Photograph by Matthew Lickona

I have noticed how people look at the homeless with fear and disdain. So I make it a point to smile at them, and I can see the impact it makes.

I moved to San Diego from Los Angeles in 2010, and was immediately delighted to discover how clean and beautiful the city’s downtown was. Los Angelenos avoided Downtown LA, but in San Diego, Downtown felt like a place where I could hang out and still feel safe. I could walk the streets, eat in restaurants, and visit retail shops. And to my delight, it was free of homeless people. Jump ahead to 2024: Downtown San Diego has changed. It is no longer free of homeless people. But more importantly, I have changed. Many of those homeless people are now my friends, people with whom I chat regularly, people I am happy to see every day. It was liberating to learn that I had nothing to fear from a homeless encampment.

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Let me explain. In 2001, I became disabled by Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder characterized by frequent joint dislocations, resulting in chronic, intractable pain. As a result, I am forced to take public transportation to local libraries, where I run my online support groups. In my experience, public transportation and local libraries are mostly populated by the homeless. Over time, I have learned to enjoy their company, and these days, I find they provide me with quite a bit of humor, excitement, and entertainment.

One example: across from the Pacific Beach Library is a church that serves dinner to the homeless every Tuesday. One time, the librarians and the church decided to do a joint activity: country line dancing and dinner held outside the library. The line dancing was a bit of a bust, but I still had fun — except when someone from the church sent me away from the coffee, saying I had to wait my turn. Rebuffed, I decided to try to be sociable and sat down with a group of strangers. When I told my new friend Nick that I had gotten yelled at for trying to get a cup of coffee, he responded, “Wow, they need to put snipers on the roof of the library if he is gonna be like that! To protect the coffee!” He was funny. I felt better.

This summer, I was standing in line at the 12th and Imperial welfare/EBT office when someone shouted at me: “Hey, I know you from the Tuesday night dinners. I haven’t seen you in a while. You know, the only reason I was going back there was to see you. You are so cool; you make me feel really ‘not judged.’”  That’s how they were making me feel.

Among “mainstream” people, I am often insecure. I grew up a Chinese girl in the all-white suburb of West Hartford, Connecticut, and was bullied hard enough that I am often wracked with social anxiety. Dining with the homeless, I discovered I could be myself. I could share my style of humor and not worry about being judged. I laughed so much. I didn’t feel insecure at all.

I also discovered that I can make people’s day by smiling at them, and that it makes my day in return. I have noticed how people look at the homeless with fear and disdain. So I make it a point to smile at them, and I can see the impact it makes. How I look at them makes them feel valued and human. And they make me feel less alone.

* * *

One night, as I got off the 923 Downtown bus, loneliness flooded over me. Just a week earlier, the street had been lined with tents, tents that I had grown accustomed to wading through on my way home. They had really cleaned it up. It was so clean, so empty, that an emptiness churned up inside me. The street felt desolate and eerily quiet. I had gotten so used to the hustle and bustle: the people in the tents cooking, eating meals, playing music, chatting, connecting with each other. You got a real sense of brotherhood and bonding among the people there. (I get the same sense late at night at the City College trolley station. The energy feels almost like a college fraternity: friends gathering and having conversation in a sort of party atmosphere. I almost feel like it’s less lonely out here than inside my apartment.)

I remembered when the camping ban went into effect during the summer. They cleared this same street then, but a week later, everyone was back. When I got off the bus and saw them, I gave everyone a cheery welcome home. I had genuinely missed them.

One of the most intriguing places is the encampment at the Civic Center trolley station.  It is so nice, I hesitate to even call it an encampment — maybe “the Beverly Hills of encampments.” The first time I noticed it, there was an older Asian woman camped out there; her blankets were pristine. Then I noticed that everyone else was older as well, and had clean belongings. Whenever I’m there, it is serene and quiet. I don’t see any drug use or hear any mentally ill people screaming. It is so peculiar, I sometimes wonder if the more seasoned and/or troubled homeless people intentionally stay away from the area to give these seniors and newly homeless more peace and comfort. It warms my heart to think that homeless might be respectful of other homeless like that.

