In a six month period in New York City I immersed myself in a new world, a world of the urban homeless. What better place to research the roots of homelessness than in one of the most expensive housing markets in the country?
It's a great sacrifice people make for the privilege of living in the city known as the "Capital of the World." With a population of 8 million, NYC draws talented artists, writers, performers and gifted people from every part of the world. Some stay, finding the trade offs worth it. Others don't.
To live here is to struggle. People go to great creative lengths to devise shelter. Some sleep in renovated bread trucks. Some sleep in the subway stations, or in parks. Some pay $800 or more a month for a room, with a shared bathroom and kitchen, if there is a kitchen at all. Some long term shelter dwellers pay rent on storage units where they keep their stuff.
In Manhattan, $1,200 for a one bedroom apartment is cheap rent, if you can find it. Would be renters pay real estate brokers a non refundable finder's fee equal to one month's rent for an apartment, and they're happy to do it. That's in addition to the standard first month's rent, last month's rent, and security deposit.
Here, on the street you can find all kinds of designer leather bags, shoes, clothes, and accessories for sale for pennies on the dollar. It's the necessities of life that are expensive. Housing is number one. It's scarce and it's costly. Necessity number two is food. Food here is expensive: restaurant food, grocery store food. A jar of peanut butter that costs $1.69 at WalMart is $3 here. Bottled water, 64 cents at WalMart versus more than $1 in New York grocery stores. New York pizza is possibly the best in the world. If you have to live on street food, pizza is the way to go, at $2-$4 a slice. Health food grocery/delis like Whole Foods are just too pricey to seriously consider. There are many supermarkets with take out buffets, but take out adds up. If you don't have a desk/office you work out of, you eat your lunch in the park, whatever the weather. A lot of freelancers carry their laptops around the city, connecting to the internet in a library branch to type their stories, do their work. A surprisingly high number of jobs involve working outside: street vendors, canvassers for political and charitable organizations, leafleteers, doormen, street cleaners, subway maintenance workers, messengers. Better to cook at home if you can, and brown bag your lunch.
The question of how and why people become homeless has haunted me since I became homeless in 2001 after I was sacked from my job for health reasons. It was a low wage job, and I was living paycheck to paycheck, so there was nothing to cushion the fall. I hit the ground almost immediately, and like hourly employees everywhere I had no golden parachute, just two week's vacation pay and an unemployment check. During this time, a lot of people gave me a place to sleep and shower, which kept me off the street at night. Some for a small rent, some for free.
In August, with my latest lease at an end and my apartment building up for sale, I went to NYC, the Big Apple, the high rent leader, to see what I could learn; and I did learn.
In the shelter and in the drop in center, on the street, and in the parks, I talked to homeless people. Older people, young people, white people, people of color, men and women. Some used drugs, or lived in the bottle. Some did not. Some were forced out by new landlords who jacked up the rents, some were chased out by abusive spouses, or thrown out by parents. One women, whose longtime trucker boyfriend died suddenly from a heart attack, was locked out of the apartment they'd shared by his relatives who grabbed everything, including all her personal belongings. A year later, still mourning the loss of a man she obviously loved deeply, she continues to struggle to rebuild her life.
Nobody in the shelters wanted to be there. Some, who stayed outside said they preferred the street to shelter life. Dawn stayed outside because her dog Tabitha was not allowed in any shelter, and she wouldn't abandon the nine-year old Boxer to the pound and probable death.
If there's any common thread here that explains the cause of homelessness it's this: the long term homeless, for whatever reason, have no family or close ties willing or able to help them. Whether that's because their family members are so mired in their own problems they have nothing left to give, or because family just doesn't care. In the matter of familial relations, the long term homeless very often drew bad cards.
There was a time when section 8 subsidized rent was available, after a period of waiting, for virtually any low income person or family, young or senior, working or disabled. That all began to change with the Reagan Revolution. At the same time, in the early 1980's rents started to explode in New York City. The rest of the country followed New York's lead. With the changes begun by Reagan and continued by George W. Bush, no longer could those without strong family ties or close friends look to their government for help.
