To Elizabeth

I used to run into Elizabeth by the train. She lived on the riverbank in a tent surrounded by geese, made little paintings, had a soft and kindly voice. She fell on hard times, then fell finally. I hadn’t seen her for awhile, though the little tarpulin house with her colorful decorations was still there. The transit worker said they found her down by the water, cause of death unknown.

But the term ‘fallen on hard times’? It seems to imply an accident of Fate. What it hides is the cold fact that once outside of the circles of the everyday economy—that is, money, wage slavery, housing, the economy of friends and neighbors—it is almost impossible to reenter them. Especially if you are older, especially if you are Black. So perhaps it is better to ask the angels to do what humankind could do but have chosen not to. No one was ever born alone and no one ever died alone. The absolute freedom of someone living and dying on the streets is equalled in measure by the absolute freedom of those who put them there and by the closed operating system which writes destiny. Someone left a little plastic cross and a novena candle when Elizabeth’s tent and belongings were finally cleared away.

Note: The round ornament I hold in the video was made by Elizabeth. The fine people working at the CTA gave her shelter and let her sell them last Christmas. As part of the deal, she would write your name in glitter on these objects.