Anita M. Floyd was a homeless woman, one of many in this city, and also a kind of pleasant social fixture downtown. She was not an aggressive panhandler, but rather a kind of public greeter. She was a thin spare woman with perfectly lovely red hair and a ready smile for those passing by. My daughter and I first saw Anita about five, maybe six years ago, sitting on the bench outside the downtown Kitchen Kaboodle politely asking passers-by for spare change. She was never resentful if she was turned down, and she was always consistent in her friendly and calm attitude.
She had the weathered face of someone obviously in the elements a great deal, and I often wondered how or why she could be such an elderly frail woman, left alone in the world and having to fend for herself. Where was her family and why was this woman not in housing of some kind? It bothered me. I would think of my own frail mother and was always troubled when I saw Anita on her bench. It seemed unfair to me that she was not looked after but was reduced to asking strangers for a few coins just to survive. She was just too old and frail to be on her own in such a potentially dangerous city. The felt jeopardy is everywhere for the homeless, but moreso for the vulnerable elderly. I often told myself I should sit down with her and ask her about herself. Ask her if she knew of particular resources that might help her. It was always in the back of my mind to do this, to try to steer her in the right direction, but for some reason or another, I put it off. I always had things to do, it seemed.
My daughter and I became very accustomed to seeing her on her bench and often gave her spare change and even dollar bills when I could afford it. When she wasn’t on her bench we would wonder out loud where she was.
We bought bagels and cream cheese for her, coffee and other pastries from the now-closed Tully’s restaurant. She used to be allowed by the management to use the restroom facilities whenever she needed to. They were very kind to her and since she always conducted herself like a lady, she was treated with respect and consideration. Her low-key and humble personality probably had much to do with their willingness to extend to her those small courtesies without complaint.
She seemed like the most harmless and consistently even-tempered person, and it was always nice to see her pleasant smiling face greeting Portlanders as they passed by. I did notice in the past few years the two or three times she had black eyes or large swollen bruises on her face. She would tell people that she had fallen, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been assaulted instead. As horrible as it is to consider, the elderly are often picked out to victimize and homeless elderly are often beaten on the streets and/or robbed of what little they have. It pained me to see her in such a state, to know how vulnerable she was, as an older woman trying to survive alone on the streets.
Several times over the years I would whisper prayers for her when I saw her, as I hurriedly went about my daily tasks, asking God to keep her safe. Sadly, yesterday I learned that this homeless woman died of a massive heart attack. I was saddened to see the bench she used to sit on empty, and instead of Anita sitting there, there were a few bouquets of flowers, some letters and a photo of her, telling the people of the area who work there and perhaps live there that Anita is no longer with us.
It was interesting to see how Anita’s simple warmth and willingness to talk with people in such an accepting manner had endeared her to so many. As I stood looking at the bouquets of flowers today, a woman in very average clothing, clean, very upstanding looking, came up and asked what the display was all about. I told her Anita had died. She looked like any woman who might work in the area as a receptionist, secretary or other office or bank worker, and I watched as her eyes filled with tears. She said, "Oh no, I’m going to miss her."
When I recall Anita, it will be the look of surprise and pleasure that spread across her face when about five years ago, I approached her and placed a few small coins in her hand and said, "You have got the most beautiful red hair!" She was a lovely woman and though I didn’t know her very well or all the important details of her life or her history, I will miss her too.
