Well this has been quite a week so far. If we read something ‘spiritual’ into the process, which you could say, I do, with this process starting on Sunday and all, Palm Sunday actually, as the stars and moon would have the in the year of our Lord 2012; or to be even more accurate, even maybe exact, this process may be considered to have started the day before; on ‘Lazarus Saturday’, that being the day, in that moment one late afternoon, the good man rose from the dead, at the Lord’s bidding.
It is two years to the day on April 1st,, that day when I first arrived in the Bronx in 2010 when the only significance I first initially found on that date was I finally getting out of my four and a half month winter stay in a crowded mid-town stinking shelter, and it was April 1st exactly I remember – April fool’s day – as I entered my new clean apartment on the 7th floor in the Bronx and looked out the window and stared down to see cherry trees blossoming their puffy white cherry flowers blossoming in the back courtyard in the late morning sun, and it was very pretty and very quiet and very relaxing as I feeling the warm sun on my chest; as my window is facing south; and as my apartment was on the 7th floor and 7 is a lucky number I was hesitantly deciding that this is a good thing – a very good thing(?), considering with some trepidation I was – you see there is another number involved here see, not that I am superstitious or anything - it is still April 1st – I am still in April fool’s day, and given all what had happened, and can yet still happen, to me, in this often times I finding cruel world, well…
Finding ‘The Promised Land’ – maybe…maybe this is just a cruel joke so often played on this day.
So here it is 2 years later to the day and a whole lot of experiences, a whole lot of things have happened, as you may have read, in part, about some of them; I was inspired, this may be too mild a word, ‘inspired’ to write – shocked say, or astounded as in seeing a burning bush – although I did see a lot of them, rather sort of – already burnt bushes, or a spirit that once was…or a healthy bush, of sorts, once – I guess…now burnt… Better said, the feeling was more that I was appalled at the ravages of a ghetto life, a different ghetto life than I aspired and brought up in as a youngster; and in this bewildering dismay I was inspired, oddly, to write some stories.
I mean Christ! Come on – the tenants are throwing garbage out their windows – and feces too! And they are constantly having to be reminded, told even
“Don’t do that! It brings rats!”
Among other really obvious reasons I am thinking.
I guess the counselors, the case managers are pandering to their client’s self interest, perhaps, their survival mechanism, if such existed; well they are still alive.
How about the more obvious reasons not to engage in such behavior, as in throwing your shit out the window(!), or maybe the shit was someone else’s(?!) shit, is not exactly ‘good form’ or even ‘reasonable’ behavior say, though up in the Bronx ‘reasonable’ would at times bring on whole new meanings, whole new understandings.
So here it is two years later and what was first categorized to me as ‘transitional’ housing for homeless vets – that is why they pulled me out of the shelter when they, my case manager, finally figured out I was an Honorably Discharged veteran; boy was she excited; types like me are often times hard to find in our city’s shelters, as hard to find as a dirty hound’s tooth you can sometimes get to thinking…
“You are an honorably discharged homeless veteran and we have a housing program for you!” she says to me.
She can be so funny sometimes, Jasmine, and she sure smelled a hell of a lot better than the rest of that stinking shelter. These case managers in the shelter love a success story – much as even themselves are often mislead – they are nice enough though.
So all of a sudden, within a few weeks I was pulled out of the shelter and I was entering into my own apartment on the 7th floor with my window gratefully facing south, overlooking the beautiful blossoming cherry trees and I am opening the door with my own key, though I generally hate keys – all the responsibility, and all
“Don’t lose your key!”
You know my house key, the only key I carry and the key the cops are always stealing from me when they frisk me, for no good reason, on the street, in the ghetto, and in their obvious consternation of finding nothing and acting as a frustrated spoiled brat not getting what he wanted and then having to take something(!) – confiscate something(!) – anything! in their grubby hands; yeah, that key.
“Don’t lose your key!”
The key, that only serves to remind me of the nefariousness and the thievery of my neighbors and even the cops every time I enter my key into the metal serrated slot of the lock…
Why else to have a key?
I am not locking anything in – everything in my apartment is pretty much going to stay there – not that I have that much – nothing is walking or flying out of my apartment on its own. No, anything in there, in my apartment, would need help from someone or something out here for it to get out; I’ve never seen a lap top or a cooking pot fly, yet – at least on its own – but this is really a spiritual story, so anything is possible really and I know I haven’t seen everything yet, though after 2 years in the South Bronx added to the rest of my life…well you can get the idea.
