At Solstice we often deal in abstract things: the arc of history, our visions of the future, mortality and morality. For a moment, though, I’d like to talk about something very concrete.
Tonight, when you leave here and go out into the darkness, who else will you see? As you make your way home, will you see all the people curled up in doorways? All the tents pitched under bridges?
You might not. Human brains train themselves to avoid things that are uncomfortable or hard to fix. More than that, our brains don’t notice ordinary things. And in this city, it’s very easy to get used to seeing people sleeping in the street.
Sometimes I make an effort to see those ordinary sights with fresh eyes.
I see someone staring into the middle distance, muttering at something I can’t see, and their eyes are wide, wide open in fear.
I see someone asking for change and I don’t have any so I look down to avoid their eyes and they don’t have shoes, their feet are bleeding.
I see someone lying over a grate, wrapped in cardboard, and I can’t tell if they’re breathing.
The original version of this speech was given in New York. When you hear it here in Berkeley, maybe a part of your mind will try to make it more tolerable. Solstice is the darkest day, you might think, but we don’t have winter here, not really. No one will freeze to death in the streets tonight. It’s not so bad.
At least sometimes, I try to quiet the part of my brain that makes such excuses. At least tonight, I’m trying my best. This secular solstice, and we don’t deal in comforting lies.
We acknowledge complexities, and I acknowledge that zoning policy is complicated, I acknowledge that giving someone keys to a tiny house doesn’t mean they won’t die of an overdose, I acknowledge that making the streets welcoming for unhealthy people often means making them frightening and unsafe, and yet, for this moment, I would like us to put those details aside. I would like us all to acknowledge the trivial observation that a person should have a better place to sleep than a stretch of concrete.
It is 2019. We are in one of the most prosperous places on the planet. And on your way home tonight, whether you see them or not, you will probably pass people curled up in doorways or tents pitched under bridges. We are the species that vanquished smallpox! How have we not beaten this?
This might make you feel a little hopeless.
It might seem like there’s this bottomless pit of unfairness, filled with desperate people and broken systems and no matter how long you work, how hard you try, that pit will always be there.
Well, If that is true, it is already so.
We already know the world is dark. We already know there is no moral arc of the universe bending towards justice. There are just people. Doing the best they can. And sometimes their best just isn’t good enough.
Our best might not be good enough.
This reality is difficult to bear. At least tonight, I’m trying my best not to excuse it. I want to see those ordinary, broken things. How can we repair the broken things of this world, if we don’t let ourselves see them?
Tonight, when we leave here and go out into the darkness, let’s keep our eyes open.
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