My internet cut out when I originally wrote this post, in the wee hours of this morning.
I.
His speech was rehearsed, or at least he was used to saying it... repeatedly. His voice cracked and the words sort of groaned out of his mouth. He barely projected, but everyone on the train heard him. It was somewhere around the third time that he asked if anyone had any food, then stated that he was not ashamed to accept it- that I began to dig around for the pile of change I'd placed in my sweater pocket before leaving for the evening. I wished that I had had a slice of sweet potato pie to give to him when I heard the coins hit the cup. He asked God to bless me and moved on.
II.
Just before the train doors opened I saw him and couldn't help but let out a little chortle. An older white man dressed in his summer sailing whites, complete with the cap and shorts. When I boarded the car and looked at the swollen ankles of the seemingly cold passenger, I got that feeling I've had since moving back to NY: I'm so happy that I have somewhere to live. I may pass out from exhaustion on the train every-single-day, and there were those few times that spent all night sleeping on the L train and woke up in Canarsie, BUT I do not sleep there because I have to. And that's what matters most.
This year I was able to buy gifts for everyone for the first time in years. It's nice having a job and not having rent to pay. This money is definitely not disposable income, but it's the closest I've been to it in a long time.
It's 2:22 and all I ever wish for is love.
Josh and Juan came to Christmas. I was so thrilled to have to ability to welcome friends to a family event, knowing that they would be completely comfortable. Well, entertained- at the least (Mom, naturally takes care of this). My mother is the center of all gatherings- Me being an apple only overshadowed by her tree. I drank. I ate. I proved that I have poor hand-eye coordination and a flat voice during a really fun Rockband session. Wii/Xbox360 are making us a family that plays together. I hear that those stay together.
xX.
Showing posts with label homeless people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homeless people. Show all posts
9.2.09
Nothing is stopping.
(It began on the train.)
We become our parents. We become our friends, admirers, lovers, and enemies. It is inevitable to avoid, this absorption of everything that surrounds you. For 22 years, I have been surrounded by New York City. I have soaked in the subway, the accent, the pushes and shoves, the catcalls. I overflow… I am a shell encasing an entire city- right down to the homeless man to my left. Without proper recognition, he is defining me. By existing, portraying a negative outcome of our society, he allows me to bask in the glory of what has been deemed as “right.”
I do wonder about him, though. I consider the ways by which he’s arrived to this moment. His body follows the motion of the train. He softly collapses to the left, his shoulder falling to the chair beneath it. For someone else, maybe it would’ve been the side of a stranger, but for him, it is a cold empty object. He does not carry the haunting aroma that the many other unfortunate New Yorkers living on the streets do, but still he rests alone. He sleeps. I think of the apartments that I would run to, in case of a house fire, or some other tragic event that could lead to this path- I am grateful.
Many years ago, I served in a soup kitchen. The thought of doing it overwhelmed me with anxiety. I can remember not knowing what to expect, as I’d never really interacted with homeless people before (and obviously, I assumed that these were the only attendees of a dinner at the Bowery Soup Kitchen). It took 4 hours to prepare the meal. The pots were of industrial proportions- some of the vats stood over two feet tall, bubbling with spaghetti sauce. People began to arrive...
In suits.
My friends and I served mountainous plates to those seated at the tables, creating the air of a restaurant to a room full of people who probably didn’t get the experience very often. Many of them were returning to Bowery after working jobs, just before returning to their shelters and halfway housing. Their clothing may have been acquired from donation sources. They did not look homeless at all. Gracious, maybe, but not as I had expected them to appear. (I’ve since learned, that a number of my friends and their families were once seated at these tables, disguising their circumstances against the most commonly visualized form of the term homeless.)
I’m on the train again. As he rests, I think of transitions. Recently, I heard that approximately 48% of New Yorkers cannot afford to purchase food. A percentage is so exuberantly high, that there is a chance are you will be seated next to someone, on their way to home to bring their family to a place like Bowery Soup Kitchen, tomorrow. Someone, in the middle of a transition between two places -And one ending was seated to my left this morning. Nothing is stopping.
(It ended in my bed.)
We become our parents. We become our friends, admirers, lovers, and enemies. It is inevitable to avoid, this absorption of everything that surrounds you. For 22 years, I have been surrounded by New York City. I have soaked in the subway, the accent, the pushes and shoves, the catcalls. I overflow… I am a shell encasing an entire city- right down to the homeless man to my left. Without proper recognition, he is defining me. By existing, portraying a negative outcome of our society, he allows me to bask in the glory of what has been deemed as “right.”
I do wonder about him, though. I consider the ways by which he’s arrived to this moment. His body follows the motion of the train. He softly collapses to the left, his shoulder falling to the chair beneath it. For someone else, maybe it would’ve been the side of a stranger, but for him, it is a cold empty object. He does not carry the haunting aroma that the many other unfortunate New Yorkers living on the streets do, but still he rests alone. He sleeps. I think of the apartments that I would run to, in case of a house fire, or some other tragic event that could lead to this path- I am grateful.
Many years ago, I served in a soup kitchen. The thought of doing it overwhelmed me with anxiety. I can remember not knowing what to expect, as I’d never really interacted with homeless people before (and obviously, I assumed that these were the only attendees of a dinner at the Bowery Soup Kitchen). It took 4 hours to prepare the meal. The pots were of industrial proportions- some of the vats stood over two feet tall, bubbling with spaghetti sauce. People began to arrive...
In suits.
My friends and I served mountainous plates to those seated at the tables, creating the air of a restaurant to a room full of people who probably didn’t get the experience very often. Many of them were returning to Bowery after working jobs, just before returning to their shelters and halfway housing. Their clothing may have been acquired from donation sources. They did not look homeless at all. Gracious, maybe, but not as I had expected them to appear. (I’ve since learned, that a number of my friends and their families were once seated at these tables, disguising their circumstances against the most commonly visualized form of the term homeless.)
I’m on the train again. As he rests, I think of transitions. Recently, I heard that approximately 48% of New Yorkers cannot afford to purchase food. A percentage is so exuberantly high, that there is a chance are you will be seated next to someone, on their way to home to bring their family to a place like Bowery Soup Kitchen, tomorrow. Someone, in the middle of a transition between two places -And one ending was seated to my left this morning. Nothing is stopping.
(It ended in my bed.)
9.12.08
adventure thyme.
If her shoes weren't so fly, Jenny might've looked homeless in this one.
I took this because I swore I saw a face in this pile of clothing. Now I know that I was just drunk and crazed.
Babygurl owns the illest shit ever.
Broken bones = Always B.A.
Jenny stopped to buy oreo cake before we went to Max Fish. Upset that she had to pay full price, when she normally gets a sweet deal, she moved on to find that the slice was infact stale.
Alaina flipped a shit when she spotted this in the juke box. I failed to notice what songs were even included on this compilation.
He's everywhere.
Someone made a fake Keith Harring drawing. I immediately put that in my purse.
When I dazed out on the F train, and landed myself at 34th street, I began to take pictures of the homeless people that I was surrounded by. I must say, I was rather outnumbered.
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