A TRUCK FOR MARIANNE Talking with Marianne at the Homeless Conference: There’s even bad ice cream, she says. She says, there’s good people and there’s bad. Doesn’t matter, homeless or not. There’s some good and some bad, no matter what. I know that to be true, she says. And she dips and she eats her cereal, deliberately soggy in the bowl, made mushy by practiced and patient waiting. Accommodating her nearly toothless state. She had the time to talk with me. She had no rush. What she had was drive. What she had was a pickup truck the church let her park in the back. They put a portable toilet out there, too, she says. She goes to school now, on academic scholarship, 3.4, she says. A graduate already, a holder of the AA, she now pursues the BS, the LSW. I like helping people out, she says. A hand up, not a hand out. Her hair is long, shiny gray. Southwestern beaded earrings dangle. A smile beneath Santa Claus merry cheeks and blue eyes shining. I could see the little girl deep imbedded, past and present. The little girl who grew to be what daddy wanted, a truck driver, able to take care of herself, no matter what. Set for life, he says. My girl is set for life. You learn how to drive a rig, you’re set. Look Daddy, I’m driving here! And she hauled her rig on the big roads and moved on up to a four story ore shovel, creeping into the pit, chewing up hundreds of thousands of tons of ore, creeping slowly out of the pit, slow, so slow. It’s electric, you see, she says, recalling the days of mountains moved. And in between, Look at me, Daddy and taking the ore from the pits, in between the driving days and today, came the good and the bad. Daddy got sick and her back got broke and she found herself detoured and living in the pickup, not noticing she was homeless until the cop named it. Good cops, bad cops, just like everybody else, she says. Homeless. Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. But somebody reached out a hand and she took it. And once she stood, she got back behind the wheel and redirected her route. First time student, gray hair and all, homework with a flashlight on the dash. 3.4 gpa, she says. Scholarship, she beams. I like helping people out, she says, sighting on that center line, Licensed Social Worker marked out on the map, with a circle in red. Helping people out already, as she smiles and takes my hand. Look Daddy, I’m still driving here! Roll on, Miss Marianne, Roll on.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Sep 2013 13:39:09 +0000
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