![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
LJ Idol Week 5: Yes, and...
May. 5th, 2014 12:22 pmWhen she tells the story, it always begins when they take the kid away from her.
“But they must have had a reason,” I say.
She shakes her head. Her eyes fill up with tears. “He had it in for me,” she says. “My ex. He was gonna do whatever he had to do to bring me down, and he got his whole family on his side. And I fought it. I really fought it! The lawyers’ fees and everything. I really thought they liked me. You know, I was living with my ex’s Dad, taking care of him, when it all began to happen.”
Downward spirals are always funnels that begin as disturbances somewhere high above the ground. She might as well have begun her story the day she married her husband. The day the kid was born. The day she was born.
“Yes and then what happened?” I ask.
“And then I –“ She swallows hard. “This was in Florida. I cut hair. I had a license, you know, from the state. I got a DUI –“
“If you got a DUI, chances are you don’t have a license from the state anymore,” I say as gently as I can.
She looks down. She sighs. She twiddles her fingers. “You know the worst thing?” she asks with a dazzling smile. “The worst thing is that I can’t even buy cigarettes. I’d kill for a cigarette.” Then she instantly looks across at me as though she’s afraid that I might take that seriously. “I don’t mean I’d really kill someone,” she says.
“It’s a figure of speech,” I say. “I get that. Yes, and then what?”
“And then, I –“ She closes her eyes. “I couldn’t stay – It was too hard for me to stay, you know, I’d lost my kid.”
“How’d you get from Florida to here?” I ask.
“I –“ She opens her eyes then closes them again, and shakes her head. “I have family here. That’s why I came. I’ve been here four months.”
“So your family can help you!”
“I was in Maine before that. Staying with friends. Yes. And then I – came here –“
“So your family can help you!” I say once more immensely relieved. Problem solved! Because there was little enough that I could do in practical terms to help this woman, though my heart went out to her and -- God forgive me -- I worried about her more than I worried about other homeless people I might happen to see on the street. She was white. She was blonde. She’d been very pretty once, and she was still attractive. A rape and homicide statistic waiting to happen, in other words. As opposed to simply a homicide statistic.
She shook her head again. “My family doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” she says. “I went to see my brother as soon as I got here. Knocked on his door, he looked me up and down. Wouldn’t even invite me into his house. I’ve got a stepmother here, too, but she –“ She sighs.
No use asking her why her brother won’t let her into his house, I think to myself. The story always has to do with alcohol or drugs or requests for money. Yes, and sometimes thefts when those verbal requests don't pan out.
“Then go to Social Services,” I say. “They’ve got to help you.”
“They say they can’t unless I show them my divorce papers,” she says. “My divorce papers got stolen along with most of the rest of my stuff in one of those shelters. Do you know what those shelters are like? People screaming and fighting with each other all night long. I just – I can’t –“
I frown. I look at the two neat shopping totes she carries. They’re filled with carefully folded clothes. “That’s everything you own?”
“Everything I own now,” she says bitterly.
“So where do you sleep?” I ask.
“At the train station,” she says. “They’re not supposed to let me but the guy who works there nights is nice. So he does. They’ve got a pretty good bathroom there too, so I keep clean.”
Indeed, she is very well groomed. In fact, if you looked at the two of us side by side and you were forced to choose, I think you might pick me as the homeless person. I’m a bit of a slob. My hems are always coming unraveled, there are often food stains on my sweaters and sometimes dirt under my fingernails. My hair frequently needs combing. In contrast, she is very well put together, her long blonde hair almost soignee, mascara on her lashes, gloss on her lips.
“Dawn –“That was her name. Dawn. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, if I had a couch, I’d let you crash on it, but I’m renting a room in a house –“
She shook her head. “Thanks for listening. I don’t – I can’t believe – Thanks for listening.”
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the story she’d intimated to me was essentially true, that Dawn was a woman who’d made some singularly bad choices in her life, bad choices involving drugs and alcohol and poor impulse control, and possibly the types small time criminal incidents that buzz around those things like gnats on a hot summer day. But surely she deserved some kind of second chance. Some opportunity for redemption.
Instead, I figured chances were good that the next Yes, and then… ? would involve her raped and murdered body in the underbrush along the Hudson River less than a quarter of a mile from the train station where she slept every night.
And I was powerless to stop that.
When disturbances in the atmosphere happen and the airplane starts to go down, says the still, small voice inside my head, they tell you to make sure your own oxygen mask is on tight before you start messing around with someone else’s. Girlfriend, your oxygen mask ain’t all that secure to go messin' around with somebody else's --
And then I said goodbye to Dawn.
And then I walked away.
###
Dawn is a real person whom I met at the local library. She published an editorial in the local paper last weekend, in part about her own situation. I did manage to track down a case manager at a local community nonprofit who says she is willing to work with Dawn if Dawn is willing to work with her, so hopefully Dawn's story will have a happy ending.
