Walking Home

Walking Home: A Creative Nonfiction Essay

This essay was written for Dr. Halford’s Creative Nonfiction class at the University of Queensland in June, 2019.

The first time I walked home by myself it took ten minutes to make up my mind to leave, but the homework had to be completed.

My communications class was stressing me out. “Pick a topic of social interest to our college’s campus or the larger city as a whole,” read the assignment posted on our class’s website announcement page. “This will be a group assignment. It will be worth 50% of your grade, with a presentation and written report component.”

Immediately, my roommate Kathryn chose me as her group project partner. We decided to research. Our majors were identical, but she was the socially-minded one, so I let her choose the topic – wheelchair accessibility on campus. Her eyes lit up as she told me, “There are so many buildings that I’m sure aren’t compliant. Like that elevator in Skiles has been out of order for weeks.”

My eyes dimmed thinking about the hundreds of pages of building code to skim through that night to find details on accessibility and assess how our campus buildings fell short.

“The clear opening width of the accessible entrance door needs at least 32 inches, between the face of the door and the stop, when the door is open 90 degrees.”

“For ramps, rises no greater than 3 inches with a slope no steeper than 1:8 and rises no greater than 6 inches with a slope no steeper than 1:10 are permitted.”

I just wanted to leave to go home, walk out a door of any width, and get back to our apartment. 1:8 incline ramp or working elevator not necessary.

I glanced at my phone to check the time. My college friends and I lounged on the ancient couches of the CCF house, a strange house sandwiched between fraternity houses and run by Christians to provide free meals and community for stressed out university students who might also need Jesus. The parents-basement-feel house quickly became a second home for me in college, with the multitude of free dinners and the assortment of college friends who also sought out a university experience more meaningful than series of drunken university parties.

I hugged a pillow and feebly tried to get up off the couch.

“I really need to go study,” I complained to Kathryn and the three other second-year students glued to the couches.

“We’ll probably be going to Cookout soon and can drop you back at the apartment on the way,” offered Kathryn.

I looked around at the groups of students still holding drink cups and chatting in circles. A fervent ping pong game was underway in the corner, and the upbeat music that was playing gave me the feeling that it would be a while before rides were organized to the restaurant nearby.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just walk,” I said.

“Byeeee Lane,” chimed everyone, and Jasmine, the hugger, gave me a quick squeeze before I stood up from the couch.

I dropped off my plastic drink cup, drained of pink lemonade, in the kitchen. I slid on my rainboots and grabbed the handle of my backpack.

I held my hand on metal door handle and took a shallow breath, almost a gasp. I quickly turned to see if anyone had heard my gulp for air.

This happened regularly, in times when I was stressed. My breath cued me in to the fact that I was nervous before I became conscious of it.

I made a mental note to write this down later in my notebook. My floral spiral bound notebook contained all my questions about living with a low-level of generalized anxiety. I imagined writing down on my list of anxiety-producing experiences: walking home to my apartment alone at 10pm. I would write it down so I could eventually question whether this fear was founded on a legitimate reason or was an invention of the chemicals in my brain.

I released the door handle and reached on instinct for my earbuds out of the front pocket of my bag but stopped at the zipper. I had heard too many stories of what happened to women at night whose awareness was reduced due to those plastic earbuds. Instead, I turned back, waved to my friends one last time, and pushed open the glass door.

Pulling the cords on my backpack straps to hoist it snugly on my back, I crossed the yard. A breeze cut through my flannel, and I crossed my arms tighter against it. I skirted a puddle and started down the street.

The fraternity houses lining the streets were in full Thursday night swing. Rap music poured out of the open doors and red solo cups already lined the yard. Half a block later, a group of curled-hair girls stumbled past. I hope they made it to their destination in those high heels – they were teetering too much for it only being 10:15 pm. Lacking the soundtrack in my ears that usually comforted me, I made decided to make mental to-do list as I walked. Avoid the crack in the sidewalk: plug in my phone to charge when I got home. Turn down hill past another house party: find two more primary sources on accessible buildings on campus. Don’t get splashed by the bike: pack lunch for tomorrow so I will have something to eat after work.

I reached edge of campus, on Tenth Street which ran from the west end of Atlanta all the way to Piedmont Park a few miles away. Campus buildings peeked above a fenced row of bushy magnolias, still dripping water from the afternoon rain shower. On the other side towered a boxy office complex, and in the distance on the crest of a hill, my apartment building stood paired with a red stop light.

Two streetlights pooled onto puddles in the sidewalk ahead, and the four-lane street appeared empty for now. I pulled out my phone, just to have it to hold, and started walking.

I stopped on the curb, the four lanes ahead of me deserted except for a brown paper bag caught in a puddle. I turned, poised to dart across to be on the side of the road with light, when a car sharply turned from campus onto Tenth.

The muffled music inside the car thumped behind me. I turned back to the sidewalk and started walking, hand gripped on my phone, waiting for the spat of mist that meant the car had passed. Instead, the brakes sounded on the pavement. Walk faster, walk faster.

“Daaammn work those rainboots,” slurred a voice from the car, paired with a muffled whistling – then the rev of the beater as it drove away.

