What If I Choose to Be Homeless

"You have to be crazy to be in this situation!"

"Oh, baby, c'mon..."

"No! You do! A person has to be real psychotic to choose to be homeless!"

The three of us had been chatting for a half hour. Moving on from the pleasantries, then sharing a bit of our stories, the conversation had taken a sharp left. I had zoned out for a moment so I didn't know about whom they were speaking. Actually, I just met these two people. A young woman, and a man who is considerably older than with whom he was conversing. The woman dared me with slitted eyes and a tight smirk, to contradict her. I had seen the gentleman around and was shocked that he actually seemed to conduct himself as such. I felt personally attacked by her words. We were sitting outside a church that provides many services to the homeless in New Orleans. I have actually come to the Big Easy to live on the streets; to be a starving artist, if you will, and although it's big here it's not easy. Luckily I don't have to starve.

Yet why would someone choose this? For the people from here, those reasons need closer inspection. As for mine, well, my apartment was driving me batty. Literally and figuratively.

I realized I had a bat problem when I moved in, but the occurrences were so few and far between, the trouble of moving apartments seemed too daunting. I could live with an intermittent occurrence of an unwanted nighttime visitor, or two. Besides, my rent was cheap since it was subsidized federal housing. I lived in a secure building, could get free bus passes, and I was close to everything I needed. Shops, restaurants, corner stores, all in walking distance. Close to three years passed in that cozy, little efficiency. My mother was right down the hall. My son, in the next town over, was still easily accessible by bus. I had even got a pet rabbit named Luciana. I had it made. The difficult year and a half of homelessness, and risk of returning to a homeless situation, were becoming a distant memory. I had forgotten what the lake smelled like in the morning; could only vaguely remember the stars at night. The pain and anguish of crawling down the street to the Salvation Army women's shelter in Madison, WI seemed less important. Thirty months spent between four walls was quite effective at healing the trauma from being on the streets.

When I moved in I started out strong with creative projects. I made my own furniture, upholstered it, and made curtains with the comforter set I received from a women’s boarding house in Madison, WI. Serious about my homemade jewelry and accessory business, I made a lot of merchandise between those four walls. As I had in Madison, I tried my hand at some of the local markets, and festivals. Finding the return to my investments unprofitable, I surrendered to my depression and chronic pain. When I wasn’t hiding in agony from my inability to move around as I once could and was in need human contact, I unfortunately only had the patience to focus on the drama or past trauma around me. Walking the streets of Champaign, riding the bus or getting a ride, even being on the University of Illinois campus was difficult. There seems to be a traumatic residue to everything. Even the painful words I had heard uttered in between all of those buildings seemed to leave a stain on my memory like the flood waters of Katrina against the old hospital in New Orleans. This, among other reasons, kept visits with my son to a minimum. Visiting my mother was fine, as long as her husband wasn’t there. And although I had my favorite few in the building, the majority of my fellow residents made me want to keep myself shut up in my locked apartment. Quieter than a mouse.

The bats began to show up in my apartment by the beginning of June. They came with a vengeance, insistent upon reclaiming the apartment that they were so used to having for their mating season. When I told the building manager, she laughed. She told me I was trying to gain favoritism because others were also dealing with bats. The neighbor above me told them they were coming in his apartment through his open window. The maintenance man relayed this information to me, essentially telling me it's my own damn fault. I fucking lost it. By the third of June, I packed a few things and caught the bus to my son’s house. Everytime I returned there was a bat waiting for me, even with my windows shut tight. The week before I had occurrences with several very persistent bats every single day. I didn’t sleep more than six hours throughout the week long ordeal. The maintenance man later forgave me for my tantrum. He had been going to my apartment the second month I was away to make sure they weren’t coming in through the window. It seems holes in the facade of the building that ran different cables through, were not properly sealed, and the bats had entered through these and into my drop-down ceiling. No shit, Sherlock.

"Where you been?" My neighbor demanded.

"What do you mean? I'm not staying here!"

His face looked shocked.

"Why don't you tell them to get you another apartment here?"

"I did!"

"Then make them!"

How? I thought, looking up into his eyes that were wide in shock. I did try. I had talked to the executive director at the same time I had unleashed the massive fit on the maintenance man. By the end of July I had brought my concerns to the Housing Board.

"Well, we told Deirdre that they're a protected species and she would have to wait till the end of August after their mating season to set traps or do anything. We also don't have any apartments available here or our other facilities any time soon." Explained the Executive Director to her colleague. To which he replied: "I have bats in my house too."