Other trolley stations (and bus stops) are less serene. One day, my bus pulled into the Old Town trolley station and an unhoused young dude had decided to camp out in the middle of the road — on exactly the spot where the 28 bus normally pulls in. He had all his suitcases and bags sprawled around him in a circle. He was using one of his suitcases as a pillow, and he was fast asleep. I found it hilarious.

Later that day, I was aboard another bus on Mira Mesa Boulevard, and at one of the stops, an unstable person decided to stand in front of the bus. He just stood in front of the bus, yelling and waving his arms at the driver. The driver patiently waited an entire 20 minutes until the dude tired of waving and moved on.

Another time, while waiting for the trolley at the 5th Avenue station outside the CVS, I looked through the store’s window and saw a guy attempting to shoplift a big container of instant ramen noodles. He was dressed in hugely baggy jeans with the belt positioned well below his  rear end. I watched him make three attempts to lift up his sweatshirt and insert the ramen noodles into the crotch area of his pants. The first two were failures, but on the third try he managed it, and the ramen disappeared into the bagginess. I figured the guy was homeless and that CVS could probably take the loss, so at first I didn’t say anything. But then I got bored waiting for the trolley and decided to tell security. The security guy confronted the shoplifter, saying, “Do you mind removing the item that you put in  your crotch area?” — with an emphasis on “crotch.” The look on his face!

Honestly, I was kind of surprised the security guard did anything. Since the stores no longer call the police for petty theft, Downtown has basically become a free-for -all. The 7-11 at the City College trolley station has a theft going down every five minutes. Not exaggerating. One time, a female clerk was in the process of getting me my mini tacos when she had to leave the counter to deal with a regular — a regular shoplifter. All day long, they are chasing people out of the store for either past or present shoplifting. It can be entertaining. It’s definitely better than the regular sight of a homeless person using his last dollars to purchase lottery tickets, hoping for a miracle.

My own Downtown miracle was pretty minor: I found a box of Wayfair items in the middle of the sidewalk. Judging from the address on the box, it had been stolen from someone’s front porch, but then abandoned. Inside, I found lingerie and several scent diffusers. No wonder whoever stole it did not want it anymore. But I did.

Sometimes, skid row can be better than shopping at Walmart or Target, because everything scattered around is free. I have come home with nice pairs of jeans, shirts, and jackets. Mostly, people just throw their clothes away, since they have no access to washers. But I don’t mind tossing stuff into a washer, so I have accumulated quite a wardrobe. And there is so much excess food lying around that most days, I don’t even need to buy lunch. One time, someone left a bag of AM/PM burgers and sandwiches on a bench — 12 of them in all. I could tell what happened: someone had lifted these items from AM/PM, gotten loaded and forgotten to eat. Those sandwiches lasted me almost a week. Other times, I find shoplifted items. You can always tell if it’s a shoplift because there will be multiples. One time, I found seven identical and expensive journals in a shopping cart. Another time, I found 10 identical brand-new T-shirts.

On the trolley last  week a pretty, college-age Hispanic girl was trying to drag a very nice queen size Serta mattress onto the trolley. I wondered if the trolley operator was going to say something, as they don’t even allow shopping carts on board. I’m not sure if it was too heavy for her or if it just did not fit through the door, but she abandoned her effort relatively quickly and just got on board and started crying. I wondered what her story was, but  was afraid to ask.

Later that night, I was at the Washington Street trolley station, and two guys started shooting up right in front of me. One of the guys grabbed a piece of cardboard to block my view of what they were doing. I said, “Hey, I don’t mind watching. I have a chronic pain problem, so I was on Fentanyl for years.” I’m a 50-something Chinese female; they were stunned to encounter someone who looked like me and was so cool and non-judgmental about their behavior. I know this because they told me. They even asked if they could have my phone number because of just how cool I was. My spirits soared when they said this to me.

