I remember moments, in years past, when I paused at the sight of a person lying on the sidewalk and took a minute to wonder: are they alive? Maybe the lay of their limbs looked odd, or their body too still, so I hesitated. At times I waited for a subtle indication that my worries were unfounded, the soft rise of a chest, the twitch of a finger. At other times, I left, telling myself that I could not help, that to gawk just proved my uselessness, and if I woke someone deep in sleep it would at best annoy them and at worst endanger myself. For my first few steps away I would feel guilty, but I shook it off quickly, too easily given the immeasurable weight a human life holds.
Despite growing up in a West Coast Canadian city with a pressing housing crisis, I found few ways of relating to homeless people. I had prepped meals at food banks, collected for bottle drives and raised money, but I had never known the people who needed these services. I often found myself giving an awkward smile as I passed someone, making eye contact so I could tell myself I was trying. On rare occasions, I dropped a coin in a hat, the gratitude I received feeling unearned.
Why didn’t I know the names of the people I passed daily? What were their stories, their worries and hopes? Why was it only when I thought they might be dead that I stopped for a moment to take them in, to really see them, to study the worn corner of a jacket and the shape of an open palm? To brush past people in pain clashes against my sense of who I am. Maybe I just didn’t know anything else was possible.
Street Roots has opened my eyes. It is a community of immense strength, held up by people who care and persevere against all odds. Employees and vendors, both homeless and housed, come together to support one another. Working as an intern, I have had the privilege of spending months getting to know the vendors who sell the paper, the majority of whom are homeless or have experienced homelessness. I distribute the paper to vendors while helping to provide coffee, first aid supplies, hygiene products, clothing, mail, showers and laundry. I was also given the opportunity to assist in running one of the many creative workshops offered at Street Roots, where vendors and staff read, discuss, write, and share poetry. Most importantly, I have connected with vendors on a personal level, whether through quick check-ins while they buy the paper, a joke exchanged as I prepare coffee, or interviewing them before I write a vendor profile.
Being there for others, especially people facing difficulties most of us struggle to imagine, is not always easy. At Street Roots, the suffering I had passively observed for years stopped being anonymous. It is part of the lives of people who surround me every day, people I care about. Concepts I had learned and discussed abstractly (housing inaccessibility, medical discrimination, the perils of sweeps and more) became real when I shared a coffee with someone who had made it through another sleepless night. So much of life on the street is always in flux, stability impossible to attain, yet death is a constant. Everyone has lost someone close to them. I have seen how quickly a medical crisis can become a tragedy. I know the feeling of running to grab Narcan, struggling to answer the unending questions of a 911 operator, wincing at the unnatural way a chest caves in from CPR.
At Street Roots I am constantly alert to life’s fragility. The moment I see someone slump over or shut their eyes, I assume the worst, watch for breathing and move to wake them. Those years when I paused distractedly are over. I no longer feel distanced from the lives at risk. I know the names of community members, their friends and daily routines. I cared about them before that moment of worry, and I would never move on without knowing if they are okay. I have heard stories that anger me to my core, witnessed what happens when people are left to slip through the cracks, attended memorials for lives that should have been protected, and my way of seeing the world has forever changed.
Alongside pain, the Street Roots community holds so much joy. There is the grin of someone who just got housing, pure happiness radiating throughout the room. There is a joke whispered among friends, their laughter loud, bouncing off the walls — I know not to ask since it’ll surely be racy. There is a moment of silence after a poem is shared, everyone absorbing what has just been said. There is the embrace from a friend who has been gone a long time, finally returning and glad to see us all. There is a cookie split in three, a bite for you, and you, and a bite for me. This joy is hope, it is resistance, it is love. When I envision the future I want to see, it is a world where this joy grows on streets and in homes, unburdened and free to thrive.
My internship is coming to an end, the publication of this piece coinciding with my last day in Portland. I will not forget the people I have met here, the feeling of walking down the street in Old Town and looking for familiar faces, greeting friends as I go. We have all heard debates about the housing crisis, unending discussions about what needs to be prioritized. I now know that taking time and space to build relationships and create connections must come first. I am so grateful I was welcomed into a community that does just that, pushing beyond the four walls of the Street Roots office and filling Portland with a message of hope.
Tillie Stanger-Ross interned with Street Roots via Tivnu, a nine-month gap-year program based in Portland and rooted in Jewish community and social justice.
This article appears in May 20, 2026.