STREET LIFE

It was a typical, busy day.


It was devoted to the street life.  (Misheard lyrics in my head go off every time.. "Street life, people..up and down the boulevard..." Okay, so maybe it's streetlights according to official Journey lyrics but I think street life fits better anyway...)


Don't Stop Believin' is pretty apropros after this day.


I started with Melvin. He'd landed back at another friend's house and needed to go to the Social Security Office to change his mailing address. His new card "disappeared" from his old address but fortunately it had not been accessed. He'd decided to go up north to stay with family, the wear and tear of the streets taking its toll. We had the card expedited to my house; he will get on the bus as soon as the benefits hit. I won't bring the card until we are on our way.


On the way back, we saw a girl walking on crutches. I gave her a ride. She rode around with me for about an hour, just to rest, since there was no home to go to. I had to drop her off at a gas station. I knew who she was, having seen her mugshot multiple times, and I was able to initiate a conversation with her. She isn't ready to leave that lifestyle, though streetwalking will be considerably hampered on crutches. She has my card; when she gets tired she now has a way out.


I met a couple looking for apartment assistance at the local soup kitchen. I hung out at lunch, with many of the regulars. Some I knew in passing; others I knew well.


There was Jax, who will look at me and swear his shoes are green when I can see they are bright red. He'd had a severe brain injury after having his head kicked in at the local jail ten years ago. I don't know if the lying is part of the brain injury, a spiritual problem, manipulation, or a combination of all three. Probably the latter. It was still good to see him. He brings out my maternal side more than most, even though he's only a decade younger than me.


Mr. Raleigh was there, after his physical therapy. He's come a long way since his stroke two months ago. I got him in an apartment two months ago and he needed help paying the second month's rent. I told him today to call me if he needed me to come get his check when it came in. I had twenty years experience in handing out allowances and find it to be a useful tool on the streets. Even those not struggling with drugs have trouble managing their money.


I met Pocahantas, a name that comes up every time a scam goes down. And got to hold DJ, a 3-yr old who comes with his grandparents, aunts, and in-and-out mother every day to the soup kitchen.


I watched those around me as they ate. There were those who ate with the heads down. They seemed thankful, but ashamed. There were those with pride. They acted as if they were doing the kitchen a favor by being there. There were ladies who loudly complained about how horrible everything tasted. Some told jokes as the lone meal served each day was their only interaction with others. Some drive; others walk.   Most know each other; many know me. Some even well enough to ask why I wasn't eating because today's menu included pizza and most know my theory: even bad pizza is good because it's PIZZA!




Frances barely ate. She had a broken tooth. I called a free dental clinic and made an appointment to take her next Tuesday. Most of us wouldn't dream of waiting five days with a broken tooth, but when you are dependent on free clinics and goodwill transportation you don't have a choice.


It works out pretty well. I can drop Frances off in Ocean Springs, then get Melvin to the Biloxi bus station.


When the administrator at the V.A. called to see if I could bring Eric to Biloxi next week, I was able to work it into next Tuesday as well.


Eric has been trying to get his VA benefits since last November and is finally nearing the end. He had a local organization helping him, but they are short-staffed and what should've taken weeks actually took months. I'd taken a backseat in his care, not being an official employee of any agency, but when I went to visit him earlier this week I saw a man who was literally wasting away. 4% body mass index, the doctors said. I was horrified. Maybe a little jealous because I secretly yearn for the abhorred Barbie doll dimensions, but horrified nonetheless. I'd just seen my second homeless friend die in three months and I refused to sit by and watch it happen again because of bureaucratic red tape.


This is where it comes in handy that I DON'T work for a government agency. Two phone calls later and a bypass of the understaffed organization, his vouchers are ready for us to come get him. By Wednesday he will have a home.


I got a shock today when I found out that Darla, a young girl who looked like she could model for Abercrombie & Fitch, was the daughter of Belinda, a local prostitute.


The first time I met Darla she was hanging out at Tent City. I called my husband and had him meet me right away. We thought she was a runaway; she couldn't have been more than 17. I wanted to bring her home. Cute as a button and intelligent, I didn't want her to get caught up in the world of drugs and prostitution.


She declined our offer to take her out, saying she wanted to smoke her pot. I encouraged her to go home to her family or call me if she wanted to get out.


I saw her twice after that. Both times she wanted no help.


Today I found out that she was Belinda's daughter. I was almost sick.


I've been helping Belinda for about a year. I've taken her up to two hours away to stay with friends before. I've visited her in jail. We've talked about her church upbringing and falling away. She can't break the meth addiction and prostitution is her life. I knew she'd lost custody of a child but until today I had no idea that child was Darla.


I was trying to prevent her from a life she'd been born into. No wonder she didn't want out. It's all she's ever known.


After I completed paperwork for the new couple, my phone started ringing off the hook. Between the apartment (about 30 minutes) I had seven calls, all from people in the motel where that couple is staying, all wanting rental assistance.


Most won't qualify but I'll sort through the applications with them this week-end.


I'd forwarded the church phone to my cell today so it rang more than usual. 37 calls in all. Including my dad, whose voicemail said "Yes, I'm homeless and looking for an apartment. Is that what I need to say to talk to my daughter?"


Very funny, Dad.


The truth is, we talk every day. My dad has always been there for me. Even when I was doing things no parent should have to experience. His love is unconditional and always has been.


Sometimes I would take that for granted.


But not today. Days like this, I realize just how blessed I am.


For some of these people, I'm the closest thing to family they have left.


I try to give them the unconditional love my dad gave me. No matter what.