61: The number of homeless deaths in San Diego

By Rabbi Ben Kamin

SAN DIEGO–When the local director for a homeless rescue agency called on me to participate in yesterday’s interfaith vigil, I was glad to accept. Then I felt embarrassment while learning in the communications that sixty-one homeless persons had died on the streets of San Diego since the last annual vigil and observance. Sixty-one reflections of the divine image—human beings who died in the cold, the darkness, the abandonment of this society that presumes the comfort of beddings and food and company and that worships wealth and objects and materials.

Sixty-one men and women, of various ages and histories, all given birth by a mother somewhere, squandered by circumstances, pitiable luck, lack of connections, denied medicals, and the plight of disappearing into the shadows of society. Some would invoke the blame of the homeless upon themselves or even to the geometrics of the social pyramid. Nobody, not even the most righteous, could possibly consent to the injustice of this at the urban center of the wealthiest and most powerful nation in history.

Yes, I was embarrassed that until yesterday, the number “61” had lived in my head primarily in conjunction with a baseball record: in 1961, Roger Maris hit sixty-one homeruns for the New York Yankees and broke Babe Ruth’s single season record of sixty. Maris came home in triumph sixty-one times; sixty-one souls never came home in my city during their own season of dread and hunger and frozen bellies.

They came walking yesterday in an appropriately chilly rain, from the nucleus of our shining downtown to the steps of the central administration building. It was a coalition of earnest citizens, concerned clergy, some city officials, a couple of police officers who are dedicated to save or at least comfort the homeless, and a few of the street people themselves.

The latter, wrapped in tattered coats, their sad eyes peering out from under tight wool caps ironically bearing the insignia of professional sports franchises, their faces smeared with grime and neglect, appeared carrying shoes. Even the ones whose own shoes were worn out and exposed smeared, streaked socks. Sixty-one pairs of empty shoes were quietly placed on the steps of the city building, interspersed with electric candles that shone softly against the setting sun and in the stubborn mist.

I offered a tradition from the Talmud that spoke of Abraham’s own failure once to care for a stranger; my reflection had been preceded by the soothing serenity prayer and chant of an uncommonly articulate Buddhist sister. Many good Christian values were declared and there was, without a doubt, a genuine sense of anguished concern that filled up the plaza.

Something has to be done. The empty shoes and the glowing candles and those pale eyes will trail me for a very long time. And “61” is no longer about home runs; it is about home.

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Rabbi Kamin is a freelance writer based in San Diego. He may be contacted at ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com