Wednesday. I'm on the bike trail to work, coming out from under the infamous underpass. On the trail is a Public Works truck. It pulls slightly to the side and parks. On an embankment between the trail and the street is a homeless guy packing up his sleeping bag. I roll past the truck. In my mirror, I watch as the driver gets out to speak with the homeless guy. I wonder if he's being rousted. Around the bend is a guy strolling the trail and conversing on his bluetooth. In his left hand is a coffee. In his right, a leash around his Siberian Husky walking along the embankment. Across a bridge over the Platte River is a young homeless couple. They are packing up their camping gear and putting on two bikes and a bike trailer. I exit the trail and am heading up a downtown street. Walking toward me the wrong way in the bike lane are another homeless couple, before they move into the street. After work, I stop at the Chinese place before crossing the street to home. When I come outside, a middle school kid is approaching. He leans against the building where all panhandlers do, and begins the same way. "Sir, how's it goin'?" I respond with, "Bye." He tells me to ride carefully, as, "People are crazy out there." Yep. Out there is where I'm from kid.
Friday. Dogs. I'm out of the house when Caucasians are walking their dogs. The first is just a block up the street. On the corner is a small brick ranch home, with a car and a truck in the driveway. The guy coming across the front yard is familiar. I've seen him, on the bus? He has stringy grey hair coming out of a knit cap. I had assumed that he is homeless. Does this guy live here? if he doesn't, why is he walking this little dog? Down this crosstown street is a park, several blocks long with a lake comprising at least half of its acreage. For the past 12 years I've considered this park as part of my neighborhood. On the trail around the park is a young Caucasian couple walking their dog, followed by a young Caucasian guy walking his dog. A few years past, I saw a young Caucasian couple running this path before sunup. They must live around here, but I otherwise never see them. Last night, I rode home down a street between here and my own boulevard. I passed a small car with a Janis Joplin sticker. A Hispanic Joplin fan. This morning, I'm down the hill, over the bike trail, across the bridge, in a bike lane headed toward downtown. This morning, the bike lane is full of both trash and recycle cans. Directly in front of me is a dryer which someone has put out for pickup. I make my way to c coffee place on the pedestrian mall. Standing outside is another grey-haired guy. This one is wearing a coat, his head inside of a hood. His voice is an almost non-existent whisper. He asks me if he can "have some money? Can I have some help?"I turn toward work. On the corner of two main thoroughfares is a guy in a wheelchair. In each hand, he is holding up two copies of a Jehovah's Witnesses magazine. When my day is through, I am making my way back through the same neighborhood across my boulevard. A Caucasian guy is out running. Perhaps with the spring they are out in the mornings and evenings.
The following day is my Saturday to work. I am standing at the register at a deathburger on the way to work. A guy is waiting behind me to change a five. He is pacing and agitated. He approaches the cashier and asks her to change his bill when she asks him to wait until she completes my order. More pacing. When her drawer opens, he holds his five in front of her. Behind him is another guy asks the cashier to borrow a phone. When she declines, he decides that this is "bullshit." After work, I pay a visit to my mom who is in the hospital for the second time in a few weeks. I don't leave until after 8 PM. I don't get back to my street until shortly before 10. I stop at a deathburger, later than I think I've ever been here. I used to catch a bus on this corner up until five years ago, long before sunrise. I used to come to this deathburger when they would open in the morning. This evening, the place has dopey skateboarders, homeless, and assorted youth. The following day, I am coming back from the hospital earlier in the afternoon. I'm coming back through the neighborhood next door to mine in the early evening this time. I pass a Caucasian woman on her own bicycle. I pass someone sitting in her car in front of what I assume is her place of residence. With her blond hair, sweatshirt, and Keds without socks, she looks like every Caucasian college girl I've ever seen. A few blocks past, I roll by a brick Victorian home. Hangout in front of the entrance are three weirdo gangster wannabe teenagers, all in black heavy-metal style T-shirts and ball caps. In the middle of the walkway to the front door is a teenage girl who appears as if she is waiting for someone.
Bright yellow lawn signs dotted front yards in the Cherry Creek North neighborhood...."BALLOT INITIATIVE 300. Meeting tonight..." ...the University of Denver professor's...speaking...at the event...as far as she could tell, she was the only non-white person in the entire room. "...activities...are being criminalized...acts of survival, things every person has to do..." "...lives are at stake. ...the human reasons that people move different places...because of the resources there...accessible to their basic needs, because it's quiet. Ending criminalization practices does support housing goals. ...this initiative is the result of homeless people, not housing experts." ...in Cherry Creek...community members nodded along with lobbyists...who repeatedly stated that it was "un-empathetic" to allow the homeless to sleep outdoors.
