- The day was a gift. It was December in New York, the
time of year when snow and cold typically chase thoughts of Spring into
nostalgia. However, on this day, the weather was reminiscing. It was
fifty-five
degrees and I was strolling leisurely up Sixth Avenue, looking in shop
windows and smiling at the passersby.
-
- It was then that I saw her. She was sitting on the
sidewalk
behind a sign. A little cup was placed next to her. The cup contained a
few paltry coins. The sign said "Please help me. I am homeless."
Her head was down as if she were hiding her face. However, she could not
hide her hopelessness.
-
- I put a few dollars in her cup and sat down beside her.
We began talking. I asked her if drugs was one of the reasons that she
was on the street. She replied "No, my mother and stepfather are the
reasons I am on the street." Her eyes were clear and I knew she was
telling the truth. My mind filled in the blanks of the story. I sat on
the street with her and we talked. She said "I am 22 years old."
The words cut deep into my soul. My son is 22 years old and his world
overflows
with love. I wanted to give her a meal, a bed, a home, a family.....some
hope. Instead, I discussed her options with Social Services. She seemed
grateful for the money and the words. I left..feeling a tremendous sadness
and inadequacy.
-
- Homelessness is common in New York City. I do not know
the statistics and I almost do not care. Statistics are cold and unfeeling.
Statistics do not describe the lost, lonely and confused. Statistics do
not describe the look on this young woman's face. One homeless person is
one homeless person too many.
-
- As a child, I lived in a beautiful brownstone in
Brooklyn,
NY. Several of the rooms had bay windows, and crystal chandeliers adorned
the lower level. It was a beautiful house and yet, for me, it was never
a home. I looked at my friends in small apartments and envied the real
or imagined "coziness." Was it merely a projection of my
longing?
-
- When I graduated from College, my first act was to pack
and leave my family of origin. I moved in with a couple of friends in the
East Village. On the visual level, the apartment left much to be desired.
On the emotional level, it was a palace. The word "home" had
found a definition.
-
- My mother came to visit me "How could you move from
such beautiful surroundings to this squalor?" She would have said
worse, but my mother did not curse. She once tried to say the "s"
word and it got stuck before exiting her mouth. My mother could not have
understood what I was experiencing. My words would have been useless, and
what's worse, hurtful.
-
- That apartment on East 7th Street was my first home.
Eventually, when I married and had children, I tried to create an
environment
in which my children would feel loved and validated. There were many lean
years of single parenting but they were always loving parenting. I used
to say "you have to love your children to death."
-
- I have worked in Social Services for 11 years and have
intimately interacted with the disenfranchised. I have developed close
and caring relationships with people who society regards as nuisances and
freeloaders. I have learned the reasons for their pain and heartache and,
what might be labeled, "poor choices" My life has been enriched
by these relationships, and when the day came to close each case, a piece
of each person lingered behind and I was made greater and richer for having
known them. They gave me as much as I gave to them, maybe more, though
they would have had a difficult time owning that reality.
-
- And there she was sitting on Sixth Avenue, in a cold
and uninvolved city; a rejected 22 year old whose horrors I could barely
imagine. That moment became a religious experience.....an experience of
a sentence I have parroted emptily in my past. "We are all
One."
-
- I left myself sitting on Sixth Avenue on that beautiful
springlike December day.
-
- Copyright 2004 Judy Andreas
- JUDE10901@AOL.com
- www.judyandreas.com
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