It has only been a few days since I’ve arrived in Berkeley
to work on my friend’s documentary, Redemption,
but I sincerely feel as though I’ve made the right decision to come here. Not for any monetary reason (were it not for
the generosity of my hosts, I would barely make enough money to scrape by here)
but more fundamentally for the purpose of a good challenge, and a good story to
be discovered.
Redemption tells
the story of Oakland’s recyclers: members of an economic underclass who survive
by redeeming countless bottles, cans, bits of metal, and other goods at local
recycling facilities. In our case, the
facility in question is Alliance Metals.
If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you probably wouldn’t even
notice it if you drove by its location in Dogtown. Were it not for the ever-ubiquitous amounts
of stolen shopping carts rolling to its gates, it probably would never be noticed.
Amir noticed. He’s
the kind of guy who notices everything.
Every story, every person has something special to offer. And he doesn’t just say stuff like that, he
genuinely lives it. Yesterday, we
visited the recycling center for what was only my second time. By happenstance, we arrived just as Miss K, a
friend of Amir’s was finishing up her route for the day and trading in the
recyclables she had collected. Covered
in filth, and with the general air of poverty around her, most people would
brush off types like Miss K, but not Amir.
He gave her a big hug, and summarily introduced me to her.
He invited her to lunch, and we resolved to eat at a small
Korean restaurant on Telegraph Avenue (she is originally from Seoul). Miss K and I stepped out of the car a bit
earlier than Amir, who was fumbling around with his keys and wallet in the
car. As Miss K walked into the
restaurant and asked for a seat, the greeter told her she would have to
wait. Only moments later, as Amir and I
stepped in, we were immediately offered a seat that was clearly vacant.
The poor are invisible to us, because we do not want to see
them.
Is it fear that leads us to stick our noses up at people in
such a way? Is it shame? Or is it something else? Does Miss K have the air of a bum or a
drunkard about her, which leads us to refuse her service or our time?
When you get to know Miss K, she really is as personable as
anyone else. She makes small talk and
asks questions about you just like any stranger would. The only stark and obvious difference is her
extreme poverty. Miss K is old (nearing
60) but she has a certain resilience about her, a certain dignity, a certain
beauty. She is a sweetheart. She is diminutive, but strong. She has a cute smile.
But would you have seen her?
Regrettably, I must admit to myself that, were it not for
this experience, I wouldn’t have. I
would have passed her on the streets. I
would have never known anything about her story. It’s hard to hear every story, or to make
time for everyone, but perhaps even a smile and a “good morning” would have
meant something.
I’m beginning to notice things out here I never could have possibly
noticed had I stayed at home. As an
outsider to Oakland and Berkeley, I can’t say that I understand it yet, let
alone that I know how to fix it or even address it. This place is fraught with urban blight,
cycles of poverty and injustice, and countless other issues to be sure. Yet, at the same time, there is a wealth of
spirit and energy just waiting to be cultivated. Sometimes it hides, and other times it
emerges from the ether, in the form of Miss K’s contagious smile. I am beginning to sense this spirit. I hope to embrace it and define it, at least
a piece of it.
I am where I am meant to be, and I look forward to the new
adventure each day brings.