...a love song to Denver as I know it, a multicultural space, a convergence zone... Many of our family homes in Denver are gone now due to gentrification and the physical and psychological stresses it causes a displaced people. I avoid driving down Galapago Street and Tremont Place on bad days...the loss of community and the destruction of the historic heart of our neighborhoods. I don't think we can quantify all that has been lost, for so much of it no longer exists... It's a type of mourning... "There seems to be this sense of helplessness surrounding...gentrification...for communities and families...being displaced." I've spent my adolescence and early twenties experiencing the gentrification of Denver in real time, hardly able to process...what my community is facing. ...questions...fall on those who are actively gentrifying spaces... Are you comfortable living in and taking over a historically Latino neighborhood? Do you know the history of Five Points? What can you tell me about the nations who were here before Anglos? - Westword, 4/4-10/2019
The first stop on the G-line...the Globeville neighborhood...is not far away from..."Fox Island" because of its sequestration from the rest of the city - hemmed in by Interstate 25 on the east, Interstate 70 to the north and multiple lines to the west. ...the City Council approved rezonings to allow for...120 micro apartments... [I worked in Northwest Denver for more than a year...waiting for the opening of the G-line commuter rail, which opens the day of this newspaper story.]
...redevelopment...over the last 25 years...the city's core has been left largely untouched. ...with Five Points and the Union Station neighborhood... ...Greyhound Lines...is looking to sell its terminal property..."to...a developer to positively transform the neighborhood." - The Denver Post, 4/26/2019
I have spent my career working as a neighborhood advocate...across the United States and the world, building coalitions, pushing back against policies that are detrimental to the community... We are at a tipping point. Growth and development has been overwhelming our neighborhoods... - Jamie Giellis for Mayor mailer
Members of my congregation...knows [sic] all too well the realities of living in limbo and facing the possibility of being...separated from their families. None of these families, who have embraced Colorado, just as they fully embraced their faith in the Lord, should be forced to leave behind their homes and families and the community they have helped build in nearly 20 years. - Denver Urban Spectrum, 4/2019
...I asked one of the guys..."I just deserted the U.S. Army," and before I could finish...he says, "Oh yeah? I'm a deserter to." ...my guilt number, as a lot of GIs call it. It's the number...that one's certain to have killed, civilian and military. I only keep track of the innocent people killed.
I want to tell that immovable Rock-of-Gibraltar, apple-pie-eating, red, white, and blue bald eagle sitting on his couch with his feet up on his naugahyde footstool watching the war on his color TV that...he is watching...genocide. ...these hard-hats marching through the streets of New York with the American flag tattooed on their chests... - Williams
It would take two hours for the Iraq police to arrive and clean up. The sun peeked...over the horizon, searching for us. ...half the neighborhood had seen the carnage. "Hey Crawford, you got brains on your boot." There was a flake of bone attached, and it's sharpened edge was lodged firmly into the rubber sole... A fifty-caliber round is one hell of a big bullet. [One round impacted an Iraqi passenger of a vehicle, who fired on U.S. troops.] ...the man in back...was looking at us, both eyes perfectly focused despite...half his brain...all over the car. ...his eyes shifted, first from me, then to [another U.S. soldier], then back to me. ...and he began to mumble in Arabic, holding my gaze, staring at me from the abyss. I could see halfway through the man's head...
The shop [owner] had been...in the...war with Iran. "When America invaded, Iraqi soldiers and police were gone The looters came and I fought them here." [This shop owner would pay for] kabobs, chicken and rice [for the U.S. soldiers.] He would refuse all attempts to pay him back. "No. We are friends. You protect me and Iraq, and I protect you. It is dangerous for you here." ...not every soldier in the company got to know him. After a heated argument [with a U.S. soldier unaware of his relationship with others in the company], his head was crashed through a window that he had once shot looters from. - The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell, by J. Crawford, 2006
Monday. I'm out of my door early. I'm rolling past the park at sunrise. There is a salt-and-pepper-haired Caucasian guy in neoprene fleece, walking his dog. The following morning, there are three Caucasians, each with a dog, and the canine trio is congregating socially. A bowlegged Hispanic male stands in the residential street. Wednesday. Spring snow spits with some wind behind it as I prepare to leave work early on my bike in the late afternoon. A young woman comes out from the restaurant next door. As she gets in her car, she says to me in a British accent, "Before you leave, I wanted you to know I do some riding myself. I think you're hardcore. You made my day." I wave to her. Thursday. I get up to find that the reason I had trouble riding home the evening before is my rear tire is flat. This morning, I'm off to the bike shop before work. The bus dispatches me to the train station, where at the gate for my bus, a guy stands asking anyone within earshot if they "have a cigarette they want to sell?" He gets one from a couple who ask him where the bus goes to. When the bus arrives, we enter. Shortly thereafter, he gets out and disappears.
