Once upon a time, in a strange little town in California, I served as a “street outreach liaison” working with homeless youth in parks, under bridges, across the railroad tracks, and everywhere in between. This is a true story of one of those experiences.
. . .
It’s summer, and the Park is bright and hot. The city outside is abuzz with the excitement of sunshine, its residents walking advertisements for the season’s ephemeral fashions.
Lili and I sit with several park regulars on a low stone wall below the Park’s western hillside, watching shadows slowly creep along the grass. Here among the houseless folks and local outsiders, the mood is low and heavy. Summer fashions in our crowd range from dark sweaters to thick burlap pants—necessities for hard travel and cold nights. One man wears striped pants in shades of brown dirt that I’m certain were once black and white.
Nobody moves. Our companions hardly speak. Some look exhausted. To passersby we must seem like dark mounds of stone with watchful eyes. With little food and too much heat, energy conservation is the name of the game—but at such times it’s easy for depression and boredom to take over. Prudent rest becomes stagnation.
The trees above us cast shadows that inch along the wall with the angle of the sunlight, and every few minutes we all shift position to stay in the shadows’ cooling cover. We are a temporary tribe of micro-nomads, chasing the shade’s gradual arc across the lawn.
But Lili and I did not come here simply to sit in silence. After some time, we work with one of the men to get a game of hacky sack started. The idea of physical activity is unappealing to the group, but eventually our persistence pays off. A young man named Derrick peels off his jacket and comes over to stand beside us.
With a little circle of four we begin to play, kicking a small cloth sack filled with seeds back and forth between us. At first our movements are stiff and awkward, and we play in silence. Soon, though, we begin to loosen up. Joined in collective purpose, we lock into hacky sack’s cooperative goal of achieving “hacks”—a feat accomplished when each person touches the sack without letting it fall to the ground. Hands are not allowed, and the task is challenging yet reachable.
What’s better than one hack? Two hacks. Before we know it we’re actually having fun. The communal tension as each person lunges and flails in an effort to “keep the hack alive” becomes thrilling. We groan our disappointment when the sack falls to earth, and bellow in triumph when we succeed.
One by one others join our game, and the energy grows. Now we are laughing and making jokes, diving to reach the hacky sack; sweating, shouting, smiling.
Then Dusty joins us. Dusty is a young man with big wide eyes and a shaggy scraggle of sandy hair. He is well-liked by most who frequent the Park, but rarely interacts (at least while we are around). Most often he sits in silence, head down, eyes drifting away outward and inward, alert but detached. Accepted; an outsider among outsiders.
Dusty stands in the circle, stone-faced, and pokes weakly with his boot as the sack sails past. Slowly, and… slowly he becomes more and more engaged. His moves become bolder, more effective. The hacky sack flies over Dusty’s shoulder; he grunts and spins, swinging desperately to finish the hack. Success! Dusty runs to fetch the sack, wiping fresh beads of sweat from the crease of his forehead.
We play on as the afternoon grows hotter, our precious repose in the tiptoeing shadows well forgotten. Eventually Dusty is dancing, making wild leaps and athletic stretches, his movement totally transformed. He grins, laughs, and makes small comments, where before he was stoic and silent. He makes warm eye contact, where before he had seemed to look alone into distant tragedies. Here and now in the Park, the whole world feels different.
A heavy-set middle-aged man with skin of dried mahogany seeds has been watching quietly, and softly asks if he can join us. I have often seen him around town, sitting motionless on the grass or pavement. At all times he wears a huge wool poncho that completely covers his large frame. His arms and legs remain hidden; only his round face and long dreadlocks poke out cautiously into the open air. He sits heavily, chin down. When I first saw him I thought of a tortoise, or a large bag of sand.
The man walks into the circle. He takes off his poncho, and most of us look at him in surprise. Underneath he wears a massive set of weighted pouches and compartments. As he methodically removes his gear, it becomes clear that he is not heavy at all– beneath these tangled burdens stands a thin, athletic body dressed in plain clothes and simple loafers.
The man begins to play, and his lightness is astounding. His feet move with agility and striking grace, and he attacks the hacky sack with smooth coordination. When I comment on his ability he says simply, “I used to love football [soccer].” I ask how long ago he last played. “Many years,” he says, “when I was still a child.”
After a little while the man puts his weight back on and trudges off into the afternoon with a wave. I thank him for playing, and wish him well. Perhaps the heavy contraptions he bears are just for survival. Perhaps, like a monk, he is carrying his own personal penance through the world.
We play for over an hour before calling it quits. When we leave for the day, Dusty smiles and says, “Goodbye!”
The next week Lili crochets homemade hacky sacks to give to our friends in the Park. To some they are silly toys, but for others they are memorials for our brief connection, tools for building community, and symbols of potential energy so often lost.