Is it privilege or is it choice?

April 6, 2024

I live a bit over a mile east of downtown Portland. It is still “downtown” in my mind, it is definitely not the suburbs. But here, a bit removed from the downtown core, the elements of the pain and suffering of the unhoused who struggle with mental illness and addiction spill over on the streets in front of my building. There is a man who lives in a van behind the dumpster behind my building. There is a tent across the street from Safeway just four blocks west, and one I pass to the east as I round Weidler onto Broadway.

Weidler is much traveled. The noise of passing vehicles is constant throughout the day. There’s an intersection just below me, so I hear the idling of the engines of aging vehicles at the red light. I hear the groan and hiss of the buses applying and releasing their air brakes, and the steady beep of the hydraulic lift as it lowers to onboard travelers in wheelchairs.

There are firetrucks and ambulances and police cars with lights and sirens at all hours. The sirens are so varied in tones and rhythm I can never quite pinpoint which siren belongs to which vehicle without seeing them. And just now, as if on cue, an ambulance flies through the intersection. I watch as it disappears to the north, the lights going dark long before the sound of the siren fades to nothing. I say a prayer for whomever they are…