In October of 2023, my husband and I went to a concert in downtown Los Angeles. Whenever we go to concerts in the city, we always try to take the bus or train. This helps us avoid having to deal with the trouble of expensive parking, and it’s also just better to walk around. There are a few venues that are more difficult to get to by bus (looking at you, Kia Forum/SoFi Stadium), so while there are some exceptions, we do pretty well. I love not having to drive, and I enjoy not having to worry about my car being stolen or broken into.
It goes without saying that the public transportation in the United States is severely lacking. Even in places with a reliable system, like New York City or San Francisco, commuters still endure mechanical problems, delays in the train schedule, overall cleanliness, and uncertain safety. By some miracle, the rest of the world has figured it out and created reliable and clean public transportation, understanding that this is a necessity of life and that not everyone can afford a car. When I was living in Taiwan I never wanted for a car, and the MRT train stations were some of the cleanest, brightest, and most welcoming places in the city. These were especially handy when you needed a clean restroom. Also, high speed rail, anyone?
On this night in October, we decided to take the train downtown. It’s a relatively quick ride, and there was a stop conveniently in front of the venue. We went in and had our fun, although the concert could have been better.
That’s a different story for when I’m ready to name names and take on the trolling.
It was a little after 11:00pm when we got on the train to head back home. We were still discussing the concert, and the train was about halfway full. The passengers varied from people travelling home from work for the day, to partygoers, and as usual, some homeless people.
People who live on the street. Houseless? Those who are experiencing homelessness?
I don’t know what the correct term is to be used here, but houseless doesn’t sound any better than homeless. It sounds like a feeble attempt to humanize people who should have never been dehumanized in the first place.
Maybe if people stop turning words into slurs, we’ll be able to communicate more effectively.
When you think about homeless people in L.A., there are a few images that probably come to mind. A dirty, smelly, person sitting or wandering the streets, asking for spare change. This image is true, but there are other sides to the story as well.
There is a spectrum of homelessness. Some people want to be homeless, and live in shelters or tents to save money while they work full-time jobs. Others are just experiencing a bad moment in their lives, and are working hard to escape it – they usually do.
Then there’s people who are experiencing severe mental health issues, and those with serious drug addiction. These are the ones that politicians often invoke with inflammatory and binary language. The sad truth about these last two groups is that they almost always overlap, as seen in Mark Laita’s “Soft White Underbelly” YouTube channel. If you haven’t watched it, I only recommend it if you’re searching for additional context as to why the homelessness crisis is as bad as it is.
Spoiler alert: much of it has to do with education, childhood trauma, and environment. Many of the people he interviews often describe an upbringing of neglect, abuse, and zero support systems from family or friends. Mark Laita isn’t the best of interviewers, but he does give them a space to tell their story and appeal for help. It also emphasizes the fact that there is no singular solution for “the homelessness crisis”.
The train home that October night bore some homeless people, but as usual, they were reserved and kept to themselves. Some had bicycles loaded with their belongings, others just had heavy backpacks. The “not-visibly-homeless” passengers just looked like people without a car, like students, and one man with a gray beard who had a professor-like vibe, with a crisp button-up and slacks, carrying a clean and sporty backpack.
We were nearing the penultimate stop before our destination when the train slowed to a crawl. Some – the regular commuters – looked up in confusion. A female voice began to speak overhead, announcing that she could go no further. Someone was on the tracks, and the passengers needed to exit the train and wait for the next one.
She repeated this a few times, and finally, the train stopped. People were angry – it was late on a Friday night, and everyone was tired. Everyone wanted to go home.
But all I could consider was, “What does it mean that someone is on the tracks?”
We exited the train with everyone else, and saw that people had walked up the platform to the front of the train to investigate. The driver had gathered her things, including a lunchbox and jacket, and was walking against the curious crowd. She was passing by train cars, telling the stragglers to exit.
I stopped and watched the crowd, unable to see who was on the tracks. I wondered if someone had made a suicide attempt. I looked at my husband, preparing to protest if he tried to pull me away, only to find him watching me and waiting. I could hear voices from my upbringing telling me to turn away, do not investigate, do not watch. It’s not safe. Find another way home.
I decided I wasn’t going to do that, and turned to follow the crowd. Thankfully my husband had the same thought, and kept in step beside me. The crowd of mostly men had stopped just shy of the driver’s cabin, and people were shouting. Some people had their phones out, recording, and someone even was using a tablet to record the scene. I didn’t feel a need to record or take photos, but I get it.