In contrast, a CEO who mismanages a company badly enough to be canned, is cut loose with a million plus compensation package. I guess that's what people mean when they say the private sector pays better. It sure does--if you're a CEO.
For the rest of you working stiffs, and disabled poor: if you make wrong moves, if you draw bad cards, you lose.
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
1.19.2007
Heartbreak Hotel
As of last weekend, she was still out there. I'm talking about Dawn, the homeless young--very young --woman who was sitting on the sidewalk with her dog.
This time she had her head down; hidden, the way that some homeless persons greet the streets some days. Sometimes we all need some alone time, some damn privacy, a place to hide for awhile, sheltered from life's stormy weather. And just how do you get that if your "home" is a public street? You put your head down.
I did not bother her, or try to engage her in a conversation this time. I put a couple dollars into the paper coffee cup near her feet. I did this with reverence, as one might place an offering in a church collection tray. The dog, Tabitha, watched warily from under the jumble of blankets and clothing. I wondered if Dawn had gotten her sleeping bag and back pack yet. I descended into the subway station, as always holding back tears--of anger as much as sadness. Anger--why? Because I feel so powerless? Because my dollar or my loose change is only a drop in the vast desert of human misery? Or is it because I've been there, homeless-- and I haven't forgotten what it felt like.
Then today, there was another one. This one sitting on subway stairs at 42nd Street. So soft spoken I hardly heard what she said, but I didn't need to. Sitting there in the cold, alone, she was asking for help; the only help that seems to matter. The universal language: money. I gave her a dollar. Asked her how she got out there. She said her father threw her out. She said she was trying to get some money to feed her baby. I told her about the UHO people. They are homeless and formerly homeless who have organized, set up tables in various parts of the city, with huge tip jars. There they stand all day, in all kinds of weather, doing outreach, accepting donations for the homeless, dispensing information about services and shelters. I told the young woman to go to one of these people and tell them her situation. If anyone could help, I thought, they could.
Later, when I returned to this subway station, she was gone. To a better place, I can only hope.
This time she had her head down; hidden, the way that some homeless persons greet the streets some days. Sometimes we all need some alone time, some damn privacy, a place to hide for awhile, sheltered from life's stormy weather. And just how do you get that if your "home" is a public street? You put your head down.
I did not bother her, or try to engage her in a conversation this time. I put a couple dollars into the paper coffee cup near her feet. I did this with reverence, as one might place an offering in a church collection tray. The dog, Tabitha, watched warily from under the jumble of blankets and clothing. I wondered if Dawn had gotten her sleeping bag and back pack yet. I descended into the subway station, as always holding back tears--of anger as much as sadness. Anger--why? Because I feel so powerless? Because my dollar or my loose change is only a drop in the vast desert of human misery? Or is it because I've been there, homeless-- and I haven't forgotten what it felt like.
Then today, there was another one. This one sitting on subway stairs at 42nd Street. So soft spoken I hardly heard what she said, but I didn't need to. Sitting there in the cold, alone, she was asking for help; the only help that seems to matter. The universal language: money. I gave her a dollar. Asked her how she got out there. She said her father threw her out. She said she was trying to get some money to feed her baby. I told her about the UHO people. They are homeless and formerly homeless who have organized, set up tables in various parts of the city, with huge tip jars. There they stand all day, in all kinds of weather, doing outreach, accepting donations for the homeless, dispensing information about services and shelters. I told the young woman to go to one of these people and tell them her situation. If anyone could help, I thought, they could.
Later, when I returned to this subway station, she was gone. To a better place, I can only hope.
12.18.2006
Unforgettable
I came up from Union Square subway station and her painting was the first one I saw. Even now, it brings a smile to me just thinking about it. Bright pinks and purples and other color splashes, expertly woven together into the whole. It is roughly three by three feet, but I'm guessing at the dimensions. It is the most buoyantly, joyfully feminine painting I've ever seen. It celebrates feminity without being cloying or sticky sweet or a female caricature. The paintings in the "transcendence" collection also convey (to me) a reverence and affection for the city. The artist's name is Juliana McKeel. She has a website: http://www.julianamckeel.30art.com/. Go there and experience it all.