Anyway as my fate or my luck would have it I was correct in my intuition concerning that one number of April fool’s lore luring me, being the butt of this April fool’s prank, I really am the rube soothed and put at ease I was, initially relaxing to be out of that crowded shelter with promises that would never be kept.
I would eventually learn many many months later that my ‘transitional’ housing has now been converted to ‘permanent’ housing, all of a sudden, overnight, if you will. You see the bureaucrats and/or the politicians in an upcoming election year wanted to reduce the number of homeless veterans; seems a good idea – even laudatory! But the government being what it is, among other questionable behaviors – Hey, call me cynical if you like but I have seen a lot of shit going down after six decades of life in this arena – my government decides that this apartment I am living in is no longer considered ‘transitional’, it is now ‘permanent’, and I and a whole lot of other veterans like me are no longer homeless – what a good idea!
Well yeah, except we really weren’t, because 2 years after my stay I am still being held to my side of the contract that they had me sign when I first got here: after 2 years (excepting any other transgressions I may commit) I am out – really 18 months is the contract but I had a stay of eviction, or a re-set of my initial contract for an additional 6 months as I having to spend 2 weeks in the hospital after getting really thumped(!) one night in the B train after about 7 months into my tenure here in the south Bronx - hey here is another lucky seven again(!) – and they broke my nose the bastards!
And now that I am considered in ‘permanent’ housing I was taken off that list I had been patiently, expectantly waiting on, for to be given, ‘permanent subsidized’ housing, that line I had been waiting on to get to be first, one day in the future to be finally on the front of that line, finally, it usually taking about 12 months, which is why the transitional housing program was designed for an 18 month ‘transitional’ stay, well now I was no longer on that line – no need to be – I am no longer in ‘transitional’ housing because I am in permanent housing!
So my government had changed the rules mid-stride and I was without the power to protest – talk about unilateral decisions – our government so likes those unilateral opportunities of powerful largesse, so easy and soo uncomplicated; and all with just a stroke of the pen.
So the number of homeless veterans in suddenly, almost miraculously really, reduced – sort of – for a little while, at least, or maybe just long enough, if you want to get really cynical.
So I am now about to be put back out onto the street – homeless again and trudging off to a shelter; at least it will be a warm spring day, though it may be raining, certainly.
And my case manager – my 2 case manages I have(!) – are ringing their hands and saying
“Oh we are so sorry! What can we do for you?”
Well you can get me the permanent housing you promised me when you pulled me from that shelter 2 years ago.
Well, no, they could not do that.
Yeah well stop asking me what you can do for me. You wouldn’t mind me thinking you ain’t going to produce, no matter whatever the hell you promising you going to do for me? Do you? How about recommending a ’good’ shelter I can go to while I wait for real permanent subsidized housing – again.
Well no they couldn’t do that either; they actually did not know how, had no knowledge, and I am thinking ‘you better learn’ because there are going to be a hell of a lot more of me coming your way after their 18 months are up in your ‘transitional/permanent’ housing or whatever the hell you going to be calling it then.
You know one of the experiences I found rather disconcerting during this two year process is that this experience is supposedly designed to help the homeless veteran re-enter into the society by getting securely situated and thereby becoming secure and having less anxiety, and in this almost artificial womb of security become secure enough, re-directed enough for the veteran to reenter the main stream and engage, since it has been studied and shown that a great deal of homelessness comes from the inability to deal with the vagaries, the cruelties of society, and finally one just gives up; I can relate to such experiences. I am here, aren’t I?
So, I figured in this ‘transitional’ housing program, when, back in those days my housing was really‘transitional’ housing, the encouraging, reassuring experience, the program of promising the support network would encourage me, engender me to trust people, and their processes, again, and grow back some of that ‘ol self confidence I once had, regain enough self confidence and self reliance so I would feel brave enough, and confident enough to reengage with society.
It seemed like a good idea.
What, in fact happened, is that I found myself surrounded by the vagaries and the cruelties and the craziness and the promises not kept: basically of what life really is; I cannot begin to tell you, enumerating each discouraging painful detail within this short piece, culminating finally in this last unfulfilled promise!
Am I out on the street again!?
And then I got to thinking, that maybe this process was in fact meted to me with volition, it was planned – except say that thumping I endured on the B train – and that this whole experience was indeed preparing me for, working me to get ready for, the real world; a smooth transition so to speak, rattled enough through this process of casual(?) deceit(?) in order to be really prepared, and not so taken by surprise or naively unsuspecting nor bewildered by the real rattling about to come when I reentering the Hell identified as ‘society’. It is an approach, certainly, although at the end of this process I am homeless again…
Better prepared? Maybe…
I have seen this approach, of sorts, work, in the military, say – may be we should try this experience, the process, on new borns too, really mix them up early, to be ready – oh wait; some parents, or stepparents have tried I heard, and some are in jail now, perhaps being so taken up and carried away in the excitement of it all, the excitement of the program.
