four kids. I need four plates, four glasses, and four spoons. Is that a lot? I know I’m poor. Don’t have no bank account, no money, or no job. Don’t have no nothin’. No foundation. Then and yet my children have a shot in life. They’re innocent. They’re pure. They have a chance.” She reads: “‘I shall not fear …’ I fear! A long, long time ago I didn’t fear. Didn’t fear for nothin’. I said God’s protectin’ me and would protect my children. Did He do it?
“Yeah. I’m walkin’. I am walkin’ in the wilderness. That’s what it is. I’m walkin’. Did I tell you that I am an ex–drug addict? Yeah. My children know it. They know and they understand. I’m walkin’. Yeah!”
The room is like a chilled cathedral in which people who do not believe in God ask God’s forgiveness. “How I picture God is like an old man who speaks different languages. His beard is white and He has angels and the instruments they play are white and everything around is white and there is no more sickness, no more hunger fornobody. No panhandlin’. No prostitutes. No drugs. I had a dream like that.
“There’s no beauty in my life except two things. My children and”—she hesitates—“I write these poems. How come, when I write it down, it don’t come out my pencil like I feel? I don’t know. I got no dictionary. Every time I read it over I am finding these mistakes.
Deep down in my heart
I do not mean these things I said
.
Forgive me. Try to understand me
.
I love all of you the same
.
Help me to be a better mother
.
“When I cry I let ’em know. I tell ’em I was a drug addict. They know and they try to help me to hold on. They helpin’ me. My children is what’s holdin’ me together. I’m not makin’ it. I’m reachin’. And they see me reachin’ out. Angelina take my hand. They come around. They ask me what is wrong. I do let them know when I am scared. But certain things I keep inside. I try to solve it. If it’s my department, I don’t want them to be sad. If it be too bad, if I be scared of gettin’ back on drugs, I’ll go to the clinic. They have sessions every other night.
“Hardest time for me is night. Nightmares. Somethin’s grabbin’ at me. Like a hand. Some spirit’s after me. It’s somethin’ that I don’t forget. I wake up in a sweat. I’m wonderin’ why I dream these dreams. So I get up, turn on the light. I don’t go back to sleep until the day is breakin’. I look up an’ I be sayin’: ‘Sun is up. Now I can go to sleep.’
“After the kids are up and they are dressed and go to school, then I lay down. I go to sleep. But I can’t sleep at night. After the sun go down makes me depressed. I want to turn the light on, move around.
“Know that song—‘Those Monday Blues’? I had that album once.”
I say the title: “‘Monday Blues’?”
“I got ’em every day. Lots of times, when I’m in pain, I think I’m goin’ to die. That’s why I take a drink sometimes. I’m ’fraid to die. I’m wonderin’: Am I dying?”
5
The Big Street
“T he Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost is quoted in many essays on the homeless. Some of us may feel that we have heard too many times the words of the farmer talking to his wife. “Home,” he says, “is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” His wife’s words are more interesting but less often quoted: “I should have called it something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
Public policy in the United States today does not accord with this idea. We do appear to feel a home must somehow be deserved or earned. We do seem to regard it as a “gift” of sorts, which now and then may be awarded for correct behavior. The consequent feeling voiced by many women I have met is that a home is something they must
prove
that they deserve, but they do not know how they can.
How does a woman prove she is deserving? How canshe expect that anybody will believe her? Can Rachel
“Yeah. I’m walkin’. I am walkin’ in the wilderness. That’s what it is. I’m walkin’. Did I tell you that I am an ex–drug addict? Yeah. My children know it. They know and they understand. I’m walkin’. Yeah!”
The room is like a chilled cathedral in which people who do not believe in God ask God’s forgiveness. “How I picture God is like an old man who speaks different languages. His beard is white and He has angels and the instruments they play are white and everything around is white and there is no more sickness, no more hunger fornobody. No panhandlin’. No prostitutes. No drugs. I had a dream like that.
“There’s no beauty in my life except two things. My children and”—she hesitates—“I write these poems. How come, when I write it down, it don’t come out my pencil like I feel? I don’t know. I got no dictionary. Every time I read it over I am finding these mistakes.
Deep down in my heart
I do not mean these things I said
.
Forgive me. Try to understand me
.
I love all of you the same
.
Help me to be a better mother
.
“When I cry I let ’em know. I tell ’em I was a drug addict. They know and they try to help me to hold on. They helpin’ me. My children is what’s holdin’ me together. I’m not makin’ it. I’m reachin’. And they see me reachin’ out. Angelina take my hand. They come around. They ask me what is wrong. I do let them know when I am scared. But certain things I keep inside. I try to solve it. If it’s my department, I don’t want them to be sad. If it be too bad, if I be scared of gettin’ back on drugs, I’ll go to the clinic. They have sessions every other night.
“Hardest time for me is night. Nightmares. Somethin’s grabbin’ at me. Like a hand. Some spirit’s after me. It’s somethin’ that I don’t forget. I wake up in a sweat. I’m wonderin’ why I dream these dreams. So I get up, turn on the light. I don’t go back to sleep until the day is breakin’. I look up an’ I be sayin’: ‘Sun is up. Now I can go to sleep.’
“After the kids are up and they are dressed and go to school, then I lay down. I go to sleep. But I can’t sleep at night. After the sun go down makes me depressed. I want to turn the light on, move around.
“Know that song—‘Those Monday Blues’? I had that album once.”
I say the title: “‘Monday Blues’?”
“I got ’em every day. Lots of times, when I’m in pain, I think I’m goin’ to die. That’s why I take a drink sometimes. I’m ’fraid to die. I’m wonderin’: Am I dying?”
5
The Big Street
“T he Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost is quoted in many essays on the homeless. Some of us may feel that we have heard too many times the words of the farmer talking to his wife. “Home,” he says, “is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” His wife’s words are more interesting but less often quoted: “I should have called it something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
Public policy in the United States today does not accord with this idea. We do appear to feel a home must somehow be deserved or earned. We do seem to regard it as a “gift” of sorts, which now and then may be awarded for correct behavior. The consequent feeling voiced by many women I have met is that a home is something they must
prove
that they deserve, but they do not know how they can.
How does a woman prove she is deserving? How canshe expect that anybody will believe her? Can Rachel
Similar Books