A little further uptown, on Sixth Avenue near 55th Street, I met a different kind of painter. A street artist, painting on canvas board with quick drying acrylics, in a neighborhood populated by the well-to-do. He paints them while standing at an easel, and sets them on the sidewalk to dry, propped against the towering stone buildings at his back. A writer, drawn here by the childlike quality of these paintings, commented: "They look like they were painted by kids."
The artist's name is Dan Stuart. He said he started painting "late in life." This past June is when he got started. He explains, "I done a lot of stuff. I was a writer, and my health got worse." A friend of his who happens to be an artist--a fairly well known one--gave him the paint and brushes. He reasoned that "somebody walking by is gonna like what you paint." It's evident that Dan doesn't take himself too seriously. He is content to sell enough to pay his rent and eat. And clearly his paintings are not in the same category as say, the aforementioned Juliana.
Still, there's something endearing about the guileless pictures of cows in a pasture, and red barns and trees, and bright flowers. They make you smile.
A doctor from the neighborhood supplies Danny with canvas board. He buys the more whimsical of the paintings, gives them to his patients when he presents them with their bills. "It makes them laugh," he says.
Do New York's finest bother him when he's selling his sidewalk art? he was asked. Not a problem, said Dan. He can sell anything, as long as he created it.
One neighborhood resident, he pointed out to a writer, walks her tiny dog past his street studio every day. If he's not vigilant, this dog will--as it has in the past--relieve itself on his paintings. No dog hater, Dan interrupted his painting to chat with an acquaintance who was walking a large female dog on a leash. The dog's name is "Pooch," and the owner rescued her from a shelter.
"It's like 'primitive art'," mused an observer.
"I ain't Grandma Moses," said Dan. "I'm more like Grandpa Danny, but it's working out."
A little further uptown, on Sixth Avenue near 55th Street, I met a different kind of painter. A street artist, painting on canvas board with quick drying acrylics, in a neighborhood populated by the well-to-do. He paints them while standing at an easel, and sets them on the sidewalk to dry, propped against the towering stone buildings at his back. A writer, drawn here by the childlike quality of these paintings, commented: "They look like they were painted by kids."
The artist's name is Dan Stuart. He said he started painting "late in life." This past June is when he got started. He explains, "I done a lot of stuff. I was a writer, and my health got worse." A friend of his who happens to be an artist--a fairly well known one--gave him the paint and brushes. He reasoned that "somebody walking by is gonna like what you paint." It's evident that Dan doesn't take himself too seriously. He is content to sell enough to pay his rent and eat. And clearly his paintings are not in the same category as say, the aforementioned Juliana.
Still, there's something endearing about the guileless pictures of cows in a pasture, and red barns and trees, and bright flowers. They make you smile.
A doctor from the neighborhood supplies Danny with canvas board. He buys the more whimsical of the paintings, gives them to his patients when he presents them with their bills. "It makes them laugh," he says.
Do New York's finest bother him when he's selling his sidewalk art? he was asked. Not a problem, said Dan. He can sell anything, as long as he created it.
One neighborhood resident, he pointed out to a writer, walks her tiny dog past his street studio every day. If he's not vigilant, this dog will--as it has in the past--relieve itself on his paintings. No dog hater, Dan interrupted his painting to chat with an acquaintance who was walking a large female dog on a leash. The dog's name is "Pooch," and the owner rescued her from a shelter.
"It's like 'primitive art'," mused an observer.
"I ain't Grandma Moses," said Dan. "I'm more like Grandpa Danny, but it's working out."
9.23.2006
Poverty Kills
Like a truck slamming into a Buick, the September 22nd Newsday story struck hard and left me stunned. After a night of downing gin last Friday, 18 year-old Savarin DeJesus returned to her room in an East Harlem homeless mothers' shelter, retrieved her four month old daughter from another shelter resident who had been watching her, and vomited into a bucket of cleaning liquid beside her bed before passing out. When she awoke the next afternoon, baby Niah had slipped off the bed and was face down in a six inch bucket of vomit and cleaning solution next to her mother's bed. The baby was pronounced dead at the hospital, from asphyxiation and/or drowning.
