Who is Deviant?

             Deviant inspiration and haircuts were my goals for a Saturday afternoon in Portland. I figured the rain soaked streets of the Pearl District would surely produce some socially ostracized individuals, and my daughter had been nagging me to get her hair cut and dyed all week. My usual desperate search for parking ended at a practically vacant lot near the bus depot and neighboring homeless shelter. Only $7 for the entire day; score! As I pull into a vacant spot my thirteen year old daughter exclaims, “really mom? Can’t we park somewhere else?” Oblivious to her reasoning I take a look around. There’s a worn down looking guy in grubby clothes on one corner sharing a sandwich with his equally worn down looking grubby dog by his side. Across the street are four or five men with backpacks and rolled-up tarps and sleeping bags on their backs, talking and laughing loudly. An elderly man in a bright red coat who carries a striking resemblance to Santa walks in front of the car. We make eye contact, and a jovial toothless grin emerges from his big white beard. I return the smile as my daughter murmurs, “uh…creepy”. Obviously, these people are more than likely homeless, but I deem them harmless and try convincing my daughter of this. She’s not buying it. Choosing the path of least resistance, I give in to my daughter’s fickle temperament and reluctantly pull out of the lot. A half-mile or so away, we find parking near “normal” people; people with money to spend, cars to drive, and places to go.

            We walk up Everett St. and into Bishops; the hair salon. The receptionist greets us and we give her our names. Her blaringly blue hair, and multiple piercings and tattoos match the hip, liberal-minded atmosphere. My stylist, Daniel, looks up from his work with a familiar smile; he gives us a dainty wave and says “helooooooo ladies!” I return the wave and begin exchanging small talk while I admire his flawless eye make-up and freshly polished nails. My daughter’s stylist; a full sleeved, curvy woman, with bleach blonde hair and bright red lipstick calls her over to her chair.

        With a few hours of wait time, I decide to go for a walk. Equipped with a camera over my shoulder and a notebook in my bag I set out in search for my newly discovered deviants; the homeless population of Portland. Reminding myself of my assigned fly-on-the-wall status, I take photos of various homeless people from my hip, hoping not to draw attention. A presumably homeless, one-legged man in a wheel chair scoots across an intersection, stopping traffic. A police officer notices but does nothing to assist the struggling man or disgruntled drivers; however, he gives me a suspicious look as I snap a few shots.

            I turn a corner where a group of homeless people are gathered in front of a run-down building. A “normal”, well-dressed man and attractive woman walking down the street towards me notice the deviant group of squalid individuals ahead. The man quickly switches sides with the woman; shielding her from coming too close to the detested men. She clings onto his arm, her posture rising as she stares straight ahead. Superiority emanates from the “normal” couple.

         As a “normal” person, I have the privilege of enjoying a cup of coffee from inside Powel’s book store. I gaze out the window at the plethora of people walking up and down the street. A homeless-looking teenager sits on the corner playing a guitar as passerby’s throw change in his case. He thanks them with genuine gratitude, but no-one replies.
         The assumptions being made by the “normals” about the deviant homeless sub-culture seem clear; they’re lazy, mentally ill, dangerous, alcoholic, drug addicted criminals who are homeless because of poor choices they’ve made and continue to make. But is that the reality? Could it be that they’re perfectly harmless individuals who’ve become victims of circumstance? It dawns on me that who is considered deviant in our society depends on perspective, not the facts or any hint of reality. It all boils down to fear. My grandfather wouldn’t be caught dead allowing a hair stylist who was openly gay or a seemingly uninhibited tattooed woman touch his “normal” hair for fear of catching their gayness or sexuality. Maybe “normal” people fear the homeless and mark them as deviants because given the right conditions; they know that could be them. If “normal” people keep homeless people assigned as deviants, then their “normalness” remains sanctified.

All images copyright 2012 Brooks Photography