| NIMBY'ism IN EUGENE, PART SIX |
| On August 13th when I came back from my errands in town in the scorching mid-afternoon heat, I saw a little note stuck on my camper door, written on the back of a business card. At first I thought--or hoped--it was from John; it said something about coming back to talk to me later. But when I looked more closely I saw it was from Mac McFadden. He had been here around noon when I was gone, and would come back later that evening. This gave me a little glimmer of hope that maybe our future was not so bleak as John had imagined. Faithful to his promise, Mac returned later that evening in his red Ford pickup truck and said casually, "Long time no see!" This guy was someone I had known since the Armitage camp battle of 1992, which had been my introduction to Eugene: the first homeless rights struggle here that Rick and I had jumped into with both feet, getting a lot of local media attention. As Mac talked to me in his calm, reassuring voice, I began to realize that someone really was looking out for our needs and we were not all alone on these miserable streets. This good man with the clear mind and the quiet rock-steady resolve had been working for us all along, ever since the Armitage days. He was also one who had not lost my trust or alienated me in any way, like some of the other HAC people had. And now he was reappearing in my life because he had heard John's voice loud and clear at that August 10 meeting and taken careful note of all he had said. John had told him the exact location where we were parked, and he took the trouble to come out here and visit us in person (of course, not knowing John wouldn't be here.) He had apparently been reading my writings all along, including my latest letter in the Register-Guard. Now I knew that John had done more good than he'd realized by going to that meeting and making his fears known. I also saw that he had been mistaken to underestimate Mac, just because he couldn't "troubleshoot" for 2,000 people at once. Mac told me that we were among the people at the top of his list to be moved into safe locations when they became available. This was partly because he had known me as a homeless activist for six years, and partly because John as my partner had risen his voice in such an urgent and justifiable cry of need--a case of the "squeaky wheels getting the grease"! The deadline was October 1st, and this was only mid-August. Mac assured me that my camper would be in a legal parking slot well before the deadline and that I wasn't likely to be hassled between now and then. But after he left I was again alone, and I had to take what he had said on pure faith: "This is not a crisis situation yet." I kept repeating those words in my head, like a mantra to calm my fear. I would also repeat them in my next letter to John if he didn't come back soon. (He had a post office box in town that he checked now and then.) During the next few days I tried to sort all of this out, to see how much the perceived "crisis situation" affected the dynamics of our relationship. So much of the stressful arguing we did was only because we were in such desperate straits--or imagined we were. If the factor of our "illegality" could be eliminated, how different would it be? If not for the threat of my being harassed while John was gone, it would have been a much simpler matter to accommodate his occasional need to split for the woods; whether my camper and I went with him or not wouldn't be such an urgent issue. We wouldn't need to use the woods as a residence just because we were "illegal" in town. (Of course, John always blurred the outlines between those two needs--for a residence and a place to escape to--because he really did think of the woods as his home; it was where he wanted to be anyway.) At the present time the situation in town seemed impossible to him, so that his only "solution" was to walk out. What if I could make him see that the picture was not so bleak as he had made it out to be? These questions kept going around and around in my head without getting any certain answers. But one thought was very clear: once I did get into a legal parking space, we would be able to sort out what was true and what was not true about us as a couple. A few days later John returned, but only briefly. I told him about the conversation with Mac, but his attitude was still: "I'll believe it when I see it." He was still doubtful that I would be safe here in the meantime. He also couldn't understand why I was dragging my feet about getting my driver's permit. He had gotten me a Department of Motor Vehicles manual to study, but I was plodding through it very slowly, a couple of pages a day. It was the most boring reading I could imagine; there were other things I preferred to read in the morning that were more soul-nourishing. I resented the idea that I was expected to drive my truck just because it was what my house happened to be sitting on. As time went by, however, it became more clear that I should go for the permit. However offensive the idea was to me, this was all about learning to "paddle my own canoe". It was a way I could be more in command of my own life and have a shot at being "equal" with John as he wanted me to be. (Click here for next page) |