“You need to take your pack off before you come in here!” I freeze in the entrance to the minimart, halted abruptly in my determined pursuit of coffee, and turn to the lady at the register. It’s hardly an illegitimate rule; even if one weren’t worried about theft, it’s easy to imagine unwieldy packs knocking things off shelves, or people into them. However, this is the first time on this whole trip that I’ve been asked to ditch the pack. After a brief head-tilt to process the novelty of the moment, I conform and head for the caffeine.
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A man approaches me on the outskirts of Pueblo. His well-worn clothes look like they’re going into their third or fourth (or more) day of continuous usage. He hasn’t shaved for a while. “Hey man,” he asks, “are you homeless here in Pueblo?” I explain that I’m just walking through. “Sorry to bother you, just hoping to ask some questions.” He goes on his way.
Pueblo is the first place I’ve visited since St. Louis with a substantial homeless population. Indeed, proportionally speaking it might have the largest I’ve encountered on the trip, with parks and benches across town lined with people with over-laden carts and stacked bags. One article from December 2017 points the finger towards legalized marijuana as a cause of the uptick, but I’m skeptical; nonetheless, in the face of a surging population the city has responded with the formation of a commission to pursue long-term solutions.
I visit a coffee shop to grab a snack and do some writing. The woman at the counter attends to my order swiftly, but pauses when I indicate that I’ll be sitting down to eat, instead of taking my food to go. Does she seem relieved, or more accepting maybe, when she brings my food later and sees me with a laptop?
————-
I’m followed into my hotel by an older man, with a long, scraggly, gray beard and a Vietnam veteran hat. He joins me at the counter as I begin the check-in process. “How much do the rooms cost here?”, he asks me. I let him know that I’m not sure, since the online price is sometimes different from what you get in-person. The hotel clerk is eyeing us uneasily. “Are the two of you together?” We both say no and he laughs. He continues to ask me questions about the hotel; she does not jump in to answer.
“Man, I’m really hoping to get a room,” he says. “I could really use a rest. I sure hope to get one on the bottom, though. I’ve got a big ol’ cart with me, it’s so full of stuff.” The clerk hands me my key; I wish him well and head off to my room. Later on, I see a cart, half-unloaded, lodged under a staircase.
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I’ve wondered at different points on this trip how people see me. By and large, I think the prevailing assumption is that I’m traveling; most notice me in motion, headed somewhere with determination, and there’s something non-threatening in that. People are, perhaps, more eager to be generous and positively disposed towards an unknown when they know it’s temporary. I’m sure there are some who have assumed that I’m financially constrained–the man who bought me lunch in Ellinwood, KS, the man near Red Bud, IL who pointed out a $10 bill on the roadside from his car (did he drop it there?), the man in Aurora, IN who offered me work. In general, though, people have tended to regard me as a curiosity.
When I arrived in Pueblo, though, the context changed. In a place where a homeless community was more established and pronounced, both store proprietors and members of that community immediately identified me as another homeless person. To the businesses, I was a source of concern; to the homeless, I was a potential ally and a resource, someone who could be approached.
—————
Hours later, I walk through Pueblo again, freshly showered and disburdened. Without the pack, I am a different person. A couple of tourists chat with me on Pueblo’s riverwalk. I’m warmly welcomed into a restaurant for a late lunch. And not a single homeless person looks in my direction.
Some of our identities are indelibly etched within or upon us. Others are more transitory, weighing more or less heavily at different times. Today, though, I had an identity that could literally be donned or discarded, one that fundamentally changed the way that those around me engaged with me.
