“Where?”
“We connect people to our shelter network.”
“Shelters? But that’s not housing. Have you put anyone in a house?”
“A shelter is better than sleeping on the street.”
“But if you stay in a shelter, you lose everything you have.” I know I should leave it. My voice sounds sticky with self-righteousness. “They only let you bring a backpack. And you’re not guaranteed a stay beyond the night you’re there. The next day, there might not be room for you.” People don’t understand the time it takes, the effort, the mental strain, just to find a place to sleep. It’s the hardest job in the world, not having a job.
Her chair whines as she leans back. “Who are you writing this for? What’s the angle? Because I would like to talk about helping people. I thought we had an understanding that this would be a positive look at the homelessness crisis.”
I am triggered, but I have to swallow it. I have to swallow it because I need her to like me. I need her to help me. But if I had to define one of the biggest barriers I have encountered, all the times I have needed help, it’s this idea that I am being negative. That by being me, by being a person who has lived through and dealt with terrible things, I am “negative,” the rain on everybody’s parade.
This isn’t about me, I tell myself. Except it is.
“I’m sorry.” I bristle at the words. I’m so sick of being sorry. “I’m just trying to establish the specifics, exactly how you’re helping.”
She purses her lips. She is about to ask me to leave. It’s late, and she already moved this appointment twice.
Be likable, I order myself, but I don’t like myself. How can I? I have been taught all my life to hate people in need. “I like your toys.” I nod at the ballooned cartoon heads. “Do you collect them?”
“Oh, yes! I have over three hundred at home. I keep a rotating crew here. Keeps me busy.” She frowns suddenly, like I have tricked her into revealing something she didn’t want to reveal. She sits forward and I feel myself move back, hoping she won’t look too closely. Afraid of what might happen if she really sees me. “Are you implying that we’re not helping? That we’d be better off just doing nothing?”
Her expression drops. Her eyes drift down to my dirty sneakers, then up to my jeans with their naturally occurring holes in the knees, all the way up to my unwashed hair. Her nose pinches, as if sensing the six blasts of perfume I sprayed on in CVS with my eyes shut, like no one would see me if I couldn’t see them. Then her nostrils flare like she can smell the dirt, the urine, the sweat and the sunburned skin I can’t afford to clean away completely, that smell that people sense by instinct, that they avoid like death.
Human beings are animals and nature instructs them: Stay away from the poor and the struggling. They will drain your resources. They will bring you down. They’ll be first, and you’ll be next.
“No! Of course not!” My voice cracks. “I’m so impressed by what you’re doing.” What exactly are they doing? “I wish there were more people like you.” Virtue signaling by directing people to a false resolution that looks good on paper or confirms what all rich people secretly believe: They don’t want help. I’m not helping, because they don’t want it. When the number one question every person who suffers from homelessness asks is this: Where do you want me to go?
I have seen three people die in the past three years, in totally preventable ways. And every time I thought, This is the answer to that question.
Where do you want me to go? I want you not to exist.
“Aww, you’re so sweet to say that!” She beams, presses her hand against her cheek like I’ve blown her a kiss.
A single tear plucks my eye and I swish it away. “Do you know of any charities that house people?”
She shifts on her chair. She gets the look people get. Are you asking me for something? Are you bothering me?
The truth is, I don’t need to ask her. I already know the answer. I have never had a house of my own. As soon as I turned eighteen, I moved in with my first boyfriend in his trailer in Altadena. I stayed for a year until we broke up. I went back to Dad until I met another guy, moved to his place, broke up. Moved home. Then out again, like a calf that just wouldn’t sell. Failure is just like success: It doesn’t happen overnight.
I always helped with rent, but I never had a name on any lease. And I worked. God, I worked. Minimum-wage jobs that didn’t pay overtime, didn’t have lunches or breaks. I worked hard but I didn’t have a car. I wanted to move up, but I kept being passed over, pushed aside, ignored. They always knew I was needy. I didn’t have to tell them. At an elemental level, I repulsed them. So I jumped to another job. I even did night school and got a degree in web design. I worked tirelessly but I never moved up. I kept my head above water, but that never felt like victory. I kept going, but that never felt like success. I stayed alive, and that always felt like losing.
I used to dream that one day my life would change. I played MASH as a kid: You got the mansion! With the husband! Three kids! Seven dogs! But after a while, I stopped playing those games. I realized it was impossible. That the real world, like a seventy-five-dollar jacket or a new pair of shoes, would always be out of my reach.
And all of that led me here, but it doesn’t feel like a genesis, a journey, a natural conclusion. It feels like a shock. It feels like denial. It feels impossible: that when I leave this room, I will have nowhere to go.
Her head bobs as the lights go out in the hallway. “We’re closing. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry if I couldn’t give you what you need.” She slides a brightly colored pamphlet toward me. It shows two women shaking hands, a child laughing hysterically. “Helping Hands” and the logo, two enormous green hands reaching out. Where are those hands? Attached to the Wizard of Oz? “I just want to emphasize how important it is for us to spread a message of hope. We find that when people feel down about the situation here, they’re less inclined to get involved.” She’s not wrong.
I nod. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t say what I want to say, which is this: I would do anything for a house. I would give you my hands. I would give you my heart, my courage, my brain, just to go home. I would do anything, but my tragedy is: There is nothing I can do.
“If you do your research,” she chides, “I think you’ll see there have been some positive steps toward resolving the crisis. I think it’s important, you know. Stay positive. Things are getting better all the time.”
A tear escapes my eye, slides down my face. She is both polite and cruel enough to ignore it. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
The pain in my feet starts as soon as I stand. She stays seated, so I know she doesn’t want to shake my hand, doesn’t want to touch me. Her eyes glaze over; she doesn’t want to see me either. I suddenly want to thank her again, am desperate to, am desperate to do anything that will keep me in this room.
But instead I leave her office. I walk down the unlit hall to the door.
The biggest way I trick myself, despite knowing better, is by hoping. I tell myself I don’t. I tell myself I’m too smart for that. And I never feel it. I never feel hope, the good part of it, swelling through me. I only feel it going, like I feel it now as I walk out of that brightly colored office, leave the pamphlet on the counter, not even able to put it in the trash like I should, in case someone else wants it, in case it helps someone else. In case someone out there still believes in disembodied helping hands.
DEMI