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Abstract
Crossing the street from Durant onto Telegraph Avenue heading toward the Berkeley library, I almost missed seeing the man with the matted gray beard as he crouched, leaning diagonally against the gray wall of the bank on the corner. I had been thinking about my friend Vilma, because somehow what had happened to her said something to me about human rights. My memory, like my eyes, was snagged by the still form of the homeless man. There he was, like a rock around which the stream must eddy, and I mused once again about how we all cringe from or blank out the bodies who live on our streets. What was this “passing by” doing to our spirit, this rapid decision to notice or not notice the human beings whose purpose in being on a sidewalk at a given moment is not to get somewhere, like to the Berkeley library to do research on human rights, but to catch up on sleep in the sun, minimally protected by the wall from the still chilly wind of early April.
Published Version
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