I was told the night I came in that I'd be getting an interview with a case manager and that because of my background in the Navy, it'd probably be a female named Bay. Neither of those things were true.
In fact, nothing went to plan. Nothing ever does. I thought that maybe the spark of human kindness that had given me hope to stay in this place would be carried over.
Mais, non.
It was another place where well-intentioned people with limited resources just shuffled cases onto and off of their desk with a well-honed, reflexive set of words and projected emotions. Round stones sorted and shipped, square stones rejected as difficult.
I could see the problem. Some of the guys there were trying to start over after kicking an addiction. Some of them had mental illnesses. Others just didn't want to work ever again. I haven't asked many guys about their stories. I'm not usually one to pry.
My story is that I'm a shithead. I tried to do things my way, hard and for a long time. I pushed away people who could help me because I wanted to do things on my own or die trying. Now, my closest friends are these guys. Like every other person I've ever met, they're generally kind, but quick to take offense and vigilant about giving up what they have.
These guys, this place, and a few government programs are all I have to try to have my own life.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Robo Hobo Homo #001
I came to Purgatory Shelter[1] on the 14th of May, 2014. I only meant to stay here for one night. According to the plan, I'd ascend the mountain the next morning and keep doing that for the rest of my life.
It takes a long time to check into a shelter. Especially if, like me, you hadn't ever done so before. I'd saved enough personal information and had an uneventful enough legal history that I could still check in. Small favors.
While I waited, I read things. It's what I do. I'm not very good with people; I like getting my information from reading things. It happens at my own pace and I don't have to craft a measured emotional response that satisfies the person I'm talking to that I am both understanding and grateful of what they've just told me.
There was a lot of stuff there. Most of it was put up years ago and the source and specifics had undoubtedly changed since then. It was ill-kept, but the overall message was clear: there were other possibilities. I suppose there are always...possibilities.
I got a rack and some linens and got a quick rundown on how things ran. There were chores, meals, shower times, rack times, rules, all things that were familiar to me. The Navy seems like the only sanely run place I've ever lived. Every other place I've been seems to have been a contest between a buyer wanting to pay as little as possible and a seller wanting to charge as much as possible. All of that exists in a pointless social mire.
Well, I say “pointless,” but that's something this whole journey has taught me and it's a subject for another day.
At Purgatory Shelter, I was greeted with a kind of humanity I just hadn't seen from temp agencies, potential employers, or professional contacts. I wasn't just a resource to be turned over, evaluated, and rejected at this modest homeless shelter on a coast I'd never seen before, I felt like a person surrounded by people for the first time in years.
It takes a long time to check into a shelter. Especially if, like me, you hadn't ever done so before. I'd saved enough personal information and had an uneventful enough legal history that I could still check in. Small favors.
While I waited, I read things. It's what I do. I'm not very good with people; I like getting my information from reading things. It happens at my own pace and I don't have to craft a measured emotional response that satisfies the person I'm talking to that I am both understanding and grateful of what they've just told me.
There was a lot of stuff there. Most of it was put up years ago and the source and specifics had undoubtedly changed since then. It was ill-kept, but the overall message was clear: there were other possibilities. I suppose there are always...possibilities.
I got a rack and some linens and got a quick rundown on how things ran. There were chores, meals, shower times, rack times, rules, all things that were familiar to me. The Navy seems like the only sanely run place I've ever lived. Every other place I've been seems to have been a contest between a buyer wanting to pay as little as possible and a seller wanting to charge as much as possible. All of that exists in a pointless social mire.
Well, I say “pointless,” but that's something this whole journey has taught me and it's a subject for another day.
At Purgatory Shelter, I was greeted with a kind of humanity I just hadn't seen from temp agencies, potential employers, or professional contacts. I wasn't just a resource to be turned over, evaluated, and rejected at this modest homeless shelter on a coast I'd never seen before, I felt like a person surrounded by people for the first time in years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)