I visited one of our country’s many and burgeoning homeless tent encampments last week. None of the residents wanted me to take a photograph of their face.

“I don’t want my mom to see me like this,” said one man who appeared in his thirties. Another would only allow photos of the unbandaged and bleeding venous ulcers on both of his shins, a familiar sight from my days of outreach nursing in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. It seemed important to him that I share the evidence of his physical deterioration. But absolutely not his face.