Launa Lea - Playing Parts

 

There's an intersection in Seattle at 90th and Aurora that's known as the Switchblade. For the last five years, I've been working with people who are experiencing homelessness and addiction on North Aurora. And Aurora is an interesting place. It's the kind of place where you can find a lot of beauty and a lot of needles. 

 

So, I'm working at this community center that's at the Switchblade. And the space is set up like a giant loft with a living room, a library, and a kitchen. I'm making coffee for people just like every other morning. I see a woman walk in, like many of the women who visit us at the community center. She makes her living as a sex worker. So, I see this lady come wobbling in on these toothpick stiletto thigh-high boots. She tries kicking those things off and they don't come off. She's wrestling and cussing, rustling, rustling and cussing and wrangling. She finally gets out of them, and she crawls into an armchair, and she falls asleep. At some point, I notice she's been covered with a blanket. She's asleep, and it's a very peaceful scene. 

 

Less than an hour later, the same woman is screaming at the top of her lungs. So, I come out from the back to see what's going on. I didn't hear everything she said, but I heard her say this. She said, "I work hard. I don't steal. And everything I have, I paid for myself. Why would someone take one of the only things I have? How am I supposed to work tonight without my shoes?" 

 

Now, me personally, I've been homeless three times in my life, once as a child, once as a teenager, and once as an adult. And if I've learned one thing from those experiences and from kicking it with this population on Aurora for half a decade, it's this. You cannot be seen as weak when you're on the streets. 

 

So, when she first started up, I figured she was making a statement. She wanted people to know that she wasn't an easy target. But I didn't want things to get out of hand. So, I pulled her aside and I walked her over to our donation closet, told her I'd find her a new pair of shoes. But with each pair of high heels, she got angrier and angrier. And the angrier she got, the more desperate I became. And she finally stopped me and she said, "Launa, I don't want your shoes. I want my shoes, the ones I worked for and paid for myself." I couldn't argue with that. But then, the knife came out, and I realized that I had to make a decision. 

 

Now, any training manual or guidebook will tell you that this is the point where you run to the office, you lock the door, and you dial 911. But as I sat there watching her, remembering what it was like out there, I saw the look in her eyes and I recognized it. And the knife in her hand, I realized, wasn't so much of a weapon as it was a prop. She was putting on a show. She said her piece, she got some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. When she was finished, I said, "Now, will you please put the knife down?" And she did.

 

Now, this is the part of the story where people usually tell me that they cannot believe I didn't call the police. I told them I wasn't afraid of her. I was afraid for her. You see, if I had called a police officer to the scene, what do you think the odds are that a gun would have been drawn on her? And if a woman had bled out on the floor that day, because I called an officer to the scene who didn't understand street language, who didn't recognize that they were basically watching theater, then that would have been on my conscience for the rest of my life. 

 

So, I went off book, and I followed the code of the street. She got her shoes back, by the way. [audience chuckles] But this story is not about a woman who got her shoes stolen. It's a story about having a voice. Now, sometimes it is my responsibility to call the police. But other times, it's not. Other times, it's my responsibility to simply shut up and listen to someone who has been talked at, talked over, and spoken for, speak for themselves. Even if it's in a language that I don't fully understand. Thank you.