The words wafted over me like a cloud of smoke. I hesitated, gazing down the pavement. On the back of the car was a university sticker. Breathe, I told my mind, and took another step towards the yellow glow of the apartment building, so thankful it was only words. Words disappearing in the distance were something I could deal with. Words wouldn’t disrupt my to-do list for the evening.

I pulled my backpack tighter across my shoulders, looked around me once more, and kept walking.

“Breathe, I told my mind, and took another step towards the yellow glow of the apartment building, so thankful it was only words. Words disappearing in the distance were something I could deal with. Words wouldn’t disrupt my to-do list for the evening.”

Over spring break, I went with a different religious group on a stay-in-the-city service trip. It seems in retrospect that I was searching for something during my first year in university, with all the religious organizations and not a sorority in sight.

The cost of the trip to Florida proposed by Kathryn and Jasmine physically hurt my bank account, so I was staying in Atlanta for the school holidays. A classmate told me about the service day, and, having nothing better to do, I thought why not spend my time packing toiletries into bags for the homeless?

Before departing, Michael, the trip leader, told us, “These are humans, just like us, so treat them as such. Smile, talk, to them, show them love.”

Me and a dozen of other students nodded as we huddled in the parking lot, about to depart on the not-a-trip to what seemed further away than Disney World.

“If they ask you for money,” continued Michael, “tell them you don’t carry cash. Offer to buy them food, or I’ll have some granola bars we can hand out.”

“Are we just going to talk to people on the streets?”

 “We’re going to a mission that’s based out of a church that gives out free meals to the homeless,” explained Michael. “We’ll help them make kits to hand out too. But please, yes, talk to them.”       

A short drive later, the group walked down Auburn Avenue in a solemn parade, just three blocks down from Tenth Street. We were the group of white students, coming over on our spring break to see our own city, the city outside of the campus-police patrolled campus and treelined streets. Areas where cigarette smoke was paved into the streets, not just JUUL fumes by university boys dabbling in nicotine and popularity. Areas where home consisted of a sleeping bag placed against a plywood entryway.

“This is it,” said Michael.

A church spire pierced the clouded sky, while a line of people in ragged coats waited to get a free lunch from inside. With many excuse-mes, our group pushed past them to get to the workroom inside. The smell of desperation and free cheese grits mixed together in a way that made me want to look away, but I followed Michael’s instructions and looked at them, smiled, and said good morning. Some smiled back.

Inside, my job for the next hour became a cog in an assembly line, unwrapping toothbrush packages and plastic bags full of socks then passing them down to another student to be put into a toiletries kit. While we packed, the director shared some of these statistics.

According to the Atlanta Mission, over 7000 citizens of Atlanta are homeless, despite numerous movements in recent months to provide temporary housing for those living on the streets. The Mayor’s office in the City of Atlanta issued a reminder of the citywide law against “urban camping,” seemingly coincidentally-timed a few weeks before 500,000 people came to the city for the Super Bowl. Meanwhile a federal policy ruled that cities can’t stop people from sleeping outdoors if there is no place for them indoors. The Atlanta mission website lists 888 beds in homeless shelters throughout the city.

“How many people can stay at this shelter?” asked Michael.

“This mission can’t even officially house any homeless,” the director said, “but we do act as a post office, so homeless can list it as an address on employment forms.”

While I listened and unwrapped, a man, with a bit of free breakfast still caught in his grizzled beard, came up to me and tried taking an entire package of toothbrushes from the pile I was sorting. I looked back at Michael with wide eyes.

“Do you want the whole kit?” asked Michael, holding up a bag with socks, toothpaste, and shampoo in it as well.

The man stuffed the toothbrushes under his coat and shuffled away without even looking at us. It took someone asking, “do we have anymore toothbrushes down there?” for me to continue the assembly line of toiletry sorting.

20-25% of the homeless population suffers from severe mental illness, primarily schizophrenia, a disease that involves hallucinations and the inability to trust reality and cope with surroundings. 14% suffer from joint issues, chronic pain, or the inability to walk. If your photo ID was stolen, over a third of homeless people cannot afford or are unable to obtain a new one. One-third of homeless women have likely been raped. Part of me wondered if those women even cared about these little kits of shampoo and free socks.

20-25% of the homeless population suffers from severe mental illness, primarily schizophrenia, a disease that involves hallucinations and the inability to trust reality and cope with surroundings. 14% suffer from joint issues, chronic pain, or the inability to walk. If your photo ID was stolen, over a third of homeless people cannot afford or are unable to obtain a new one. One-third of homeless women have likely been raped.

I stepped through a puddle and under the overhang of my apartment building by the now empty street. I finagled my student ID out of my wallet, tapped the door scanner. With a beep, the door clipped unlocked, and I went into my apartment building, safe.

Inside my building, I took a shaky breath in at the lobby and wiped my rainboots on the doormat. I refilled my water bottle at the water fountain and checked my small mailbox with the old-fashioned combination lock. My brain had already switched back to spinning over how to research what life would be like in a wheelchair, how to pass a socioeconomic issues class that my father had paid for me to attend.

I trudged up the linoleum stairwell, backpack heavy on my shoulders. Then, I unlocked my apartment door and settled down to the homework facing me now that I was home.