I almost feel like it’s less lonely out here than inside my apartment.

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Now that I’ve mentioned it, let’s talk Fentanyl. A little background: I’m surrounded by chemically altered people daily. I’ve found drugs on the street, and I’ve seen drug deals go down — paper packets being traded for money. The other day, a dude got on the bus, slapped my book out of my hand and then just stood over me staring. Obviously loaded. I knew it was only a matter of time before he hit someone else. A black woman boarded the trolley, and he decided to hit her from behind. She immediately popped him one back.

Another time, there was a couple on the trolley vaping something. But they felt they needed to be clandestine about it, so they decided to do it underneath a baby blanket. First, the woman covered her head with the baby blanket and started puffing away. Her man watched as the vapor rose from the top of the blanket like smoke from a chimney. Then it was his turn. More vapor spilled out from the blanket. Five SDSU students were watching, and they thought it was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen. Each time one member of the couple started in underneath the baby blanket, the students started hooting and hollering and high-fiving each other. If the people had been doing it out in the open, it wouldn’t have been funny at all.

Fentanyl is different. I know because I was on Fentanyl for eight years for pain related to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.  The stuff is so potent I was given micro-doses of it in lollipop form. I guess it comes in pill form on the streets, and I now understand why FDA has approved it only for transdermal or mucosal delivery systems. People are overdosing and dying, and that’s terrible.

That said, watching it take effect is hilarious. It has a heavy muscle-relaxing sedating quality to it; once it hits, people are completely slumped over, their bodies are splayed out in the oddest positions, like Gumby. Their faces almost always wind up smooshed into the ground, and their bodies are as floppy as a newborn’s. Also like newborns, they are unable to sit up and can barely remain on their seats. Trolley enforcement employees are trained to awaken these people and scold them for sleeping — apparently, sleeping is no longer allowed on the trolley. When the Fentanyl users awaken, they often pretend that they were merely trying to tie their shoes. I’ve seen that “tying my shoes” pose from people who were somehow actually still standing up. I’ve seen it in the Mission Valley library — the guy was slumped over in front of a computer, and when the librarian came and woke him, he actually said he was just tying his shoe. The other night was a doozy.  It was raining and flooding, so flocks of homeless people were boarding the trolley. I got to watch no less than homeless people fall asleep tying their shoelaces all at the same time.

Watching Fentanyl users struggle to stay in their seats is better than watching Netflix. One of the funniest sights ever was when the 35 bus went through the Midway district I saw three big muscular dudes sitting on a bus bench in front of McDonald’s. All three were slumped over identically: the tops of their heads resting on the sidewalk, their arms splayed over their heads. It was hard not to laugh out loud.

Almost better than the collapsed people on the trolley are the faces of the people getting on the trolley when they see the collapsed people. One day, a dude got on the trolley and noticed the collapsed people, and I found his face and confused reaction amusing. But the joke ended up being on me; less than a minute later, I realized he was on Fentanyl himself — because he started falling over, too. Another time, while on my way to the library, I spotted a guy at 12th and Imperial trolley station who had fallen asleep over a public trash can while looking for goodies in the trash. The top of his head was literally inside the trash can, preventing him from tying his shoes. I honestly don’t know what is more epic: people falling asleep while trying to board a bus or while searching through a public trash can.

Perhaps you are wondering how I can find all this funny. But remember, I’m not judging, and I know first-hand what kind of high these people are getting. And besides, I checked with my source material. I once encountered a fentanyl couple on the trolley; the man was awake, and his girlfriend was passed out on his lap. Sort of. She kept falling off, over and over, because of the drugs. I asked him, “Do you think it’s funny that all these people are falling asleep tying their shoelaces?” When he started laughing along with me, I figured it was okay. I’m only focusing on the humor because I know how sad things can get.

