My Gratitude for a Bed to Lie Down
by A WOMAN FROM A DALLAS SHELTER
Special Contributor, Stewpot Writers’ Workshop
I sat on my top bunk at my second homeless shelter and coughed from deep inside of my lungs. The hacking sound reached the far corners of the women’s dorm filled to capacity. I covered my mouth with a blanket to muffle the noise. A woman on her top bunk across the narrow isle turned up the volume of her music to drown out my cough and brandished a toy shovel to the tune of the music.
Meanwhile, several women not far from me were rummaging through their belongings for a yellow dress. They pretended to fight for the only yellow dress they found. I had long been used to some women’s abrasive sense of humor. It wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t been the butt of the joke. As I struggled for air, the commotion around me felt like an exquisite form of torment brought on by the unintentional disturbance I caused.
Before I moved to a homeless shelter for the first time in June this year, I was secluded in an apartment with my roommate. Our isolated living situation protected us from viruses and bacteria which flourished in crowded places.
When my roommate passed away, I was left with sadness and loneliness. Unable to pay for housing, I was compelled to move to a shelter. From looking at the four walls in the apartment to being constantly stimulated by conversations and arguments at the shelter, the process slowly cured the aching pain in my heart. The hole my roommate left in my heart was slowly repaired in the company of the homeless.
“The hole my roommate left in my heart was slowly repaired in the company of the homeless.”
Three months later, I found myself in the aforementioned second homeless shelter. It promised not only more human varieties but also more germ varieties. With the broke, the outlaws, the infirm, the aged and disabled came the angry outbursts, the vulgar confrontations, the filthy and the potentially dangerous while outside communities churned out volunteers from all walks of lives taking turns to serve us meals, play music and games with us, and educate us.
There were social services installed in the shelter that helped those who could get back on their feet. Donations of clothes, beddings, hygiene items and food from organizations and individuals arrived daily at the shelter. I was motivated to do better.
My cough subsided days later only to be replaced by a swollen and painful tonsil as my immune system played Russian roulette with a plethora of unfamiliar germs. I had all but settled in regardless. Days turned to weeks, I gradually found out that my rough peers who cussed and swore all had their kind side. I myself became less self-conscious. For the first time I could be myself without feeling conspicuous, judged or criticized.
I thought of the picture from Reader’s Digest of a glass window, opaque with condensation, looking out to a city skyline on a wintry evening. The blueish hue accentuated the cold and uncertain world outside the window in contrast to the warm and safe interior.
“Life came full circle. I was fated to become homeless and to see with my own eyes what it meant to be homeless. I found that, similar to societies in general, most homeless people were harmless.”
At the time, I was 12 years old, just beginning to be exposed to media stereotypes. From the picture, I imagined the homeless tucked in obscure places, including the unthinkable shelters where they were despised and took it out on one another. From an early age, I was keenly aware and interested in the subject of homelessness. Perhaps I felt like I was homeless although I lived at home with my family who treated one another like enemies.
Life came full circle. I was fated to become homeless and to see with my own eyes what it meant to be homeless. I found that, similar to societies in general, most homeless people were harmless. They each had their unique gift and vulnerability. I had full intention to stay at this shelter although it depended on how well I could adjust to its ecosystem.
This Thanksgiving I’m grateful for my top bunk which I climb into and out of several times a day. I’m grateful for a society that cares for the homeless who need help and are receiving it. I don’t take anything for granted. My favorite prayer says, “although it’s given, it’s not guaranteed.”
A Woman from a Dallas Shelter is a participant in The Stewpot’s Writers’ Workshop.
Editor’s Note: The Dallas Media Collaborative has agreed to publish the story anonymously at the writer’s request. Images have been created by the Dallas Media Collaborative.
