Full Speed Ahead: My Journey with Kit

The woman grabs my arm, but I wrench free and yell for Kit to run. We take off, and though I can’t match Kit’s pace, we soon lose the woman far behind.

I follow Kit to a park, where we collapse onto a bench, panting. Once I catch my breath, I apologize for losing Uncle Hendrick’s letter, but Kit says the neighbor would have suspected us either way. Kit explains that hoboes get blamed just for how they look, though they aren’t bad, people just don’t trust them since it’s not their fault.

That seems unfair, I say, and someone ought to do something. Kit agrees, but what? We walk home in silence, thinking about how terrible it would be to be truly homeless. I suggest writing a letter to the newspaper about kindness to homeless people, and Kit offers her typewriter.

I protest that I’m not a good writer, but Kit says all it takes is having something you really want to say. Being with Kit makes me feel capable of anything, so once we find Buddy, I agree to try, if she helps.

Rounding the corner to the Kittredges’ street, we spot Charlie with Buddy in his arms. Kit and I break into a run, nearly tackling him as we shower Buddy with pets, afraid he’d been gone forever. Charlie says Buddy found his own way home. Too busy smooching the dog to talk, I let Kit bounce until I hand him over so she can hug Buddy, too.

We tell Charlie about our adventure at Uncle Hendrick’s, including how the neighbor was mean to us just for how we look. Charlie quotes his favorite author, Henry David Thoreau: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Hoboes deserve respect no matter their clothes.

Kit nudges me, time to write that letter. Up in her attic room, she rolls paper into her typewriter and tells me to talk while she types. The blank page gives me the same sinking feeling a blank computer screen always does. How do I start?

Kit tells me to state my opinion first, then back it up with facts, starting with “I think.” After a quiet moment, I say it’s wrong to be mean to hoboes since it’s not their fault they’re homeless. I add that homelessness could happen to anyone, thinking of how the Kittredges come close to losing their house some months. Before judging a hobo as a tramp, bum, or thief, I write, you must see the person and put yourself in their shoes.

Kit adds that their shoes are probably falling apart anyway. I laugh and have her type that, too, along with a line about sympathy for hoboes instead of judging them harshly.

Kit says a letter to the editor closes with “Sincerely yours” and a signature. She types the last words, unrolls the paper, hands me the letter and pen, and heads off for an envelope. Before she disappears downstairs, I tell her she’s a great writing partner, and Kit grins that I’m a good everything partner.

I fold the letter into my pocket, feeling sorrowful but resolved. It’s time to go home, even though I don’t want to. I take a clean sheet of paper and write.

And then I click the camera.

Back in my bedroom, I pull out the letter, turn on my laptop, and find the local newspaper’s Letters to the Editor email. I retype it, changing hobo to homeless person. I brought home more than a letter: a whole new idea of myself.

When I’m done, I remember Kit’s “Sincerely yours,” add it along with my name in a cursive font, and click Send.

I close my laptop and look out the window. It’s still night, and with my bedroom lights on, I see my reflection more clearly than the city below. I look the same, but I’ve changed inside. Kit would be proud of me.