Editor’s note: this op-ed is from Sarah Weaver, a resident of the homeless encampment on Airport Boulevard that was cleared this week. She wrote it the day before police were expected to enforce a removal order by the property owner.
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The anxiety and fear of tomorrow’s uncertain eminence is almost too much to bear. Hundreds of thoughts are racing through my head. If they come tomorrow at 8am, will I be ready?
Where will I go? What’s the most important thing to take? Will my dog, Booty, understand that we don’t have a home anymore? This is pretty much all she’s known since she was a baby. I’m worried about her most. Tomorrow night, where are we supposed to sleep? It’s been cold at night—real cold. Will I be able to grab my blankets in time? Will I be able to set up a tent somewhere? Will we have a soft bed, or will we sleep on the cold, hard ground? None of the shelters are available, and the resource list they give us is a sad joke. More thoughts come. I haven’t even taken a shower. I haven’t eaten dinner. Booty ate.
As the wind roars up, it’s almost like the fear blowing and racing into my mind. We—our community—have been here for almost two years. There’s about twenty of us; some have places to go, others have cars, a few like me have nothing. No family, no one to lean on, no one to really even ask for help. The wind blows even colder. I zip up my tent and put my hood on.
Booty cuddles into her blanket deeper. Why can’t we just be treated fairly, like anybody else who has been living somewhere for a long time? Other people, the “normal” people, get a chance to find a place to stay—to plan time to put their things in storage or get a moving truck. Thinking more thoughts, things that are important to take: Do I take just enough to put on my back, or do I struggle with my art supplies and my paintings? Where do I put my work that I’ve created?
Where do I put my paintings? Where do I put my guitar? How will I cook tomorrow? Should I bring pots and pans? Where will I wash my hands?
My back is so bad, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to have enough time to get everything done. I have to stop and rest, and I run out of breath just after a minute or two. It’s going to take me so long, and they say the police are coming and might arrest us. And they said they will destroy our things if we are not gone. Now, if I am arrested tomorrow for trespassing somewhere where I’ve been staying for two years, will my dog be okay? She is my best friend, and she makes me feel love unconditionally. She doesn’t look at me like some awful piece of trash that just deserves to be thrown away. Booty wants me around. I sit next to her and cuddle close to her. She licks my hand. I tell her she’s a good girl. She sighs and puts her head underneath the purple and pink flowered blanket that she loves so much. If anything happened to her, I don’t know what would happen to me. I don’t even know where we are going to go. For months, I’ve been fighting for our human rights, just to be able to be treated with respect again; it seems like a far-off place.
The wind blows even harder through the eucalyptus trees above. I can hear the small sticks hitting the top of the tarp that I have stretched over my tent for another layer of protection from the weather and cold. It crackles and roars as the wind blows underneath, picking it up almost completely off of us, then the wind slaps it back down. Tap, tap, rattatat. Small sticks and eucalyptus buttons rain on us from the giant trees above. Well, at least it’s not raining. And at least we’re warm right now.
I wanted to be clean and fresh for tomorrow. Even though I have nowhere to go, I have to go. I wanted to look clean just so the authorities won’t judge me. I wish I could put a suit on and look like the professional I am. People always judge people so harshly for how they look, no matter what they’ve done in their life.