One day, I was dining at the EBT Del Taco downtown. I hadn’t gone before, because I knew the main clientele there would be the severely mentally ill and drug users. The last time I ate at the EBT Burger King next door, I watched a homeless lady rearrange her shopping cart for 30 minutes while I ate my Whopper. Even sadder: I was there around Christmas time, and not only was their soda fountain roped off, so was their Christmas tree. I knew the reason: unfortunately, when the clientele are prone to episodes, things get destroyed. But it did make me chuckle that even a plain old Charlie Brown Christmas tree had to be protected, hidden away almost out of sight. Bah, humbug.

This time, as I noshed on my taco, I turned around and saw a guy slumped over, his head at his shoelaces, while standing in the middle of the restaurant. He had literally fallen asleep while trying to walk back to his table. He still had food in his hand. I was laughing until I noticed that his woman had a kid in a stroller. Not so funny once I see kids involved.

This summer at the Coronado Library, I overheard a librarian being extremely rude to a homeless patron who was asking him questions. I’m not sure what their backstory was, but obviously the librarian must have had issues with the man in the past. Happily, karma was quick to visit the situation, because 10 minutes later, a white-haired, elderly woman who had to be almost 80 approached the librarian’s desk, newspaper in hand. She started reading excerpts of an article about book banning to the librarian and she asked to see a particular book. “It says here that there is a graphic novel with same-sex teenagers engaging in inappropriate acts. One of the acts is oral copulation and the other is anal penetration.”  I wished I could see the expression on the librarian’s face.

The lady was dead serious about seeing the book. So the librarian got it for her, and she started flipping through it. Then she said, very loudly, “I’m looking at these pictures and it says here that there are provocative images of same-sex teenagers engaging in anal penetration and oral copulation. But these pictures I’m looking at look perfectly fine. What do I do to file a complaint and prevent this book from being banned?” The librarian told her she could fill out a form at the front desk. I was so thankful that this lady’s encounter was with the rude librarian and not anyone else.

Then there are the library workers who seem more skilled in human connection than most mental health workers. One day, a regular patron at the Linda Vista library started accusing me of having sex with her family members: “I know you had sex with my brother. And my father!”  She kept yelling at me about it. A few weeks later, I heard the library’s female security guard ask a her in the kindest voice, “So, how is your day going today? Oh, I see you’re talking to yourself a lot today, so maybe not so well today?” A look of clarity washed  over the woman’s face that I had never seen before. Then an even more beautiful expression emerged. She looked like she realized that someone cared about her and that she was finally seen. The security guard had normalized a very abnormal behavior and made it seem like no big deal.  I knew this was a teaching moment for everyone, including me. It has not  left my mind since it happened.

I got to have one of these moments myself over the summer. I was Downtown on Broadway, waiting for a bus. As I approached the bench, a homeless man — who was already sitting there and talking to himself — offered to move. I told him it was fine, he could stay, but I thought it was very considerate of him to offer. Then he said to me, “You seem like a very intelligent young woman.” I replied, “Well you seem like a very intelligent young man,” even though he looked to be close to 70.

As I said, he had been talking to himself, but as soon as I said that, he smiled and began to tell me about his life. How he was a military veteran and had three post-graduate degrees, but  mental illness resulted in him having to live on park benches. I believed from speaking to him that I was in fact talking to someone with a PhD, and I told him so. My bus took 30 minutes to arrive, so we had the most wonderful long chat. I was able to be myself and not worry about being judged. I love these moments. I could tell we were both enjoying each other’s company. Then he said, “Wow, you are the best thing that has happened to me in the last.... 20 minutes.” Great sense of humor too. Fascinating how human kindness can shift people away from mental illness, even for a moment. I think the mental illness that many of the homeless are suffering from is even worse than having to live on the street unhoused.  After I left, he went back to talking to himself.