In Manhattan Criminal Court, the 18-year-old mother declared, tearful and trembling, to the judge: "I loved my baby. I want you to know that."
The young mother has been charged with negligent homicide and child endangerment. It's not known whether cribs were available at the East Harlem group home Ms. DeJesus called home. Given the gruesome circumstances of the baby's death, the young mother will no doubt be the object of much hate and criticism , and this story will receive much media coverage, until the next horror story bumps it from first place. Accusations will be hurled, like chairs in a bar brawl--at the "neglectful" mother, at the shelter, at whoever supplied the gin to the 18 year-old underage drinker. There will be questions too, about Niah's father. Who was he? Was he also a teenager? Was he employed? Was he homeless? What about the baby girl's grandparents? Could they have given a stable home to Ms. DeJesus and her daughter? If so, why didn't they?
In court, Ms. DeJesus' lawyer, Kenneth Gilbert suggested she might have moved to the shelter to be near her baby's father.
Eventually, this will fade from memory, like all the other disaster stories about how poverty kills people. Like the one about the kids in Chicago who died in a fire this month because the electricity was cut off and candles were lighting their apartment, which had no smoke detectors. Other than a natural disaster, there's only one reason for the electricity to be cut off, and that reason is lack of money to pay the bill. And there's ultimately only one reason that brings a person to live in a homeless shelter, and that reason is lack of money to rent an apartment or a room. Poverty is an unnatural disaster. Not an act of God; poverty is an act of man against his own kind. Poverty kills, just as surely as fire racing through an occupied home.
And after all the witnesses are heard, and all the pleas and motions are made, baby Niah will still be gone forever, and Savarin DeJesus will get an additional sentence added to the lifelong sentence of knowing that her bad decision, her lapse of good judgment was a contributing cause of the death of the baby she loved.
Are there any of us who, at age eighteen made only "good" decisions? Yeah... that's what I thought.
Because poverty imprisons just as surely as it kills, maybe now finally, Savarin DeJesus will get a more permanent housing situation--at Rikers --where the lights will never be turned off for failure to pay the bill.
In Manhattan Criminal Court, the 18-year-old mother declared, tearful and trembling, to the judge: "I loved my baby. I want you to know that."
The young mother has been charged with negligent homicide and child endangerment. It's not known whether cribs were available at the East Harlem group home Ms. DeJesus called home. Given the gruesome circumstances of the baby's death, the young mother will no doubt be the object of much hate and criticism , and this story will receive much media coverage, until the next horror story bumps it from first place. Accusations will be hurled, like chairs in a bar brawl--at the "neglectful" mother, at the shelter, at whoever supplied the gin to the 18 year-old underage drinker. There will be questions too, about Niah's father. Who was he? Was he also a teenager? Was he employed? Was he homeless? What about the baby girl's grandparents? Could they have given a stable home to Ms. DeJesus and her daughter? If so, why didn't they?
In court, Ms. DeJesus' lawyer, Kenneth Gilbert suggested she might have moved to the shelter to be near her baby's father.
Eventually, this will fade from memory, like all the other disaster stories about how poverty kills people. Like the one about the kids in Chicago who died in a fire this month because the electricity was cut off and candles were lighting their apartment, which had no smoke detectors. Other than a natural disaster, there's only one reason for the electricity to be cut off, and that reason is lack of money to pay the bill. And there's ultimately only one reason that brings a person to live in a homeless shelter, and that reason is lack of money to rent an apartment or a room. Poverty is an unnatural disaster. Not an act of God; poverty is an act of man against his own kind. Poverty kills, just as surely as fire racing through an occupied home.
And after all the witnesses are heard, and all the pleas and motions are made, baby Niah will still be gone forever, and Savarin DeJesus will get an additional sentence added to the lifelong sentence of knowing that her bad decision, her lapse of good judgment was a contributing cause of the death of the baby she loved.
