When I lived in Seattle, I rented in an older building with a view of a freeway overpass. All day and night cars would whoosh over it, heading to work and back home again. Sometimes the cars would line up, honking horns and shouting obscenities.
However, it was what was underneath that really caught my attention. A squatters camp had taken hold. Wedging themselves into nooks and crannies, about 30 men and the occasional woman called that overpass home.
Tent structures and elaborate cardboard homes with old sheets and plastic scraps for insulation dotted the edges of the chain link fence that surrounded it. I walked by on my way to work daily. I was never harassed, not even once. Sometimes I’d see young women walking in between the paper shacks, handing out lunches to the men who lived there. They were sometimes offered handshakes by the men, but I never saw any of these women looking uncomfortable.
Of course there was drug use. Late at night you could see lighter flames sparking up and being held to glass pipes. Occasionally a fight would break out and someone would storm off on a huff. Still, for the most part this didn’t impact my life as a resident in the slightest. They hung out in their world, I hung out in mine.
Yet I do remember one night in particular that woke me up from a dead sleep at 2am. It was the police, shining their spotlights and using their PA, demanding the men leave. It was a cold night, and the men, most of them similarly woken up, were both groggy and slow. This, of course, seemed to warrant derision from the Seattle PD. “Get moving” they squawked, “come on, get!”. As if they were talking to a pack of stray dogs. They shoved and wrenched the high and despondent from their sitting positions, threatening them and pushing them out on their way.
I wanted to yell out my window, “and just where the fuck would you like them to go?”. But I knew it was futile. The men eventually faded out into the blackness surrounding the police lights. Then, the trucks pulled in.
One by one they destroyed the homes and shoveled these men’s personal belongings into dump trucks. A blanket here, a mini-stove there. Possessions were picked through and laughed about. The policemen went home to their families and I eventually fell back into a fitful sleep. The next morning the sidewalks around the overpass were practically sparkling as I walked by. The callus inhumanity of the nights events hosed away by some 20 something in an orange jumper.
It always happens at night though. While most of the city is fast asleep and well out of range.
When witnesses to cruelty and violence are thin on the ground. When the oppressive nature of darkness adds just enough fear to keep your manners in check. People can disappear in the dark, you know. It can muffle your cries. So get in line and do as your told, because they’ve been given permission. It’s given in the form of teargas and rubber bullets, easily defensible and mercilessly deployed. Daytime is for civility. But remember to watch for those flashing lights after the sun goes down. Because they have not come for your protection.
However, it was what was underneath that really caught my attention. A squatters camp had taken hold. Wedging themselves into nooks and crannies, about 30 men and the occasional woman called that overpass home.
Tent structures and elaborate cardboard homes with old sheets and plastic scraps for insulation dotted the edges of the chain link fence that surrounded it. I walked by on my way to work daily. I was never harassed, not even once. Sometimes I’d see young women walking in between the paper shacks, handing out lunches to the men who lived there. They were sometimes offered handshakes by the men, but I never saw any of these women looking uncomfortable.
Of course there was drug use. Late at night you could see lighter flames sparking up and being held to glass pipes. Occasionally a fight would break out and someone would storm off on a huff. Still, for the most part this didn’t impact my life as a resident in the slightest. They hung out in their world, I hung out in mine.
Yet I do remember one night in particular that woke me up from a dead sleep at 2am. It was the police, shining their spotlights and using their PA, demanding the men leave. It was a cold night, and the men, most of them similarly woken up, were both groggy and slow. This, of course, seemed to warrant derision from the Seattle PD. “Get moving” they squawked, “come on, get!”. As if they were talking to a pack of stray dogs. They shoved and wrenched the high and despondent from their sitting positions, threatening them and pushing them out on their way.
I wanted to yell out my window, “and just where the fuck would you like them to go?”. But I knew it was futile. The men eventually faded out into the blackness surrounding the police lights. Then, the trucks pulled in.
One by one they destroyed the homes and shoveled these men’s personal belongings into dump trucks. A blanket here, a mini-stove there. Possessions were picked through and laughed about. The policemen went home to their families and I eventually fell back into a fitful sleep. The next morning the sidewalks around the overpass were practically sparkling as I walked by. The callus inhumanity of the nights events hosed away by some 20 something in an orange jumper.
It always happens at night though. While most of the city is fast asleep and well out of range.
When witnesses to cruelty and violence are thin on the ground. When the oppressive nature of darkness adds just enough fear to keep your manners in check. People can disappear in the dark, you know. It can muffle your cries. So get in line and do as your told, because they’ve been given permission. It’s given in the form of teargas and rubber bullets, easily defensible and mercilessly deployed. Daytime is for civility. But remember to watch for those flashing lights after the sun goes down. Because they have not come for your protection.
