Perspective

         Today I experienced Berkeley. I don’t mean the experience you get from taking 17 units, paying tens of thousands of dollars every year, watching people bite each other’s heads off for that number 1 grade. I’m talking about the people that live on the streets that I walk to and from school everyday without even looking them in the eyes. The people that remember to wish one dramatic, single girl a Happy Valentine’s day. The ones that notice when I just get my eyebrows done. The people that watch others live life while they sit on the sidewalks with all their belongings in one bag the same size as the suitcase I take to go home for Thanksgiving break.The people that are kicked to the curb, the people that are told “no” more times in their life than they’ve been told “yes,” the minority that is ruled by the majority. 

It was approaching 12:30 a.m. on the dark, quiet street as I walked home with a friend engulfed in an enlightening conversation on Armenian politics, when a homeless man walks up to us and asks my friend if he is American. From watching the news and reading countless news articles, this question always produces some sort of anxiety in me. As I awaited the racist remark this “crazy” man was getting to say, I was taken aback by his knowledge of the Armenian people. He knows about our genocide, our people, our Diaspora. He is more educated than half the population at this supposed #1 public university. Had I closed my eyes, this man had the voice of a speaker, a presenter and yes, he said some INSANE things but under his 3-month beard, dirt, torn and ragged cloak, and ripped beanie, was a human —  a human that is generally ignored on the streets no matter where we are... LA, SF, or Berkeley. 

This unnamed man knows injustice. He knew more about the Armenian cause than many “educated” people I know, he knew more about the Holocaust than more people are willing to even talk about, he was a part of that injustice. He explained to me how his mother warned him he’d one day end up in a concentration camp and this man as a kid always imagined a concentration camp as a shaved head, uniform, and fences around him. But according to this man who stood for 30 minutes in the pouring rain telling us about his life while water rolled down the brim of my nose and I felt my toes numbing inside of my boots, he lives in a concentration camp… now. He lives in an open concentration camp called homelessness. He has no choice to be here and spends his days cleaning the streets and gardening for no income, just humiliation. 

To be honest, I was uncomfortable listening to this man. I was antsy and just slightly nervous the entire time. But one thing I’ve come to learn in developing my true passions is that discomfort isn’t necessarily a bad thing. To know the truth, one must feel uncomfortable. My bubble filled with biology, classes, an apartment, friends, & family sometimes doesn’t allow me to feel that uneasiness necessary to really see the world. And now that I think about it, I just heard one man’s story and I just pray for those that never get heard. A little Friday night adventure that reminded me why I love Thanksgiving so much because today I experienced Berkeley.