed concern about the placement of resources for homeless outside of one street: Broadway. Do we not all have the right to a space of our own? Is it that, first, we forget to recognize their human dignity?

I’m not a scientific, economic or political authority. I can’t propose an effective solution on my own. I’m simply witness to the pain on the streets of my hometown, wondering what it takes to offer renewal.

The day The Settlement of an Incredibly Transient Nature between B and C streets disappeared, I was startled. The disappearance itself, I knew, was inevitable. What startled me was that there was not a trace to show that they once made their home there along that curb.

I wonder if it was supposed to make me feel relieved as a Turlock citizen. It didn’t.