I love the maniacal crosspaths of life. Here’s one…
A few weeks ago, I went down to the tent city in St. Pete to interview its residents. The media wasn’t allowed in, but because the photographer, Coe Arthur Younger, has covered the plight of the homeless fairly extensively for several months, Coe and I were allowed in to talk to the residents. As we did, I noticed a St. Pete TImes photographer taking pictures from outside the tent city.
That was Friday.
On Sunday, my parents came to visit and my mom brought me a few pieces from the past few weeks’ coverage of Tent City in the Times. She said she thought I would like to read them.
Yesterday (I’m a horrible procrastinator and an even worse housekeeper. I like to tell myself it’s a sign of the creative mind) I went through the papers. I read a few articles and then came to the January 6 edition of the Times. On the front page of the Local and State section there was an article about Tent City. I looked at the picture and started to read, then stopped, looked at again, and noticed something odd.
In the dead center of the photo- which, in all objectivity, was not a well-composed shot- I sat, in my green Gabber shirt, chatting up one of the guys who lived in Tent City.
How funny. The Gabber reporter in the Times.
Even funnier? I just look like one homeless person talking to another.
Funnier yet? My mother- the woman who birthed me, raised me, taught me right from wrong, wiped my butt (although not for some time now)… she looked at the photo, read the article, and never noticed me. Her daughter. Spawn of her loins. Just another homeless person.
Just another example of how we see and don’t see.