Sunday of the following week. I arrive at a train station around 1 PM. This station is up a boulevard from a physical therapy place where my mom is staying. A middle-aged guy comes up a light of stairs to the train platform. He spots my bike, asks me if it's mine, and mentions in a voice which is almost a whisper that I should keep an eye on it. He appears to be drunk. He comes back and first kneels, then sits down next to a younger guy. The younger guy is also sitting on the concrete. The pair begin a conversation. The younger one is in assisted living. He sounds mentally impaired. Monday. With the coming of the Spring there are Caucasians all over the place, across the boulevard from my own side. I pass an elderly Caucasian couple in the park walking their dog. Just past the park is a young Caucasian father pushing his toddler in a stroller. I'm down the hill, along the trail, and over the bridge. I grab a sugar-free hot chocolate at a coffee place and arrive at the rec center just as they open. I head to the locker room and when I come out, there appears to be a homeless guy laying down on the floor of the lobby. He's in a winter coat and camouflaged pants, and he appears as if he's so high his eyes are closed. After my workout, I ask the woman behind the desk if she knows what his story is. He's diabetic, and was passed out. They gave him a snack and he's on his way. After work, I'm on my way home. I'm crossing a piece of the bike trail which I crossed this morning, when I spotted a homeless camp on the opposite bank of the river. Then, I spotted a guy sitting in the doorway of a tent. This evening, he is still there, laying down now. I can see his camouflaged pants from here. As I examine this scene, a middle-aged guy in a suit walks past me with his dog.
...a fit, intermediate rider who has just never put in enough time to nail the super tech-y stuff - the idea of spending a weekend with fat-tire freaks in a hardcore mountain biking mecca makes your pals sweat.
After 24 hours in Trinidad, I still haven't seen another bike. Pick-up trucks with dog and driver bounce down streets paved in rusty red brick. A gravel riding paradise. So - where are all the bikes? At the Mountain Ventures Summit in Mammoth Lakes, California...trying to explain Trinidad. ...the town's challenges have put Trinidad at the forefront of...the widening gap between urban and rural. "Cycling...I knew the gravel trend was coming. Having...used the [municipal] bus and light rail system to get to the start of a ride... The objective is to get people pulling off I-25 to ride their bike...to see downtown spending, lodging tax revenue and the attraction of small businesses." - Elevation Outdoors, April 2019
...meet this year's Miss Hooters Colorado finalists. Are you ready to indulge in democracy? Rank 'em. Discuss and debate with your friends. ...submit your vote and pat yourself on the back for being a great American. - Mile High Sports, 4/2019
A three-day extravaganza for fans of superheroes, comic book characters, movies, television shows, and all things popular culture. "We've really tried to create something for everybody," says...marketing director for Pop Culture Classrooms... "We always get passes to all three days, and...visit lots of stars." ...TV and film guests require fees... ...700 plus hours of panels...including...techniques...to incorporate pop culture in their classrooms... "[We] didn't dress up in 2018. We feel comfortable in our jeans and T-shirts." - Colorado Parent, 5/2019
Thursday. I'm on my way to work early this morning, chasing a Caucasian cyclist through streets across my boulevard. He's in black spandex with a yellow stripe. A single saddlebag hangs on the right rear side of his ten speed frame. Down the hill, at the entrance to the bike trail, I watch a trio of thirtysomething riders in tight formation. One has ruby red sunglasses. I'm on and down the trail and approaching the exit when I pass a homeless guy pushing an empty shopping cart. He has a leather jacket on over his hoodie. And his head is turned toward the interstate. He stands staring at the morning traffic. I don't know if it's because I'm out earlier than usual, but cyclists are everywhere. Everywhere. I'm climbing over a long bridge as ten speed after oncoming ten speed rush past me. There's room for two lanes but I must stay to the right on this not so wide bridge. When I get into my last bike lane to work, I'm behind yet another cyclist. This one is head to toe in black spandex, with odd pink bands on the calves. A headlamp crests the helmet, and a Camelback is slung across the shoulder. The rider slowly blows through a red light, tail lamp flashing. I arrive at the downtown supermarket. A crazy with a gaunt face and long greasy hair is approaching. He says to me as he passes by, "You're goin' to prison. You can't buy your way out of it. No way out of it." His voice echoes through the parking garage. I head inside the supermarket and have a seat at a table for a quick snack. At a table across from me is a crazy young woman. Her honey blonde bleached locks are growing out long and stringy. As they hang, they hide her dark red face. She holds what appears to be an old transistor radio, complete with black leather case. She hold it like a cell phone. But if it is a radio, that she is ranting and singing to no one. She takes a peek inside of a new book in front of her on her table. When I am back outside unlocking my bike, a guy comes along and briefly has a seat on the concrete to panhandle. His voice is barely audible. He immediately gets some dollar bills from a customer.