Are there any of us who, at age eighteen made only "good" decisions? Yeah... that's what I thought.
Because poverty imprisons just as surely as it kills, maybe now finally, Savarin DeJesus will get a more permanent housing situation--at Rikers --where the lights will never be turned off for failure to pay the bill.
8.13.2006
Camp Refugee of America
Catherine was living in New Orleans when Katrina hit, and she lost everything, which wasn't much to begin with. A history of low wage jobs, family far away in London. It's a familiar script here, but each player brings her own unique qualities.
My friend from London has been in this country for thirty years, currently residing in a New York City homeless women's shelter known as Olivieri Drop-in Center. Or "Homeless Lane," as Cynthia calls it. Catherine doesn't have a strong social support network--not locally anyway-- and this is another common factor that brings women here, that creates refugees in America; but by no means is it the only one. Assumptions, as someone once said, make an ass of u and me.
Mental illness is another assumption assigned to the homeless, and she is not mentally ill. She is intelligent, articulate, compassionate, and funny-- and like too many of the women living as refugees in America, her life has been shattered by childhood abuse. To save herself-- to survive--she fled. Fleeing abuse is one of the most mentally healthy things you can do.
Neither does she fit the other convenient assumption made about homeless people: "drug user." Though she admits she drank in her younger days, those days are far behind her. An invitation from another friend to share some vodka holds nothing of interest for Catherine. She wants to keep her head straight, focused. She understands the enormity of the task before her, if she is going to reclaim her life.
By day three or four in this place, even the most organized, the most focused, begin to unravel. Nerves stretch thin-- from the daily uncertainty, the physical discomfort, the apparent lack of control over one's own destiny.
And there's the stigma. The homeless are everywhere in NYC, as they are in virtually every US city, dragging luggage on wheels, toting plastic bags and duffels and backpacks. Some are ragged, some are so stylish and well groomed, you'd never know they have no permanent dwelling. They are everywhere, but not everywhere are they welcomed.
A woman relates a story about a homeless man at a newstand, waiting to buy a newspaper, and told to wait outside. She was angry. Why should he wait outside when he was spending his money in that place? Why, indeed.
Here in this refugee camp of America, in a city sometimes referred to as "The capital of the world," the social workers are hard at work, five days a week, trying to fix broken lives. For each woman, a different mission. For Catherine, the mission is a ticket home to London. There, she believes she can get the help she needs to get on her feet again. And reconnect with her family.
To look at Catherine, you might think she is an office worker or a teacher on her way to a 9 to 5 job somewhere in Manhattan. And ideally, maybe that's what her life would be. Idealism is in short supply for many in this place. Anger simmering just below the surface, erupts sporadically. Step carefully: there are land mines buried here.
In this city, the capital of the world, you can find anything. You can buy fresh fruits and vegetables, hotdogs and fresh pretzels on the street for a pittance. Here there are great universities, museums and cathedrals. The performing arts flourish here. Talent gravitates here, from the musicians in the subway tunnels to the actors on Broadway. Everywhere there are 99 cent stores bursting with everything you'll ever need, and maybe a few things you want. The one basic need that's lacking is housing. Affordable, adequate shelter for all. It is the common denominator that underscores the dilemna of all who become domestic refugees.
You need an address to apply for a job, to apply for benefits. You need a home, with a closet to hang your clothes, or at the very least a locker. You need a place to take a shower. You need a phone to arrange interviews, appointments. Without this most basic foundation, moving forward, climbing up, is hard. Not impossible, but very, very hard.
In America, some people have three homes. In America, some people live in houses with more rooms than they'll ever use. And some people live in housing where many share one room, and many share one bathroom. Many of these are working people, paying taxes. Is it a housing shortage we have here, or a distribution failure?
Is it hopelessly idealistic to believe that every person living in America could have adequate, safe shelter with rent based on income? Is it really "socialistic" to believe that every person living here could have access to basic quality health care based on medical need, not personal wealth? Or is it simply democratic? What is democracy, anyway?
