This Thing Called Home
February 12th, 2012 § 7 Comments
I remember it so clearly. Standing in front of a restaurant on Avenue A and 10th Street. There were these barriers. I was on one side. On the other side there were tables, chairs, plates, napkins, people eating, and huge drinks with fancy stuff sticking out of them.
I stood there for a moment watching. I had to know, why were they on that side of the barrier and me on the other? How was I different? And how might I become like them? These were very honest questions.
There were the obvious things, I was homeless. I did not look pretty as I had spent the night barely sleeping on a park bench in Tompkins Square Park. I was a little drunk on a 40 ouncer of Balentine beer. But I did not feel like I was less worthy some how. I was just not able to get on the other side of that barrier. And I did not understand.
I moved along before I made the diners feel uncomfortable. I just needed to take a good gander and look for any clues.
A few days later there was a street party with bands on 11th Street. I was not feeling so good. The streets were taking the best of me. I sat on a stoop and watched an old man in a sombrero dance recklessly in circles. I looked up and saw the yellow lights emanating from the windows above. It looked warm in there. How do I get in there, I thought? Why am I out here and they are in there? Again, just an honest question. I wanted for something more. I struggled with these thoughts. The questions were bigger than me. But I asked them none the less.
Six years later I moved into my own apartment in the East Village. My name on the lease and everything. I had come so far that it took a few months for me to realize where I was. But one day I walked out of my front door and recognized the stoop where I had once sat feeling perplexed. I then turned around and saw the building I had dreamed of. The warmth, it was now mine.
The beauty of New York City is this. I love this city and this neighborhood. To run the streets. I pass the fire hydrant where I once took my showers. I visit the park benches where I slept with mace gripped tightly in my fist. To eat in the restaurants where the likes of me could not even use the restroom. How often does a homeless person rise above and feel this, I wonder?
I am now on the other side of the barrier and still not entirely sure how I got here.
There are days when these things make me feel sad for that girl on the streets. No one should have to see what she has seen. And other days… I feel like I live on top of the mountain that once seemed impossible to climb.
These little “glimpses” into your life are profound and I am captivated by them. It’s like I’m standing there, right next to you, as you relive them. I hope you write a full autobiography, because your story is fascinating, sometimes heartbreaking, and triumphant, all at the same time. I feel privileged to be a small part of your life.
Awww… I think we are meant to be friends forever Jodi. Thanks for your kind words. xo
You eloquently describe you past on a way that you transport the reader to that time in your life. As readers we can see what you saw and feel your emotions; well done. An autobiography would be a great idea.
i just want to hug you now.
<3
Even if it is a little at a time, those 6 years need to be herd by all.
Thank you.