Friday. Last week, I had a flat on the back tire of one bike. After I had the tube replaced, I had a flat on my other bike. Same rim. I'm lucky the shop stayed open after close to fix it, regardless of the fact they forgot to air up the new tube, because this week I discover a flat in the new tube on the first bike. I'm wheeling this bike down the street, to a stop for a crosstown bus to the train station. I will be at the shop in jig time. The stop is across the street from housing which is subsidized by the catholic Church. It's "Section 8" housing. I follow a guy in a hoodie and shorts over leggings. He climbs up on the corner of a black wrought iron fence at one end of the homes, and he begins shadow boxing. He walks the length of the edge of this fence before jumping down and jogging away. The bus arrives and collects me, depositing me at the train station where I grab another to the bike shop, bicycle in tow. I have a few minutes before it opens and I go next door to a new breakfast place. On a small patio is a guy who turns to me and asks how much it is to ride the bus. (?) After work, approaching 8 PM, I am riding home through the neighborhood of Caucasians, dogs, and bikes. I honestly don't remember seeing so many of them here before this Spring. One Caucasian walks past and says, "Hi there." A father and son pair turn the corner.
Saturday is my turn to work. I'm just on the bike trail, after waiting for a string of cyclists to pass. I come out from under the infamous underpass when I happen upon a familiar homeless guy. He's easily a decade or more my junior and is sitting on an embankment, talking to himself. As I pass, he turns to me ans asks, "Will you take me to a Vanilla Ice concert?" (Is Mr. Ice out on tour?) After work, I ride the short distance to a downtown hospital, where my mom has been diagnosed the previous day with cancer. It hasn't been biopsied, and probably won't be. But, after living with me the past 17 years, just a week or two past, she suddenly has no appetite. One day she did, the next she does not. This week, her blood pressure can no longer stay up without medicine, and her kidneys have stopped functioning. The following day, I visit her in ICU. She's had trouble talking since her blood pressure dropped last week. On Monday, I'm back at the bus stop across the street from where I live. My regular dentist wants me to consult with an oral surgeon about removing my two lower wisdom teeth. It's around 7 AM. A girl who may be a high school senior is sitting in the bus shelter, sucking her thumb. Standing outside is a guy she walked here with. I arrive at the oral surgeon's office. It's a swingin' office compared to my regular dentist's waiting room. It's full of patients, one of whom is talking about an upcoming vacation. I go back to a room and wait for the dentist to come it. I can still hear the party atmosphere out front. "I'm single. I have a dog. I'm going to be 30 in two months," I hear someone say. The oral surgeon comes in and we meet for perhaps 60 seconds. he wants to go nowhere near my wisdoms. I can almost see him backing away from the x-rays. Minutes later, I am at the downtown deathburger homeless central. I grab a soda and have a seat. A couple of middle-aged homeless guys wander past me. One tells the other, "That's the guy who got shot six times last night."
Tuesday I see my mom again in the ICU. The hospital isn't far from where I work and I stop in along the way. She is asleep and snoring. She's off the blood pressure meds and the monitors. The next morning I get a call from the sister, who spends the night in her room. Between 2:30 and 3 AM, her heart and breathing stops. She left instructions that she does not want to be resuscitated. A doctor came in to pronounce her. A nurse wept. An overnight chaplain, autocratic toward the nurse, fumbled to find release forms. The following evening, I am home from work, crossing my street. I pass a lanky long-haired blonde young Caucasian guy. He's in a tie-dyed T-shirt and has a skateboard. He's as out of place on my street as a Sherpa or an aborigine. The morning after I am out on the trail to work. I pas a couple of homeless guys walking their bikes. Around the corner is an elderly woman who does not appear homeless. She is assisting a homeless guy pack up his bike trailer. I'm out of work early in the afternoon. My current helmet is falling apart. I stop at a couple of bike shops nearby to look at their helmets, before I follow the bike trail to a big sporting goods place on the west side of downtown. I find a new helmet, and a rain poncho. My current rain poncho is held together with duct tape. A trail leading away from here connects with one which I take to work. As soon as I am off the trail and cross the tracks into the neighborhood across the boulevard from mine, I pass a Caucasian runner. A watch a young Caucasian guy pull his motorcycle into his driveway, and a Caucasian cyclist comes up from behind me.
