Take These Broken Wings: Part 1

“So what’s become of the people there?”

I took a long, thoughtful drink of coffee before looking up at my high school friend, Joe, with whom I’d met up prior to my trip.

“Some got a year of free housing, some are in hotels, and some, I’m not sure.” My throat suddenly felt a bit dry. “But the couple we’re visiting this weekend in South Carolina – they’re doing quite well. They took care of the animals in Tent City. Chickens, cats, pigeons, guinea pigs –“

“Wait a second. Guinea pigs?”

“Yeah. People would come and drop off stray animals, and Michael and Marilyn would take care of them.”

Joe sat back and shook his head. “They dropped off stray animals to people who can hardly take care of themselves. What are people thinking?”

That it was a dumping ground, I thought to myself. I recalled the day I’d come to camp in late May and seen the dumpster overflowing, whereas it had been virtually empty only two days prior. I learned that non-residents were taking their trash to Tent City and piling it into the dumpsters there. Dumpsters that, in the coming weeks, would be filled with demolished tents and their contents. A dumping ground for people, animals, and whatever else the outside world considered refuse.

Joe and I parted ways moments later. I didn’t have to be at Su’s house until later that evening, so I decided to make a pit stop.

The “No Trespassing” signs were visible from the main road, but there weren’t many cars around as it was, let alone police. So I felt safe. I put on my blinker and turned onto the dirt road.

It was the first time I’d been there in the daylight. The structures were gone. Not a soul – human or otherwise – was in sight. But there were remnants. I parked in what used to be the middle of camp, my only point of reference the naked bulletin board that was still standing, still with an announcement written in dry erase marker, faded to the point where I could barely make it out.

Leaving the car radio on as I got out to take a look around helped me feel less alone. Shards of glass dotted the loose gray sand. There was ample proof that the place was once alive: a stuffed animal here, empty water bottles there. A pile of plastic forks, a partnerless shoe; a set of purple rosary beads. Even the makeshift shrine with the tall wooden cross and the plastic Christmas lawn ornaments had been destroyed. It was as I’d expected: a veritable graveyard.

Michael and Marilyn Berenzweig had left Tent City months before the demolition, back in February. As public works machines lumbered about tearing down vacant tents, we had gathered in the chapel for a small celebration the day before they left. I sang alongside Michael as he played Beatles and Everly Brothers songs on the guitar. Marilyn had chosen to stay behind to pack and prepare for the next day’s sojourn. A volunteer, fellow animal activist, and professional truck driver, Su Schindler, had found them a home in South Carolina, one with ample property on which to keep their little menagerie.

So when Su contacted me a few days ago and asked if I wanted to accompany her on a visit there, my answer was an emphatic “yes.” Because, honestly, I was losing hope. As vacant and desolate as those woods felt, the void in my heart felt even wider, and seemingly with fewer tangible remnants. My sense of purpose and belonging, once seemingly etched in certainty, was faded.

At that moment, I wasn’t sure why I’d gone back. Perhaps solely to remind me that I had nowhere to go but forward.