If you read this, Catherine, I want to tell you: hold on. You are stronger than you think. All of you are. Because the truth is, when people bad mouth the homeless, what they're expressing is their own uncertainty, their own fear that they couldn't survive the hardship you are living through today. I'm not sure how long I could survive, and because of that I'm in awe of you all.
My friend from London has been in this country for thirty years, currently residing in a New York City homeless women's shelter known as Olivieri Drop-in Center. Or "Homeless Lane," as Cynthia calls it. Catherine doesn't have a strong social support network--not locally anyway-- and this is another common factor that brings women here, that creates refugees in America; but by no means is it the only one. Assumptions, as someone once said, make an ass of u and me.
Mental illness is another assumption assigned to the homeless, and she is not mentally ill. She is intelligent, articulate, compassionate, and funny-- and like too many of the women living as refugees in America, her life has been shattered by childhood abuse. To save herself-- to survive--she fled. Fleeing abuse is one of the most mentally healthy things you can do.
Neither does she fit the other convenient assumption made about homeless people: "drug user." Though she admits she drank in her younger days, those days are far behind her. An invitation from another friend to share some vodka holds nothing of interest for Catherine. She wants to keep her head straight, focused. She understands the enormity of the task before her, if she is going to reclaim her life.
By day three or four in this place, even the most organized, the most focused, begin to unravel. Nerves stretch thin-- from the daily uncertainty, the physical discomfort, the apparent lack of control over one's own destiny.
And there's the stigma. The homeless are everywhere in NYC, as they are in virtually every US city, dragging luggage on wheels, toting plastic bags and duffels and backpacks. Some are ragged, some are so stylish and well groomed, you'd never know they have no permanent dwelling. They are everywhere, but not everywhere are they welcomed.
A woman relates a story about a homeless man at a newstand, waiting to buy a newspaper, and told to wait outside. She was angry. Why should he wait outside when he was spending his money in that place? Why, indeed.
Here in this refugee camp of America, in a city sometimes referred to as "The capital of the world," the social workers are hard at work, five days a week, trying to fix broken lives. For each woman, a different mission. For Catherine, the mission is a ticket home to London. There, she believes she can get the help she needs to get on her feet again. And reconnect with her family.
To look at Catherine, you might think she is an office worker or a teacher on her way to a 9 to 5 job somewhere in Manhattan. And ideally, maybe that's what her life would be. Idealism is in short supply for many in this place. Anger simmering just below the surface, erupts sporadically. Step carefully: there are land mines buried here.
In this city, the capital of the world, you can find anything. You can buy fresh fruits and vegetables, hotdogs and fresh pretzels on the street for a pittance. Here there are great universities, museums and cathedrals. The performing arts flourish here. Talent gravitates here, from the musicians in the subway tunnels to the actors on Broadway. Everywhere there are 99 cent stores bursting with everything you'll ever need, and maybe a few things you want. The one basic need that's lacking is housing. Affordable, adequate shelter for all. It is the common denominator that underscores the dilemna of all who become domestic refugees.
You need an address to apply for a job, to apply for benefits. You need a home, with a closet to hang your clothes, or at the very least a locker. You need a place to take a shower. You need a phone to arrange interviews, appointments. Without this most basic foundation, moving forward, climbing up, is hard. Not impossible, but very, very hard.
In America, some people have three homes. In America, some people live in houses with more rooms than they'll ever use. And some people live in housing where many share one room, and many share one bathroom. Many of these are working people, paying taxes. Is it a housing shortage we have here, or a distribution failure?
Is it hopelessly idealistic to believe that every person living in America could have adequate, safe shelter with rent based on income? Is it really "socialistic" to believe that every person living here could have access to basic quality health care based on medical need, not personal wealth? Or is it simply democratic? What is democracy, anyway?
If you read this, Catherine, I want to tell you: hold on. You are stronger than you think. All of you are. Because the truth is, when people bad mouth the homeless, what they're expressing is their own uncertainty, their own fear that they couldn't survive the hardship you are living through today. I'm not sure how long I could survive, and because of that I'm in awe of you all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)