day in vancouver: art, survival, and a man on the pavement 💔

a day in vancouver: art, survival, and a man on the pavement 💔

A note to readers: I am finding this blog post difficult to write. I am still upset and disturbed by what I witnessed, and I am struggling to put the experience into words. My recollection of some details may not be entirely accurate, but I have done my best to share what I remember, honestly and to the best of my ability. This is my account of what I experienced that day.

Yesterday started like any other day when you're trying to figure out how to keep a roof over your head, or at least find somewhere to sleep.

I was actually trying to find a sleeping bag.

Sometimes you have to face reality, even when you don't particularly want to. I may be sleeping outside in a week. I still don't have the money I need, and I have been trying to sell my paintings to raise enough for a plane ticket and a room in Mexico.

My room is being renovated, and it looks almost ready. That's good news. But a room being renovated doesn't pay for a plane ticket, and hope doesn't pay the rent.

So, I went into the city.

I had another idea to try to sell my paintings, and I was also hoping to find an opportunity to have some of my work displayed during the Eastside Culture Crawl, November 19–22.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't know the rules or what they were looking for, and I worried that my paintings might not fit the theme.

But sometimes you just have to try.

one strange thing after another

The day had an odd feeling to it from the beginning.

I got off the bus and started walking. The street felt strange, dirty and unpleasant. I noticed things that made me uncomfortable, although I couldn't have explained exactly why at the time.

I walked down Commercial toward Clark Drive, and as I arrived, I noticed a men's centre. I remember thinking, ohhh.

I saw one man eating his food quietly, while another man was throwing his food all over the lawn. He then went over and started doing something around a water fountain.

I made a wide circle around him, pretending I was going the wrong way, and went around the corner.

That's when I came across Recovery Cafe.

I'd seen the word cafe, and it hadn't really registered what the place was. I hadn't put the pieces together.

I was there on the last day to drop off artwork for an exhibition called Art Against Stigma, connected with the Culture Crawl.

Well, I thought, why not?

I went inside.

twenty paintings

I met Damian, who was very patient with me.

I was worried and unsure about whether my work was suitable. He asked me to pick my ten best paintings. I did that, and then he asked me to pick ten more.

I actually said, "Really?"

Yes, really! He explained that my paintings were quite small, so having more of them wouldn't be a problem.

I ended up leaving twenty paintings with him for the Culture Crawl, November 19–22.

Whatever sells, I get to keep the money.

I don't know whether they will sell. I saw a couple of other artists' work, and they had some cool stuff. But at least my paintings will have a chance to be seen.

I left feeling hopeful. A little nervous, perhaps, but hopeful.

I had tried something, and someone had given me an opportunity.

I really hope it works out.

Because right now, I need it to.

then i crossed the street

On my way to the SkyTrain, I saw a man lying on the pavement.

I crossed the street, then ran across another part of the road to get to him.

There was an older white man standing nearby. I asked if the man on the ground was okay.

He said yes.

But the man lying there didn't look okay at all.

He was Indigenous, and his skin was so pale that it frightened me. He was lying on his back on the cold cement, his body positioned strangely, one leg looking awkward. His glasses were askew, and his shirt had ridden up.

I called out to him loudly.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't respond.

I reached toward him and told him I was going to touch him. I touched his neck, trying to establish whether he was responsive. His skin felt incredibly cold.

For a moment, I actually thought he was dead.

I said so out loud.

Then he moved a little.

I kept calling out to him.

The other man told me he'd been there for about three hours.

Three hours?

I was looking at this man, trying to work out whether he was breathing, wondering what had happened to him. I didn't know whether he had overdosed, whether he was ill, or whether something else had happened.

There was drug paraphernalia around.

The older man was yelling something along the lines of, "What are you going to do, call an ambulance so they can Narcan him?"

I found myself asking him what he was doing to help.

I said, "The problem is, honey, he's lying on cold cement."

I was trying to lighten the situation a little, although there was nothing funny about what was happening.

Then the man gathered up the drug paraphernalia, got on his bike and left.

I don't know who he was or what had happened before I arrived. I don't know whether the man on the pavement had been robbed, whether he was homeless, or whether anyone was looking for him.

I only know what I saw.

And I was frightened that he might die there.

the woman with the kinder surprises

Then a woman appeared, carrying a tray of Kinder Surprise chocolates.