As we got closer, I saw a bloody arm flailing against the edge of the platform. An emaciated man was struggling to climb the platform and shuffling back and forth along the tracks. Someone kept shouting for him to grab their hand, or instructions on where to step. I couldn’t help but wonder if no one wanted to touch him.
When he finally came into view, a few men had reached down and grabbed his arms. They pulled him bodily onto the platform, where he promptly fell to his knees. He was covered in blood and black grime, and his hands fell to the ground uselessly. He kept saying, with desperate sincerity “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
By covered in blood, I mean that he was literally painted red with it. I couldn’t see his face, and his clothes were drenched. He didn’t seem to care or notice.
The men who helped him turned away, calling for hand sanitizer. The professor I’d seen earlier was one of them, and he was asking anyone for some water. A tall man on my right magically produced a bottle, which the professor took to the bloodied man. Water bottle man immediately brought out some antibacterial hand gel, and began dispersing it into the outstretched hands. They were still rubbing their hands together as they returned to the train, ready to go home. Some were even calling for the driver, who was nowhere to be seen.
The bloodied man was still on his knees, repeating, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t help but focus on the reactions of the people around me. They all varied so extremely, from disgust, to pity, to sadness, and some were even laughing. But the one I remember the most was a man who was standing nearby, who had watched the injured man with a stoic expression of rage and pain.
“That’s not you – that’s that SHIT you’re on. That’s not you.”
After this agonizing declaration, he turned away from the scene, and entered the train. I suddenly wanted to know everything him. What caused the look of recognition? What about the pain, or anger in his voice? Surely, I could speculate, but that would dishonor the truth of his story. A story I will never learn.
I still think about him sometimes.
We lingered, watching the bloodied man, who hadn’t noticed the water or the people around him. Even though he was on splayed knees, he was struggling to stay upright. He fell forward, taking an uncanny pose, his arms stretched out in front of him, palms facing up. It looked like he was prostrated in prayer.
We didn’t have long to watch. The driver, with steel professionalism, had reappeared. She returned to her place in the driver’s seat, so we quickly returned to the train. I couldn’t help staring out the window, wondering what the fate of the bloodied man would be.
His torso bobbed and swayed, as if he was trying to stay awake. He was mumbling something, but we couldn’t hear. Eventually, the train began to move, and we barely caught a glimpse of him as his face fell into his arms, still prostrated on the ground.
“You know what the fucked up thing is? After this he probably going to go smoke that shit again,” a voice burst from the back of the cabin. The people around him laughed, but there wasn’t any joy in it. They continued in soft murmurs and I tried to eavesdrop, suddenly realizing the new connection that had formed between all of us who had witnessed something so shocking together.
Then, my husband began speaking. He started to tell me about a story he had read with similar themes, but it was hard to pay attention. I realized in that moment he was trying to provide a distraction, certain that the event had upset me. In fact, I had wanted to stay in the moment for as long as possible, to understand what had really happened, how I was reacting to it, and why I wasn’t throwing up about it. When I told him this later, he said I should have shut him up, but who am I to rob him of such a considerate act?
I didn’t feel upset, just thoughtful. I had so many questions. Had the man tried to kill himself? Did he deserve to fail? Everyone was so mad at him, but there was still a form of compassion – people had worked together to pull him off the tracks. Sure, they probably just wanted to get home, but somehow this awful moment also became a moment of solidarity and cooperation. Everyone knew what to do, and they were somehow prepared. Bottle of water, antibacterial and all.
Had we just witnessed a tragedy, or victorious human unity? Strangers, who for a small moment in time, shared the same objective?
The answer is yes to all the above. I find it abhorrent that our society has resorted to “this-or-that” thinking. I don’t think that this event was truly bad, but it wasn’t good, either. It was just a moment in life that we all experienced together.
I don’t know what happened to the bloodied man on the platform.
I try not to wonder about what I could’ve done to help him. Like most things in this world, it would just be a reminder of how little is within my control. That I am helpless in the face of this man’s circumstances and choices. His life had nothing to do with me, and it’s entirely likely that my “helping” him could have made things worse.
At our next and final stop, we ran into some police officers. I told them what we saw, and they replied that they already knew and were on their way, and that an ambulance had been called.
I remember the events of that night so clearly, even all these months later. Even though I’ve written about it, there’s much about those moments that I feel incapable of expressing. It’s easy to say it was “traumatizing”, or that it was “sad”, or use the moment to strengthen some argument.
No, I don’t think that’s what the moment is for. Sometimes things happen, and they don’t need to be good or bad. They’re just points in time where the choices and circumstances of a group of people lead them to share that same moment, only to never be assembled in the same place again for the rest of eternity.
That we know of, anyway.