Going Minimalist
Day 1: Walking in the shoes of the homeless and unemployed
My eyes popped open bright and early at 4:30a.m. All plans to get an early start were immediately vetoed by a desire to sleep in a few more hours, to capitalize on the comfortable bed with the thick duvet and four soft, plush pillows. Besides, I had no idea what the conditions would be like in the shelter. I have volunteered countless hours in various shelters over the years, but never before did I imagine myself preparing to become a resident in one.
Finally, I woke up about 8:00 a.m., showered, and dressed. As I repacked my sleeping clothes in the designated space bag, I realized that this would probably be the last day that I would have access to an iron. Ergo, I opened another space bag containing my three pairs of dress slacks, pulled them out, held them by the waistband in each hand, and gave a light shake to reveal the perfectly spaced horizontal creases. Ay caramba!
Lesson 1: do not roll the slacks then squish them to death in a space bag, Sapphire. That creates a million creases. Either roll them and place them directly into the carry-on (which takes up more room) or fold, then place them into the space bag. Otherwise, wrinkle city. You will no longer have the luxury of an iron or an ironing board when you’re living on the streets, mija. So noted.
Ironing and repacking complete, it was time to lighten the load. Even though I went minimalist with three pairs of slacks, five light sweaters, sleep shirt and capris, a suit jacket, thermals, undergarments, a light leather coat and a winter coat; two, low-heeled, patent leather pumps, a pair of eel-skin, high-heeled ankle boots, and a pair of dressy casual leather/suede walking shoes; minimal toiletries and the six journals containing my handwritten manuscript A Woman’s Love is a Poetic Journey, I still carried too much for an uncertain life on the street.
Protect the money first. I took advantage of the resources soon to be lost to me by requesting that the hotel shuttle driver take me to the post office. Reluctantly but without prejudice, I boxed up the manuscript along with the boots, a beautiful necklace and bracelet my mom gave me, and my ancient, MP3 player and shipped it all back to my mom. Now, back to the hotel to collect my carry-on and business tote, board the bus, and head for downtown Providence.
Delaying the Inevitable
My search for the Attorney General’s Office led me on a walking tour through the Londonesque streets. Finding the building, I received the criminal background clearance needed to be accepted into the shelter. Next, I rolled my way back through the cobblestone streets to the Social Security Office to request a duplicate card as mine is filed away securely in my old room at my mother’s home in Texas. The great thing–if that’s the proper descriptor to use here–is that all fees for the criminal background check and the social security card were waived upon presenting a letter from the shelter stating that I am homeless. At least that initial barrier was removed in order to receive the documentation that I needed. One more stop to make before heading to the shelter–the library.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I am the library queen. I love libraries and all the wonderful knowledge and exciting stories in them. My first day in Providence, my feet led me to the Providence Public Library when they were supposed to be taking me to a local church. I guess it’s instinct! I received a temporary library card for the day and started searching and applying for jobs. Sixty minutes later, my time ran out– both for using the computer and for delaying the inevitable. Today is the day. This moment is the moment when the truth becomes my new reality. I have no place to go. I have no other options. I am homeless. I pulled my red carry-on from underneath the computer desk where I stashed it, pushed the button to raise the handle, slung my business tote over my shoulder, and started walking toward the shelter across the interstate and six blocks to the southeast.
Check-In
I walked through the glass doors of the shelter more casually dressed than the day before—black leather/suede walking shoes and black slacks; white, cotton, scoop-neck tee with 3/4 length sleeves; waist-length, black leather jacket with a white, fluffy, hand-knit London scarf; and red carry-on suitcase and business tote. While the staff ignored me (since I must have been lost) and the shelter guests stared at me (since I must have been lost), I stood at the counter trying to decide if it was appropriate to say, “Yes, I’m here to check in.” I know I didn’t walk into the Biltmore, but how else do you say I’m here to… check in? Finally, I settled on just asking to see the Case Advocate who conducted my intake.
In the Cased Advocate’s office, she began reviewing the rules with me. No violence, no drugs, no alcohol, no visitors. Shoes and undergarments must be worn at all times. No cell phone use in the dorm room after 10 p.m. No food in the dorm room; clean up after yourself. Sign in and sign out, curfew at 9 p.m., must not be in the dorm room 9 a.m. – 4 p.m. Monday through Friday. When you gain employment, you must surrender 40% of your pay in the form of a money order to the Case Advocate to save on your behalf and to facilitate a rapid transition into your own housing.
Humbled to My Core
I sat there humbled to the core. I could not object. Flashes of my previous life and successes—salary, home, freedom—lumbered through my mind.
I am a 36-year old professional, I silently screamed. Are you kidding? Do you really think I need a budgeting lesson and someone to save my money for me so that I can move? Are you nuts? I did this at the age of 15 when I participated in a work-study summer program at University of Texas for accelerated learners. The counselors saved the majority of our money and returned it to us at the completion of the program. Yes, I am homeless. Yes, I am now a residing in their shelter. Yes, they have rules which are for very valid reasons I’m sure. However, I am not handing over my money to anyone. Call it ego. Call it fierce independence. Call it 10 years of professional experience. Call it conceited if you want. But it’s not going to happen!
But, I couldn’t say any of this to her. Afterall, she had something I needed—something more valuable than my principles, something more precious than my pride. She had a safe, warm bed that would keep me off the streets and out of the cold for the next 30 days. So, I simply nodded my head in agreement and signed the paper acknowledging that I understood and would comply with their stated rules. Damn.
Copyright © 2010 Sapphire Jule King and International Freedom Coalition