Not surprising. The bats were having what the Executive Director called a "hyper mating season." There had been 17 bats that were documented with rabies, at the beginning of July, and 81 for the whole season. Although most of the bats were found in Northern Illinois, my anxiety wouldn’t let me take the chance.

"Didn't you say you were staying with your son?" The Executive Director asked, as she and her colleague looked at me with exasperated eyes. I was and had been with him for a month, but I could already feel my welcome wearing out. Regardless, I began to pack my apartment.

"Where are you going to go? Why would you give up so easily?" At the beginning of September I was in my almost empty apartment talking to my neighbor again. I didn't take his concern seriously, it had been three months since I had spent more than 72 hours in my apartment, he could’ve contacted me sooner. He continued to ask more questions. I answered with my hopes and dreams.

"That's crazy. I always knew you were touched. Who in their right mind would want to be homeless? Choose to be homeless? Are you psychotic? Must be." His face was full of disbelief. I'm sure mine was as well. All of that coming from a man who told me I was "making a life threatening decision" when I "walked into my apartment." I resolved to stay with my son longer. I knew my anxiety wouldn't allow me to stay in my apartment another night.

The stress didn't abate until all of the items I could keep were out and safely locked away in a storage. I continued to look for different avenues to bring legal action against the Housing Authority, but it seems they were already so mired in legal woes that my concerns were either ignored, or pushed to the side. Around the time I left my apartment in early June, the Executive Director of the Vermillion County Housing Authority had resigned because of a lawsuit brought against the County board for defaulting on a Federal Loan. The culprit for the default had already been fired for suspicion of improper spending of the Housing Authority’s funds. By August it seemed any chance of bringing up a lawsuit would be futile since the City’s Housing Authority board would be pulling double duty for the County. It seems that kind of corruption is pretty common in Illinois. The Springfield Housing Board is offering their services to help Peoria with a transition of leadership on their Housing Board. I’m told, by the local homeless, Louisiana has the same kind of issue with corruption in their Government.

Did really have a choice to not be homeless? Quite possibly. I’m sure I could’ve found someone to stay with in Illinois. Yet my physical limitations make me even more anxious about being a burden on someone. Especially on those I love. Being homeless in my hometown was out of the question in favor of choosing to look after my mental health. As for my physical health, this move is a risk I am willing to take. I couldn’t lay in my bed, no matter how comfortable it is, another year. Finally facing my chronic pain has made me stronger, but I still take it slow. I worry everyday that I may soon feel the numbness that is starting in my left toes, overtake that foot as what had happened five years ago with my right. I can’t imagine wearing a brace on both of my legs to walk. Well, I could. I’ve seen a woman with that affliction here. She unfortunately lives under the Pontrichran Expressway. It’s a scary world underneath there. They all ask the same question I ask myself everyday; why would anyone choose to do this?

I find comfort in the fact that I don’t have their mindset about homelessness, although it seems being homeless is becoming a pattern in my life (Champaign, Peoria, Illinois; Madison, WI, and now New Orleans, LA.) Being homeless does not mean being hopeless. On the contrary, although my faith waivers from time to time, I always have hope that things will work out. Every hard working poor person just trying to get by does. Coming to New Orleans has strengthened my hope in a better future for myself and my family. Messages from my Higher Power guide me at every step.

I wanted to post this a lot sooner than I have. I have been here for over a month, and I have let the criticisms of the other homeless erode my confidence in my dreams. Walking through the main library, seeing their ragged clothes, dead stares, weary expressions; I feel defeated for the moment. I remind myself of the more quiet, secluded branch down St. Charles Avenue, and I feel calmed. I noticed a man whom I have seen in the Mission. He’s usually alone in the library, intensely engrossed in his electronic devices. I approach him. He should know about that branch that is still unknown and mostly inaccessible to the mass of homeless individuals. He’s surprised when I say hello, but listens to my suggestion and thanks me. He asks, “you seem intelligent, why are you homeless?” I pause. I can feel the shock on my face.

“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” He counters quickly. “Either way I’m sure it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I feel the words of my most daring of dreams slip from my lips. He seems impressed.

“A homeless blog? See, I had the same idea.”

I laugh. “You don’t think I’m crazy for choosing to live like this?” His face become serious.

“First of all, it’s your choice. Your life, you know what is best for you. Secondly, I have made the same decision. I just can’t afford to live around here. Even the subsidized apartments are more than my income can handle.” He noticed the relief in my eyes and smiled. “You seem like a very smart girl. You don’t seem to have the same mindset as most poor people, not just homeless individuals. Crazy? No. Sometimes in life one must do crazy things to go after their dreams. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”