My lovely lady and I have had this discussion numerous times since I've taken this particular job, and it never ceases to amaze her just how close to homelessness most of the mid and lower class wage earners are at any given time. Even those who earn six figure and better incomes could find themselves homeless with a couple of bad breaks and a short passage of time, so they probably shouldn't get too cozy in the belief that they are safe from an extended stay at the "room under the bridge."
The big difference between my lady's situation and my own is the presence of family in her life. Her family is large and they are close. If something terrible were to happen to one of them, the others would all pitch in to make sure it was only temporary, and there would be no sleeping on the street, that is for damned sure. My family is, for the most part, dead and gone and the one family member left here on planet earth is my sister, who I doubt would be able to assist me even if I showed up on her door naked and on fire. It's not that we don't get along, it's just that she's closer to homelessness than I am at any point in her work week, and she surely doesn't have the resources to allow me free meals and lodging while I figure out what to do next.
After my mother passed away in 1996 from a fast-growing primary lymphoma cancer on her brain, I was truly alone in the world for the first time in my life. It didn't help that after she passed I went off the deep end and became even more horribly addicted to heroin and cocaine (and just about anything else I could put in my arm or lungs). It wasn't my mother's passing that sent me plummeting to the depths of drug addiction mind you - I had been a member in good standing of that club for most of my adult life. But this was really the first time my fail-safe safety net had been removed for good, and knowing it was gone was a shock beyond comparison.
I hadn't had to use that safety net since the early 80s but knowing I could return always brought me great comfort. No matter how bad life got for me prior to her passing, I always had a place to retreat to, regroup, re-center... The death of my mother left me vulnerable to the vagaries of the world and the stupidities of my drug addled mind.
I can't tell you exactly why, but it didn't take long for me to wind up homeless after her death and I spent the next four years couch surfing, dumpster diving, boosting, dealing, squatting down in Sac and Marysville, CA and finally living in a handmade teepee while I searched for my own "bottom." I found it there in that mountain "rustic lodge" and was just lucky beyond words to find someone who took a chance on a broken down dope fiend and helped me get back on my feet.
For many of the clients I work with, family isn't an option for them, and the chances of some angel entering their life is remote, indeed. They've either incinerated those bridges or don't have any family left to turn to in times of need, and many are beaten and broken from life on the streets and the impact this life has on their bodies and minds. These folks are alone in the world and even the seemingly minor problems that arise in their lives have more punch to them than it does for those who have someone they can turn to for assistance and the time needed to get their lives together again.
I mention all this because getting to "homeless" isn't really that hard for many folks. Getting out of homelessness for many however, is another story entirely.
Editorial »Perspective | Any Of Us Could Be Homeless |
| 'We all hear the phrase, "But for the grace of God," and nod our heads solumnly. But we really don't believe it, do we? We really don't believe that we could end up homeless; that kind of thing only happens to them. We are certainly not a domestic incident, a lay-off, a corporate down-sizing, a divorce or a stock-market 'correction' away from homelessness. Of course not.'" |
Meeting the eyes of the man who asked the question, I wondered whether those people knew that their remarks would be read or heard by New London's homeless. Had they known how much their words would hurt?
I saw it in the man's bright blue eyes, set in a face that looked to have many more years on it than the 61 he claimed. I heard it in the random comments of others and sensed it in the generally subdued atmosphere in the shelter that night. Our friend stared at us expectantly; he really did want an answer. My husband went first, “Losing a job.”
“Right!” said our friend and looked at me.
“A bad business decision?” I ventured.
“A bad business decision, yes!” he exclaimed as if I were a particularly bright student. Then he asked in a soft voice, “Did you see what they said about us? About being pedophiles?”
Hurting for him, my husband and I nodded. He said, “No one here would ever touch a kid like that. We have our own kids and grandkids, and we worry about them all the time. If we were waiting outside there, we'd be the first to protect a kid if someone was bothering them. Those people should know that. And if anyone around there needed help, if their car got stuck in the snow or something, who'd be the first to help? We would!”
He was just echoing the facts that New London Crime Prevention Officer Bill Edwards has said at every public forum and meeting: The police have vetted each shelter resident and none of them are pedophiles. For people accustomed to being sneered at and avoided, there is no harsher or crueler false accusation.
Our friend was silent for a bit and then asked me, “What do you do?”
“I'm a writer.”
“How much do you make?”
I paused, not because of the personal nature of the question but because of how suddenly the truth hit me. Hard. I finally answered, “Not enough to keep my home if it weren't for my husband's income.”
And there it was. Not the answer he'd sought, but I saw the comprehension in his eyes. Then, empathy. “You're not the only one!” he assured me, this Vietnam veteran who proudly wore his “Save Our Sub Base” T-shirt. “Anything can make homeless. A divorce. Lay-offs. One arrest for a stupid decision. I'll tell you this: if the Sub Base or EB were to close tomorrow, we wouldn't have enough cots in this place.”
I'd met enough people at the New London shelter, and in shelters, soup kitchens and food pantries in Connecticut, California and Florida to know he was right.
I'd talked to people who'd taken out bad loans and been the victims of bad divorces and good lawyers. I'd met young women who had given up their children because they couldn't give them a good home, and all of them plan to get those children back and do right by them. In the New London shelter, I've heard a professional musician play the decrepit piano in the office so beautifully it would make you weep. I know a man who plays cribbage with Q-Tips and another group of residents who will cut short their last outdoor break of the night to play Scrabble. I've talked to a former New London High School football player who quit school because his family needed him to get a job.
We all hear the phrase, “But for the grace of God,” and nod our heads solemnly. But we really don't believe it, do we? We really don't believe that we could end up homeless; that kind of thing only happens to them. We are certainly not a domestic incident, a lay-off, a corporate down-sizing, a divorce or a stock-market “correction” away from homelessness. Of course not.
What had “made homeless” for our veteran was fighting the Tet Offensive while barely out of his teens and then returning to a community and nation that despised him for it. I wonder, when our towns and cities, shelters and soup kitchens are filled with young men and women with their minds, bodies and hearts twisted and broken by what they've seen and done in Iraq and Afghanistan, will we call them pedophiles and drains on our property values?
What makes homeless?
Marci Alborghetti recently completed, “But to Serve,” a biography of Norwich orthodontist Jeremiah Lowney and his work in Haiti. Her ninth book, “How to Pray When You Think You Can't” will be released in October. She lives in New London.
