ightwatch
OPERATION
May-June, 2010
Newsletter
Newsletter
REFLECTIONS FROM OUR WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE
[In previous issues, we’ve written about our art workshops, led by artists Carmen Vetter and Meg Kascyk. Now we also have a writer-in-residence. She is Sarah Preslar, from El Paso, TX, and a student at PSU. Sarah will be assisting with various writing projects at Nightwatch. Here are her reflections about an evening’s volunteering:]
The night must have been winding down because tables and chairs were moved, trash collected, and coffee cups cleared away. A girl passed me, sweeping. Seeing her nametag, I was reminded she was a volunteer, that I was a volunteer, and surely I should be holding a broom.
There is an assumption that if you are smart, easy to talk to, and generally a good person, the world will have a place for you. I believed this to be true up until some point between debating music and discussing historical fiction with guests at Operation Nightwatch. It turns out you can be a skilled, charming intellectual and still be homeless.
I expected the night to be gratifying in the sense that I was doing something useful, but not necessarily to have a great time. Thankfully, my pretentious delusions were shred by the wit and kindness of the people I was “there to help.” They were students, artists, and parents, full of laughs and stories, and homeless due to poor choice or streak of bad luck.
I spoke with one man for a particularly long time. He warned me, “…you’re going to have to figure out what to do, you know, after your writing class is over.”
In his words, I heard that I am no different from him. He too was once young and naïve, and he never thought he would end up on the streets.
I expected the night to be gratifying in the sense that I was doing something useful, but not necessarily to have a great time. Thankfully, my pretentious delusions were shred by the wit and kindness of the people I was “there to help.” They were students, artists, and parents, full of laughs and stories, and homeless due to poor choice or streak of bad luck.
I spoke with one man for a particularly long time. He warned me, “…you’re going to have to figure out what to do, you know, after your writing class is over.”
In his words, I heard that I am no different from him. He too was once young and naïve, and he never thought he would end up on the streets.
He walked past me as I was mopping, but something had changed. I waved and tried silently to let him know I was for real—that he mattered to me, and I wasn’t just a volunteer friend. Perhaps he understood. It was hard to discern... it was hard to find his gaze, and hard to say who was more ashamed of being divided by a nametag.
