PLEASE MEET STRAWBERRY:
(language warning)
“See that girl over there?” The old man pointed to a colorfully dressed woman. She was cooking over a fire near the tracks, feeding a small group. “Now folks might think she’s just a dirty whore.” he said. I studied the young woman’s interactions. A rude woman arrived demanding food. “But you watch,” he said, “That hungry bitch there? She don’t deserve nuthin. But Strawberry will feed her too.”
The scene got a little crazy. An angry man yelled in my face. A nearby couple argued. A man with a disfigured leg hobbled by pushing a broken cart. A troubled woman in a torn up Mumu tried to talk. But our conversation failed as a train passed and the man resumed yelling. As I left, I greeted the young woman. “I enjoy cooking for people.” she said with a hint of a smile, which dropped fast as she aimed a fork at the aggressive man. “Get the fuck BACK!” she yelled. He scowled, but complied.
The memory of the young woman stuck. I wished I’d spent more time with her. I went back but found she didn’t live there. Months later, stuck in traffic, I looked out the window and saw her standing alone holding a bunch of daffodils. I recognized her eyes immediately. I looked again and she was gone. A year later I found her living in the woods.
“I’m mean.” she said. “The street makes you mean. But I’m a good bitch.” Strawberry, whose real name is Ruth Anne, left home at age 14. Her mother was a drug addict. Her life a tale of sordid abuse. She was once confined to her tent for over a year where she was regularly beaten and forced to have sex until she passed out. “I peed on myself and shit in a bucket. He held a knife to my throat saying he’d kill me and hide my body if I left. He said God told him to make me into an angel.” She escaped but struggled afterwards. “I hooked for a while, but I don’t need hands on me anymore. I can take care of myself. I can hustle better than most.”
Perhaps there is more hope to be observed in Ruth Anne’s tears than her words. “I have no plan. I have no idea what I am going to do,” her nose and eyes streaming. “I do meth because it’s the only way I can cope. To handle the memories of my children. Who were taken from me.”
“What can we do?” I asked. Drying her tears she answered, “I could use some food and cooking utensils. I enjoy cooking for people.”
SODO Neighborhood | Damian
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