bridgetcarriedavis Homeless

Three Hours

Let’s imagine that for some reason you find yourself homeless. There’s no one to call there’s no money there’s no bank account there’s nothing you’re just homeless. It doesn’t really matter what time of year it is but it’s better if it’s summer or maybe early summer. Within 3 hours something’s going to happen, you’re going to need a drink of water or you will  need to go to the bathroom, or you might be very cold where you’re sitting or you might be very hot or it might be hard or it might be bumpy but it’s not soft; it’s never soft. Chances are you’re in a town, people are walking around and nobody notices you, yet.

Let’s say that you have to go to the bathroom maybe you just have to pee. You look around for any public bathrooms with no kuck. Maybe a few businesses say paying customers only but most of them just say no restroom. You look to see if there’s any government buildings, they have to let you use them but then you remember oh yeah the nearest one is about 3 miles across town. Now the urge is getting uncomfortable you’re going to have to do something soon so you might as well start walking toward the nearest building you know that has to allow you. But then you can’t help but notice will that bush cover me maybe I could get away if I go in there but then you remember, if you get caught urinating outside you will be listed as a predator. So you walk the 3 mi and you pee and you are so grateful for that for that bathroom.

That walk really did you in so now you need to sit down and just rest a minute so you look for a public bench. You see one but it’s full and you don’t see any others. You look for maybe the wall of a fence to sit on which of which there are plenty but they have little spikes embedded in the top put their specifically to stop people like you from sitting on them. So the only place that you can find it’s the curb.

You had never actually sat on a curb before, and you are surprised by the thick exhaust from the cars that hits your face. The smell will infuse your clothing within minutes. But you deal with it because you’re tired and your feet hurt. You see people looking at you as they pass and you know what they’re thinking by their strange expressions; they think you are drunk, or on drugs. And the longer you rest the more suspicious glances you see, but now also from the windows of surrounding businesses. Embarrassed by these unfamiliar faces, you get up and start walking. It’s not until you walk another mile that you realize you don’t even know what direction you’re going. You just wanted to get out of there.

bridgetcarriedavis Homeless, Uncategorized

THE GREETING CARDS

1987-2005
I left my mother’s house when I was sixteen years old and it is because of that fact that I do not think it is fair to judge her though the memories of a sixteen year old. She was at least as mentally challenged as I am, and that is all that I really need to know. Perhaps we will talk it out in Heaven, for I am certain that is where she is at this moment, but even if we don’t meet in the future, and never talk about our history, I’m ok with it; life can be very hard.
I was a horrible daughter, acting out all of my frustration and confusion in loud ways. Being rotten bothered me for a very long while. But I am not going to judge my challenged child-self anymore than I am going to judge my challenged mother. It took a good ten years for me to come to these decisions…That it wasn’t our faults, That we did not deserve to be judged, especially by each other, and That we might not ever be able to express our love and appreciation. I had a hundred reasons for never returning to my home town – all in my head, and it soon became a pain all its own…every time my mother had a birthday, or a holiday passed without contact I felt more lost. And then it hit me…like a whisper from heaven. I could not talk to my mother, but maybe I could whisper, through a card. I was homeless and destitute when this plan hit me and so how could I possibly send my mother a birthday card?
I must admit, I cannot remember the first time I “wrangled” a card for my mother, but soon it was a regular habit, all over the country, coast to coast, and everyone who knew me more than six months knew about this thing. Regardless of where or with whom I might happen to be, when it got close to a holiday, or my mom’s birthday, I would start asking. I just needed a card, even a post card would do, a stamp, and a pen to write with. I would ask people close to me, or perfect strangers sitting on a park bench and if I could not find anyone I would go to the nearest church and ask them. Once I even went to a Hallmark Store.
This all might sound terrible and imposing, but I wish that you could have been with me, even one time, to see the look on a person’s face when they heard my request. People are basically wonderful, I can tell you, and everyone was more than happy – honored even – to help in my quest of love.
I would put a return address if I knew I would be hanging around long enough to get a reply, but usually that was not the case. Being homeless is illegal, and I was always moving from place to place, city to city.
Many times, even with a good address, my mother would not respond, but I understood. Sometimes even a year or two would go by, but I knew that I didn’t want to stop sending those cards. Then five years went by. I sent a letter to the house, asking if perhaps my mom had moved, or maybe even died, but again, no response. Soon I changed to sending birthday cards and Mother’s Day cards. Then, after a few more years I sent only Mother’s Day cards, but I sent them every year, and I promised myself that I would do so until I died or someone asked me to stop. No one ever asked me to stop.
Then, I sent a mother’s day card…I can see it now, a painting in the Quaker style of a mother holding a child, plainly dressed but both joyous in their love. I imagine I always will always remember that card since it was the last. It was then that I heard from a family member who wrote back, shocked that I would finally, after all this time, write to my mom the very year that she happen to die. This person did not know about the years, the decades, of Christmas, Birthday and Mother’s Day cards. She had not told anyone. Year after year…all of the adventures I had gone on to fulfill my pledge, and the people I had begged to acquire these cards…I never even begged for money when I was hungry or cold. She never shared a word. No one in all of my family ever knew that I had been in contact all that time.
I don’t judge my mom, and I don’t want you to judge her either, anymore than I want to be judged by you. Our challenges are not the same. But I am glad at those cards; even though I did not get the warm return from them that I might have wished, I received a warmth and generosity beyond measure from all of those people out there who helped me, so lovingly, to get those cards, and to send them to my childhood address. And I choose to believe that while my mother did not share my cards with others, she felt my love from them, and feels it right now in Heaven.

I couldn’t find an image of the last card but it is similar to the one above, by Mary Cassatt.