Under the bridge

I write under a highway. It's my job. Under I-70, the air is thick with dust and ash. Sometimes, debris falls from above, damaging co-workers' cars. (So far, I've been lucky). Homeless people walk up and down the train tracks, picking at trash, possessions slung over their shoulders in hapless bundles. Today, coming back from lunch, I saw a prostitute (I assume) tumble out of a truck's passenger side. The truck screeched away. She tossed her hair out of her face, got up and began to dance, flailing her arms, swaying her hips, smiling with the maddening secrecy of the Mona Lisa.

"Man, she's loaded," my friend, who was driving, remarked.

I peered closer. Deep purple bruises burgeoned under the dancing lady's eye. When shafts of sunlight caught them, the bruises winked and glimmered in the sunlight.

(When I started my job here, I'd naively assumed prostitutes wore slinky boots and red leather. Not so. Prostitutes -- at least, the ones I see out my window soliciting the truckers -- dress and look like tired mothers at church potlucks. They wear Keds and applique sweaters.)

My job is to write about these people -- the desperate people under the bridge, the needy people all over the city. My job is to tell homeless and low-income people's stories in a compelling way, so that our donors will give us money to help them. Initially, I was ashamed, I think, of writing to raise money, rather than writing to create "art" or "literature." Now, six months into my job, I regret my stupid elitism. I am a very lucky girl. I get paid to drive around the city, to meet people in their homes, to listen to them tell their stories. I see their children's shy smiles. I see gruff fathers' faces crumple into tears. I watch their eyes light up when they make discoveries, as they piece together their own lives.

I get to write not only to reflect the world, but to try to change it, to advocate for people who are desperate. That's a privilege.

So, my job has humbled me, and prompted me to rethink the hierarchy I'd formed in my mind about "types" of writing. In addition, my job has helped me grow in that assignments' guidelines have refined my writing skills. For example, since I have strict word limits, I must choose words more deliberately than ever before. And since each piece is designed for a purpose, I must order words carefully, marshaling them on the page, as if for battle. Sometimes, my audience is a donor base of 100,000+ people, as diverse as it is wide. In these cases, I must try to appeal to basic human instinct. Forget the lacy, complicated, useless theses I so carefully wrought as an undergraduate. Instead, I've learned to write around everyday, "universally appreciable" realities. A gurgling stomach, for example. Shame in asking. Huddling for warmth. Worrying about children. Longing for a home. Wondering, "how did I get here?" Looking to the sky for a sign.

I don't think I'll stay under the bridge forever, though. Yesterday, I took the Strengths.Finder 2.0 online test. My employer paid for each of us to take this. I find my five strengths hilarious: Input, Intellection, Learning, Ideation and Context. Read here: I'm a huge, awkward nerd. According to this test, I love to learn, to observe, to absorb information and sensory data, and to engage other people in conversation. ("You should stop thinking ... you'd feel better," a coworker said to me today). Sometimes, the solitary act of writing burdens me. I want to see my readers' faces, want to argue ideas aloud, to make a fuss and some noise. Perhaps, someday, these "strengths" will lead me back to university, to teach writing or acting. In the meantime, I am content to listen to people who've struggled mightily, and to try to honor them with words. On this particular afternoon, here in the cool darkness of my office, I hope that my writing will help Denver to see and consider people who might have otherwise remained invisible. (As I hope for this, crazies pound on the window, drunk people stagger through the parking lot, and passing trucks make the earth shake and rumble).