I know. It sounds surreal.

She started talking about whether the man might have taken drugs, or something along those lines. I can't remember her exact words.

I asked whether anyone had called 911.

She started making the call and wanted me to speak to the operator.

Meanwhile, I was carrying my paintings and my belongings. I was trying to keep an eye on everything while watching the young man on the ground and trying to get the people around him to do something.

Someone asked whether I was going to give him Narcan.

I didn't have any.

I was trying to get a response from him, calling out and trying to make sure someone was doing something.

The woman was still on the phone with 911, answering questions. I became increasingly frustrated.

I wanted to know whether an ambulance was coming.

I understand that emergency operators need information. But when you're standing beside someone who looks as though he might be dying, every question can feel like an eternity.

At one point, I called out to the young man:

"Come on, sweetie. You've got to get up. It's too cold to be on the ground."

And very groggily, he managed to stand.

I was relieved to see him move, but I was still deeply concerned about him.

I eventually had to leave. I passed the phone back to the woman, who was still there.

And I walked away.

what happens when everyone is afraid to act?

I was so upset.

I was angry that the man had apparently been lying there for hours. I was angry that it seemed to take so much effort to get people to respond. I was angry that I couldn't do more.

Perhaps people were frightened. Perhaps they didn't know what to do. Perhaps language was a barrier. I don't know what was going through anyone else's mind.

But I kept thinking: what if nobody had stopped?

I don't know whether I arrived at a critical moment. I cannot know what would have happened if I hadn't called out to him.

But I was concerned enough to stop, and I couldn't simply pretend I hadn't seen him.

Our city has become a place where we encounter people in terrible circumstances on ordinary streets, on our way to catch a bus or go to work or buy groceries.

We see people who are struggling, people who are unwell, people who may be experiencing addiction, homelessness, or some combination of things we cannot see from the outside.

And sometimes I wonder whether we are becoming too accustomed to it.

When does a person lying on the pavement stop being an emergency and become just another thing we walk past?

When do we stop seeing the person?

I don't have the answers.

I know that calling 911 matters. I know that an opioid overdose can be fatal and that naloxone can save a life. I know that someone who is unresponsive needs urgent help.

I also know that I am one person, carrying my own belongings and trying to work out where I will sleep next week.

I cannot save everyone.

But I don't want to become someone who no longer notices.

a city of contradictions

There was something else that stayed with me.

The man on the pavement was Indigenous. I don't know his story, where he came from, or what had brought him to that street. I don't know whether he has family looking for him.

But Indigenous people who come to cities can face enormous challenges, especially when they are far from their communities and without secure housing or support.

Every person has a story. Every person has people who might worry about them.

I even wondered afterward whether I should have taken a photograph in case he was missing. But I was trying to establish whether he was alive. Taking a photograph wasn't what I was thinking about at the time.

I may contact people who work with missing persons to share what I witnessed.

I hope that man is alive. I hope someone helped him. I hope he has people who care about him.

I don't know what happened after I left.

And that uncertainty is difficult to sit with.

art against stigma

The strange thing is that I had gone out looking for a way to keep myself afloat.

I was looking for a sleeping bag because I may be sleeping outside soon.

I was trying to sell my paintings because I need money for a ticket and a room.

I went to Recovery Cafe almost by accident, and I came away with an opportunity to have twenty paintings displayed during the Eastside Culture Crawl.

Art Against Stigma.

The words have stayed with me.

Art can open a door. It can tell stories that people might otherwise overlook. It can make us look again at the world around us.

I don't know whether my paintings will sell. I don't know how I will pay for everything I need. I don't know exactly what happens next.

But yesterday, someone gave my work a chance.

And yesterday, I stopped for a man who needed help.

Both things happened in the same city, on the same day.

One left me hopeful.

The other left me heartbroken.

I came home carrying both.

Sometimes life really is like that. You can find a little light in one corner of the day and witness something devastating in another.

I am grateful for the opportunity Damian gave me. I hope the paintings find homes, and I hope the Culture Crawl brings people through the door who connect with my work.

For now, I need to keep trying.

And I hope that somewhere, that man is safe.

Because no one should have to lie on cold concrete, wondering whether anyone will notice.

💔

— Tina Winterlik, aka Zipolita