  Bethany Salmonson Composition 1- SBEssay 1 Julie Lundblad July 2004 & nbsp; nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;
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nbsp;  Anywhere But Here & nbsp; nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;
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nbsp;  We will look anywhere but there.  We will glance by and pretend that we didn’ t see them.  They make us uncomfortable.  They look at us,
 unashamed,  and yet we will not look back.  We are ashamed.  & nbsp; nbsp;
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nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;  They are the homeless people that we see going around street corners and sitting on the cracked sidewalks.  They are the people that we look at and even look through.  They are the bums,
 the refuse of our society,  the blemishes on our perfect little communities.  We see them as the embodiment of disgrace,  human life at its lowest form.  We don’ t question why they are here;
 we’ re sure that it was by some unlawful act of laziness that they find themselves in such a position.  & nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;
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nbsp; nbsp;  Even though in our minds we are sure of this,  we are ashamed.  We are ashamed to be driving by in our cars,  holding our Styrofoam container of leftovers from the restaurant we just left.
 We are unsettled by their presence,  they make us feel guilty.  We get angry at them.  We worked hard for what we have and we deserve it.  How dare these faces,  these unfamiliar faces,
 make us feel guilty.  The nerve of these people.  After all,  they’ re living the way they are because of their mistakes,  right?
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 We release our anger and self assurance and continue to drive by,  to walk by.  We won’ t meet their gaze,  it makes us uncomfortable.  We begin to wonder how cold it will get tonight.
 We wonder if they have people to talk with or if they will try to sleep in silence.  Will they find a crevice of some rare trod street to curl up in?  Or has dignity left so long ago that they feel no need to hide themselves.  Will they choose the more sheltered area under the storefront awning though it is more exposed to the critical eye of the public?  We wonder this as we turn the radio up in our luxury vehicles.  &
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nbsp; nbsp; nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;  The noise distracts you,
 distracts you from feeling that dangerous feeling that you’ ve tried to fight off every time you drive in this part of town.  But this time the music doesn’ t soothe,  it makes you think.  Thinking can be very dangerous.
 You try to find another avenue of thought to stroll down,  but those eyes haunt you.  You made the mistake;  you looked into that person’ s eyes as you were driving by.  You knew better than to do that,
 but you did it anyway.  Now those eyes stare at you,  though they don’ t see you anymore.  & nbsp;
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nbsp; nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;  You turn off the radio.  It isn’
t distracting anymore,  at least not in the way you want it to be.  Now it is almost taunting you,  mocking your conscience.  It points its nonexistent finger at you.  It knows why you turned it on and that exposure makes you nervous.
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 I see these people.  I don’ t see them often,  but their plight I can feel.  I wonder if they know people drive by them and feel sorry for them.  Would they appreciate the thought?
 Would they shudder to know that people look down on them as unfortunate,  the fateful chosen ones of Life.  & nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;
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nbsp; nbsp;  I try to put myself in their shoes,  but it is impossible.  I want to know,  but I am scared to know.
 Could I handle the truth?  Could I be so open to what they could share with me that I would truly be able to comprehend?  I don’ t think so.  I cannot look out at the world from their perspective.  I cannot know what it is like to sleep on cement slabs with the rain trailing down me and know that I have no place to go to dry off.
 I cannot look out at the world through their eyes.  Oh,  those eyes.  They follow me.  Oh please,  look anywhere but here.
