It isn’t fair, the life of Pittsburgh’s unhoused. It isn’t humane.
We can do hard things, but we can also do easy things. We keep going to Smithfield Street after the shelter closes. We refuse to abandon the unhoused of our city. We set up tables and load hot food onto them. We fill a baby pool with ice and drinks. People line up; we count over two hundred. We turn speakers on and play music and people dance on the sidewalk and in the street and they are beautiful.
We try to make our voices heard. We beg those in charge not to close shelters, to figure out a plan for the heat and the bitter cold, to help them. We tell them that people will die. They turn away from us. They close their ears to our pleas.
They can’t hear us
We scream louder. But they can’t hear us with their hands over their ears. We beat our fists on their doors until they are bloody and broken. But they won’t open the door to us.
A girl stumbles to the closed shelter. Her baby is coming. But the doors are locked against her, and we aren’t there yet. The thermometer is touching 100 degrees. Her baby comes on the sidewalk, mixed in with trash, with the heat, with tears and sweat and pain and fear.
A week later, she is back on the streets without her baby. We don’t ask. We hand her a plate of food and a bottle of water and our hearts.
We play Bingo. The tables are crowded, and the people are silent, listening to numbers being called. They are surround by their possessions, garbage bags full of blankets and clothing, backpacks, pillows, sometimes bikes or scooters. When someone wins, a groan goes up. They shift through the prize basket, deciding between flashlights or stress balls or wallets.
There is a release, a putting aside of the worries that plague them. For one hour, they can just play Bingo. They can feel normal.
We earn their trust. We don’t take this lightly. We show up. We never promise. We try. We do our best.
We do headcounts. When we find we are a number off, we ask, where is X? When did you see them last? We start checking jails, hospitals, detox.
Sometimes we find them. Sometimes they appear a week later, with stories of a close call in a motel, a friend that let them stay on a couch before they got evicted themselves, a brother who finally called.
Sometimes we never see them again and we always wonder: are they alive? Are they safe? Did they make it out? Are they sober? Are they safe, are they safe, are they safe?
We fight and fight
We fight, and fight, and fight. We take deep breaths and spend hours calling and hope the answer will be different.
Every time it isn’t different, every time it’s the same answer, and we have to look people in the eye, people who are counting on us, people who are desperate and cold and hungry, people who have wounds and are sick and are scared, and we have to tell them we’re so sorry, there’s no beds, there’s no shelter, we don’t have any more blankets, we don’t have any tents, we can’t find a safe place for you.
We can’t help you. You have to make it through tonight as best you can. We know it’s 27 degrees. We know you will be colder than we can ever imagine. We know we will get into our cars with the heater on and go home to our homes that have heat and running water and food and lights and we won’t freeze. We know it isn’t fair. We know it isn’t humane.
We read an editorial about a woman whodied alone in her tent in the freezing snow. Our hearts shatter. We read that rats consumed her body, that she wasn’t found for days. We rage at the city leaders and the system and the number of bedsthat will never be enough.
Beautiful people will die
We say, over and over, we tried to tell them that people will die. We say her name: Kebrina. Kebrina mattered. Kebrina was loved. We will always say her name. We won’t forget.
We will hold every single one of you close in our heart. We will wake up and start again. We will never stop fighting for you. You matter, you are loved more than you know, you are warriors. You are beautiful. You are not broken beyond repair. We believe in you. You will never let us down. We are so proud to know you.
We will never, ever, ever, stop fighting.