“But they must have had a reason,” I say.
She shakes her head. Her eyes fill up with tears. “He had it in for me,” she says. “My ex. He was gonna do whatever he had to do to bring me down, and he got his whole family on his side. And I fought it. I really fought it! The lawyers’ fees and everything. I really thought they liked me. You know, I was living with my ex’s Dad, taking care of him, when it all began to happen.”
Downward spirals are always funnels that begin as disturbances somewhere high above the ground. She might as well have begun her story the day she married her husband. The day the kid was born. The day she was born.
“Yes and then what happened?” I ask.
“And then I –“ She swallows hard. “This was in Florida. I cut hair. I had a license, you know, from the state. I got a DUI –“
“If you got a DUI, chances are you don’t have a license from the state anymore,” I say as gently as I can.
She looks down. She sighs. She twiddles her fingers. “You know the worst thing?” she asks with a dazzling smile. “The worst thing is that I can’t even buy cigarettes. I’d kill for a cigarette.” Then she instantly looks across at me as though she’s afraid that I might take that seriously. “I don’t mean I’d really kill someone,” she says.
“It’s a figure of speech,” I say. “I get that. Yes, and then what?”
“And then, I –“ She closes her eyes. “I couldn’t stay – It was too hard for me to stay, you know, I’d lost my kid.”
“How’d you get from Florida to here?” I ask.
“I –“ She opens her eyes then closes them again, and shakes her head. “I have family here. That’s why I came. I’ve been here four months.”
“So your family can help you!”
“I was in Maine before that. Staying with friends. Yes. And then I – came here –“
“So your family can help you!” I say once more immensely relieved. Problem solved! Because there was little enough that I could do in practical terms to help this woman, though my heart went out to her and -- God forgive me -- I worried about her more than I worried about other homeless people I might happen to see on the street. She was white. She was blonde. She’d been very pretty once, and she was still attractive. A rape and homicide statistic waiting to happen, in other words. As opposed to simply a homicide statistic.
She shook her head again. “My family doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” she says. “I went to see my brother as soon as I got here. Knocked on his door, he looked me up and down. Wouldn’t even invite me into his house. I’ve got a stepmother here, too, but she –“ She sighs.
No use asking her why her brother won’t let her into his house, I think to myself. The story always has to do with alcohol or drugs or requests for money. Yes, and sometimes thefts when those verbal requests don't pan out.
“Then go to Social Services,” I say. “They’ve got to help you.”
“They say they can’t unless I show them my divorce papers,” she says. “My divorce papers got stolen along with most of the rest of my stuff in one of those shelters. Do you know what those shelters are like? People screaming and fighting with each other all night long. I just – I can’t –“
I frown. I look at the two neat shopping totes she carries. They’re filled with carefully folded clothes. “That’s everything you own?”
“Everything I own now,” she says bitterly.
“So where do you sleep?” I ask.
“At the train station,” she says. “They’re not supposed to let me but the guy who works there nights is nice. So he does. They’ve got a pretty good bathroom there too, so I keep clean.”
Indeed, she is very well groomed. In fact, if you looked at the two of us side by side and you were forced to choose, I think you might pick me as the homeless person. I’m a bit of a slob. My hems are always coming unraveled, there are often food stains on my sweaters and sometimes dirt under my fingernails. My hair frequently needs combing. In contrast, she is very well put together, her long blonde hair almost soignee, mascara on her lashes, gloss on her lips.
“Dawn –“That was her name. Dawn. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, if I had a couch, I’d let you crash on it, but I’m renting a room in a house –“
She shook her head. “Thanks for listening. I don’t – I can’t believe – Thanks for listening.”
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the story she’d intimated to me was essentially true, that Dawn was a woman who’d made some singularly bad choices in her life, bad choices involving drugs and alcohol and poor impulse control, and possibly the types small time criminal incidents that buzz around those things like gnats on a hot summer day. But surely she deserved some kind of second chance. Some opportunity for redemption.
Instead, I figured chances were good that the next Yes, and then… ? would involve her raped and murdered body in the underbrush along the Hudson River less than a quarter of a mile from the train station where she slept every night.
And I was powerless to stop that.
When disturbances in the atmosphere happen and the airplane starts to go down, says the still, small voice inside my head, they tell you to make sure your own oxygen mask is on tight before you start messing around with someone else’s. Girlfriend, your oxygen mask ain’t all that secure to go messin' around with somebody else's --
And then I said goodbye to Dawn.
And then I walked away.
Dawn is a real person whom I met at the local library. She published an editorial in the local paper last weekend, in part about her own situation. I did manage to track down a case manager at a local community nonprofit who says she is willing to work with Dawn if Dawn is willing to work with her, so hopefully Dawn's story will have a happy ending.
