I’ve led High Holy Days music as a cantorial soloist at five different synagogues, for most of the last 18 years. It’s rewarding work and I’ve loved doing it.
Long Covid has caused multiple side effects that I still live with today, including loss of vocal control and breath support. For that reason, I decided that I would take this year off from not just leading, but also from attending services. It would be too hard for me to sit in a pew and not lead, or even be able to sing. So I decided instead to plan a bike ride on Rosh Hashanah morning.
I set out to return to Skidmore Bluffs, then ran into the same challenge as last time when the network of neighborhood streets led me to the footpath crossing over the freeway again. I was tired and underslept, and decided instead to go downtown. I rode part of the way, then tossed my bike on MAX the rest of the way. In pre-Covid years, riding all the way into town would have been easy enough, and pleasant. Now, it’s a dicey proposition, both because of the changes in my health and because the number of homeless people camping out everywhere has spiked to epic numbers. I just didn’t feel like encountering blocked sidewalks and people openly consuming meth smoke from tin foil platforms.
I rode the MAX to Portland State, grabbed a tofu bento at Rice Junkies and enjoyed it at one of the outdoor tables on the Urban Plaza. Rice Junkies has been there since I was a student in the late 90s, and I’ve continued to be a customer, sometimes going downtown for the sole purpose of eating lunch there. It’s good, hot and tasty, and very satisfying.
After lunch, I decided to head back to the east side. I hopped on MAX and rode it the Rose Quarter, then hopped off and rode slowly home through inner Northeast Portland. It was getting warmer now — the high would be over 80F — and I took my time. Along the way, I saw many more tents, tarps and blocked sidewalks filled with people who had nowhere else to go. Most were wearing filthy clothes. Many moved unsteadily as they walked, either because of drugs and alcohol, or fatigue, or both. Some talked to themselves, a couple of men yelled at no one in particular. Many simply lay on dirty blankets in or next to tents. Looking a block ahead, if I saw that the bike path or sidewalk would be difficult to thread my way through I’d turn and choose a quieter side street. It took me quite awhile to get home this way.
I won’t say much about the homelessness issues in Portland. Homelessness is everywhere, in every city across our country. Portland’s response has been to create more low-bar-entry overnight shelters, meaning that one does not need to be sober or clean to get a bed for the night. Because they’re overnight shelters, the folks who stay there have to leave very early in the morning, and have nowhere to go except outside all day long. I don’t personally see this as a solution, but a very poor band-aid that props up the ongoing crisis and offers little or no hope for a meaningful solution. It took decades to create this problem, and many bad decisions by state and federal elected officials that eased the flow of illicit drugs into our country, reduced or eliminated mental health and drug treatment options for those in need, and eliminated funding and access to low-become, subsidized housing. What we have now is a perfect storm that is too large for any one city or state to solve.
Making matters worse in Portland — and this is just my opinion — is the sheer amount of grift involved in maintaining a status quo approach to dealing with homelessness that all but ensures a continuous flow of money to NGOs that help a handful of people while everyone else is stuck outside. Their job is to look like they’re doing something, without actually doing very much, so they can stay in business and their executive directors draw healthy salaries for doing a little rather than a lot.
I know that sounds terribly cynical. But between that and Oregon’s stupid decision to decriminalize certain hard drugs, the homeless population here has grown quickly. People have literally moved to Portland because it’s easier to be homeless here. They’re camping along the Springwater Corridor and Marine Drive, leaving garbage and spent syringes in their wake and threatening cyclists and pedestrians who want to use the paths for the purpose they were originally designed. And they’re not leaving. The camps are swept every few weeks, and the homeless people simply reappear on the other side of the road or a couple of miles farther along the path, and the cycle begins again. It’s a never-ending game of Whack-A-Mole. Meanwhile, nothing is accomplished because those who benefit politically or financially from the status quo are guilt-tripping anyone with a roof over their head into keeping quiet.
So forgive me if I struggle with the way that rampant homelessness has taken over the city, and limited where I can feel safe enough to ride my bike. I refuse to feel guilty for having a roof over my head. I worked my ass off for years to acquire and keep it, and I'm not living high on the hog by any means. I understand that there are many broken people in our city, and in the world, who have fallen into the hole of drug addiction and untreated mental illness. And living at the level I live at, I can’t really do much to help solve their problems. I give what I can where I can, but it is literally a drop in the ocean.
So in order to stay sane and functional on the face of my own diminishment, I ride my bike, I take walks, I nurture my relationships and rest when I need to. I’m sorry that there are fewer places in the city to ride without feeling nervous. But I’m tired, and I’m retired, and I would rather not feel nervous when I venture out. I ride where I can, and I’m learning how to live with all the changes around me. Some of them are unsolvable by me, and I don’t feel guilty about that. This is the world. This is life. I like to think that on any given day, most ordinary people are doing their best. Those who could do so much more with their greater means are too often not doing their best. This too, is the world, and has been since there have been haves and have-nots.
When I got home, I’d ridden for well over three hours, and I was really tired. I was glad I’d ridden, and just as glad to be able to lie down for a nap.
The year has turned from summer to fall, my soul has turned a little older, and I hope that this year I'll be a little more hopeful, more thoughtful and better able to navigate the gap between what I can’t and can do to make my corner of the world a little bit better than I found it.
(Illustration by Frank Patterson.)
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