The Streets of Durango

This is an essay I had to write for my English class.  It was about a place we had visited or knew that had an impact on our life.

The Streets of Durango

The Four Corners region of the United States borders on four states: Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. I lived in Durango, Colorado, a short drive from the spot to stand in all four states at the same time. It’s a tourist type town – the dude ranches to camp, fish and ride horses; the train ride from Durango to Silverton, up through the towering mountains with sharp cliffs that would send a wandering car to its doom; the shops that sell Turquoise and Silver jewelry and pottery made by the Indians in neighboring reservations; and, the expensive, yet elegant, hotels on every street corner.

But what the tourists overlook, wandering through town looking for the next treasure, are the groups of homeless searching garbage cans for breakfast that day, trying to find a safe place to sleep that night, asking for coins to purchase a hot cup of coffee to fend off the cold winds and snow that will surely come and blanket the streets from October until May. They hide from the light of day to protect what little bit of anonymity they have left in their lives. Or maybe it’s to keep from feeling the shame of the onlookers as they are unable to change into clean clothes or take a bath to wipe away the stench of living on the streets every day.

I understand how they feel as I was one of them for about three weeks in September 1993. My trip to Durango began as a move to a new life for my husband and I, but turned out to be more of a learning experience for me instead. I didn’t expect this to happen, but as events unfolded in my life and another round of fighting and separation from my family took place, I turned to the people I met in the streets for comfort and friendship.

“Hobo Joe” was the first person I came across. He got that nickname from hopping trains to get from one place to another and bedding down with other vagabonds in the trees around the campfires. He was dressed in torn overalls, a red plaid shirt, dirty long johns to keep him warm at night, and a tattered coat he found in the trash behind an abandoned house one night. His hair was long, held in the back by an old bandana, and he had a long, white beard, reminding me of Santa Claus. His face was wrinkled, chapped from the winds that blew, but his smile was bright as the sun, and his large belly shook with every hearty laugh.

Joe had been homeless for many years, but it was by his choice. He lost his wife and son in a car accident about twenty-five years prior to meeting me and was never able to cope with living in the “real world,” as he told it. They were his life and after tragically losing both in an instant of time, he gave up all his worldly possessions and began life as Hobo Joe.

I was sitting in the park by the river, feeding the geese when we first met. He asked me my name and if I had some spare change for a cup of coffee. He had just come down the hill from the cemetery where many of the homeless slept and needed something to keep him warm. So we walked to McDonald’s, ordered two large cups of black coffee, and sat down to talk. He told me his story and asked me mine. We spoke for a long time and finally he offered to take me back and introduce me to the other people who called the streets of Durango their home.

I learned something about the homeless that day: they aren’t just drunks or drug addicts that are down on their luck, but they are families and veterans of wars and real people that no one wants to care about anymore. They have nowhere to go and no one to talk to. This is their family now: the young girl and her child that left the abusive relationship; the husband and wife burned out of their house; Sargent Jones, a veteran of Viet Nam, who still doesn’t know how to cope with life after all these years; and, Hobo Joe and me.

What a group of lost souls we were, but as we huddled together to keep the cold winds away and one stayed awake to watch the rest sleep and maybe dream of a better day, I realized they were just like me – a human being, capable of caring and having a normal life – but at a crossroads unsure of which way to turn.

As the sun set that day, the streets of Durango were calling our names and welcoming us, my group of friends, my new family, my brothers and sisters.

I wrote several stories and poems about this experience and this is one of them. Hope you enjoy it.

BROTHERS AND SISTERS

She once was a mother, had a family of her own
But they left her with nothing, sad and alone
He once was a carpenter, strong, brave and true
Now he’s begging for money for a sandwich or two

They’re my brothers and my sisters
That live on the street
My brothers and my sisters 

These ones that I meet
They’re living in boxes
And eat what you don’t
Cause nobody loves them
And nobody won’t

Why are they like this with no where else to turn
When the fire inside them is still willing to burn
Can’t you see they’re people — just like you and me
But there is one difference — they’re prisoners and we’re free

 
They’re my brothers and my sisters
That live on the street
My brothers and my sisters 

These ones that I meet
They’re living in boxes
And eat what you don’t
Cause nobody loves them
And nobody won’t

The next time you're traveling down along the street

And my brothers and my sisters you happen to meet

Tell them you'll remember, tell them that you care

Tell them that you love them and that you'll always be there

They're your brothers and your sisters

That live on the street

Your brothers and your sisters

These ones that you meet

They're living in boxes

And eat what you don't

Cause nobody loves them

And nobody won't

Oh they're my brothers and my sisters

That live on the street

My brothers and my sisters

These ones that I meet

They're living in boxes

And eat what you don't

Cause nobody loves them

And nobody won't