I see homeless people everyday. They are sometimes on the streets asking for money, or near the grocery store asking for food, or sometimes just hanging out, sitting in the sun, maybe selling newspapers or trying to make a little money peddling embroidered patches or aluminum-can flowers they have made.

I see them ducking around the shelves in the aisles of the drug store, or pushing impossibly-loaded strollers full of what looks like junk across the street, stopping traffic. They are camped under overpasses and in parks. They are a very visible part of our community.

Many homeless people are pleasant individuals in need of a friendly smile, but some suffer from mental or emotional issues and are not pleasant at all. Usually, I have a few friendly words to say to them, and if I have cash, I buy a paper or give them a few dollars. I have gotten to know some homeless people over the years, and I talk to them when I see them, if they remember me (stories about some of them here and here).

Today I had a nice chat about water aerobics with the man selling the Street Sheet for two dollars in front of the Y. He recommended the water class, but warned me to eat something first so my blood sugar wouldn’t get too low.

Near there on another day, I was crossing the street and the person crossing from the other direction started screaming that I was attacking her. I was not; I was merely in the cross walk with her. A policeman rode by on his bike, and the homeless woman tried to call him over, but he just said, “Keep moving please,” and rode on. I was already on the other side of the street, wondering what had set her off.

Recently, I was walking downtown, crossing the street to a bar to meet my husband before a movie. I could hear the homeless group on the corner having a shouting match from half a block away; I didn’t want to walk by and catch their attention, so I skirted around the back of the bus stop and slipped past them. Over a drink, we wondered what the yelling man was upset about.

This sounds crazy, I know.

When we were new in Berkeley, I encountered a small, hunched woman downtown who was visibly angered by me and my son, then about 7. I don’t remember exactly how she said it, but what she said troubled me: You don’t understand what it’s like to have trouble. She pointed at my son disdainfully. He’ll never have trouble.

I sputtered something about just trying to live our lives like everyone else, having pain and hardship like everyone does. She scoffed. Flustered, tears came to my eyes. I was defensive—Hey! I have problems! Even as I said it, I knew that mine seemed insignificant to her.

What she said has rolled around in my mind since.

As I try to understand what happened there, and why it upset me so much, I think her bitterness was not only about a home or resources or a supportive community or even mental health—though those are certainly important and likely missing from her life.

She was angry that I could not see her. I was not able to take all of the circumstances and the contingencies into account, all the effort and the setbacks and the losses. I did not give her the dignity she deserved as a valuable human being because I did not know where she came from. I didn’t care to know.

I could not see past the present; the dirty, mean outside. Looking at herself through my eyes, she saw a failure, a broken-down, wasted life, a person I would never look at the way I looked at my son. Did anyone look at her the way I looked at my son? Protectively, with the full expectation that he would be smart and successful, and with love that would not change when the trouble did come?

Did anyone ever really see her?