And this preparation and self confidence thing, well…it may be overrated.
So one day shy of April 1st, as I said on Lazarus Saturday, one of my drug addled, drug addicted friends comes finds me and she says she knows of a place
“Here, call this number.”
And she gives me this scrawled number on a soiled scrap of paper and it does make one wonder though one call later I am setting up, assenting to an interview, and the next day – Palm Sunday - as our Savior entering the Holy City, I am entering the holy county of Queens, Hillside exactly, coming down a broad boulevard, and not an apartment building to be seen; must be something in the building codes, or zoning I am figuring, maybe this is a holy city, and there they were, actual palm fronds scattered about on the boulevard and the sidewalks in front of me, perhaps there really is a bit of Don Quixote in me, and while I did not have a donkey at hand I could not help but accept, acknowledge and silently revel in the semblance, in the prophecy of the spirit made manifest, of me, the anointed one arriving and I am accepted into a lovely home and I share this home with two very nice people, and no one is throwing shit out the window(!) – at least not yet, though I am still looking around furtively; I must admit.
Now mind you, my two case managers – two(!) – very straight and very buttoned up and very, very sober – God Bless, I hope to God!- and very trained, at least I guess they are, I hope to God so(!); So these two case managers of mine could not do shit for me – not a fucking thing. It took my drug addled friends to recognize my fate, and take my predicament in hand and know of a reasonable, even appropriate solution; thank God I keep drug addicts and whores close; it pays apparently in my line of life, although some would have reservations or even straight forward disagreements of the company I keep (my mother comes to mind), no matter the rather obvious similitude of our almost most holy Mary Magellan during this most holiest of weeks in the Christian calendar.
But as my mother often says
“The proof is in the pudding.”
And yes I am eating pudding now too - big mounds of the stuff I have now around me – stuffing my face, as matter of fact, with large spoonfuls of the delicious sweet confection, I actually am; thank God I am writing this as opposed to actually having to speak this story with my mouth all full. Oh, did I tell you my new kitchen has a HUGE refrigerator and the big clean 4 burner gas stove even has an oven now – my previous ‘transitional/permanent’, or however slyly they now describing my very recently vacated previous crib, did not – so I am cooking up a storm now – do you know my bathroom has a skylight? Neat huh! - And I have this great big living room I can invite friends in and no one has to ‘sign in’ and present, to the unreasonably fastidious door monitors, identification(!); even the ones that don’t have any ID can visit me now – if I choose!
They can even sleep over and I don’t need no ones permission!
I‘m the boss here.
And I can see a beautiful full blossoming flowering cherry tree right out of this south facing window here - too.
So I celebrate this April 1st as not an April fool, at least that is the feeling I am getting these two years later on this Palm Sunday in which I am experiencing my fateful sacred life in this ‘new’ neighborhood.
In this neighborhood there are a whole lot of Indians and southern and northern Asians I am noticing – Gooks generally – in all shapes & sizes & types, good Gooks, and some very pretty Gooks too, and all very well behaved – and quiet too – thank God, even the kids, in the morning especially, we can all have some peace and quiet, and even in the evening as we ride back from work, I am surrounded by sensible reasonable people.
There is even a Phillippine-American Center not ten blocks from my new home; I have never seen one of those Centers in the Bronx; and I saw two nice looking Columbian restaurants on the Avenue here too, though I will have to be diligently saving some of my meager bits of money before crossing that fancy threshold.
I do look ahead with anticipation, with some trepidation even at the possibilities of Friday, for Good Friday, it will be here soon, though given all its biblical despair and portents Black Friday I certainly consider the more appropriate and sometimes alternatively declared name of that disturbingly memorable day, for you can only call that day ‘Good Friday’ if you are sure you know what is going to happen on Sunday, but you and I both know of the vagaries of life and the slim possibilities of everything working out OK, no matter my just in the nick of time luck, yet again this luck of which my some few friends think I have way too much of – just in the nick of time luck, this time around – yet again - maybe I will hide under my new bed that threatening day, and the next day too, hunkering down through ‘Holy Saturday’, that’s when the Holy Church recommends I fast and if I see the opportunity, or perhaps succumbing to the visions, depending upon the resoluteness and severity of my fast, I will descend into hell as He once did and free the captives – and then on Sunday, if I am still alive, and thereby fulfilling the holy prophecy, on Easter morning the Son will surely be risen.
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