I can't do it.

Walking up the sidewalk, I spot her. She’s sitting on a bench just outside of the garage. As I get closer to her, I try to smile at her, but she won’t look at me. She’s afraid I’ll do it. But I can’t. She doesn’t know that I can’t, so she keeps her eyes focused on the street. As long as she doesn’t look at me, maybe I won’t notice her. Maybe I’ll think she’s busy. But her head is tilted downward and sideways just enough to betray her obvious façade. She’s afraid I’ll do it. But I can’t. In fact, every inch of my being begs me to do the opposite. I want to sit next to her, put my arm around her, ask her how her day has been, invite her in for some warm coffee, take her home and offer her my bed and shower.

She won’t look at me, though. My spirit is overcome with sadness. I can’t walk away from her, so I sit on the bench next to hers. For nearly ten minutes, I sit there facing the street wondering what got her to where she is and what makes me different. I wish she would look at me and see me, not the uniform that she fears. She probably wishes I would look at her and see her, not her circumstances.

When I took this job, I was told what I’d have to do. “It’s an easy post. Guards love it there. The only thing you’ll ever have to do is run-off homeless people.” I knew then that I could never do that, but I needed the job, so I pretended that I could. I hid my immediate repulsion. I hid my anger.

My first day of training, I was instructed on just how to run-off homeless people. “You can’t let them stay on the benches. Just go out there and tell them that we can’t let them be there. They will leave. They’re nice about it. They know they can’t be there.” Again, I hide my reaction. I want to ask what is so wrong with tired people resting on benches. I want to ask why the benches are even there, if not for rest. I want to yell that they are not nice about it, they are humiliated by it and so they move on. But I nod and keep walking…I need the job.

But here I am three weeks later and I have to face my responsibility. I just can’t do it. Fire me. I am not going to make her leave! She isn’t hurting anyone. So what if some people don’t like to look at the sidewalk and see someone actually sitting on one of the benches? So what if the building manager is afraid to touch the spot where she sat? How can I make her move? What if the only rest she finds today is on that bench in this moment? What if her shoes are too small and her feet are sore? What if her back hurts from walking all day? What if she is about to pass out from exhaustion and just needs to catch a small nap? What if she is weak from hunger and can’t possibly take the steps to someone else’s bench?

How can it be my job to make her leave?

I can’t do it.