HOMELESS IN NEW YORK

This past week, the New York Post published a story about a homeless drum-seller in Brooklyn who keeps being moved along after setting up camp.  His name is Thomas Harris, and in the summers, when the drum circle is active in Prospect Park, this man camps [or used to] along the edge of the park on Ocean Avenue right across from my front window. 

I wasn’t actually sure he was homeless until this Post article.  I just thought he camped on the sidewalk all summer because he didn’t want to haul his drums home every night and didn’t want to leave them alone at the park.  Now I know.

Homeless encampments are illegal in New York City, as is sleeping in the subway or blocking a sidewalk or, heaven forbid, a bank ATM.  It’s okay to sleep on a bench or on the sidewalk as long as you don’t block traffic or someone doesn’t call the police.  I suppose you could just stand up and lean against that wall and sleep if that were possible.  The homeless population in New York City all needs to find a way to Los Angeles where they can join the homeless encampments stretching for miles and miles downtown – or the smaller camps under bridges in every area. 

There’s a drive to house the homeless, but how is that going to happen in the city like New York where the housing is so limited that people fight to get an apartment.  A friend of mine once rented a “room” in an apartment that had no windows.  Creepy.  It was in an apartment that the landlord had turned into a “2-bedroom” (illegally) by putting up walls in the living room to create that second bedroom.  I know more than one person who rented an apartment in Manhattan in which the bathroom was outside the apartment in the hallway.  So how’s this rehouse-the-homeless project going to work out, unless the landlord’s get permission to rent out the hallways and janitor closets for homeless people to sleep?  While the landlord’s would love to do this, the regular tenants wouldn’t like it much.

There are some shelters in New York, but they fill quickly and they are very dangerous.  There are dumpsters to sleep inside – provided they don’t get locked at night.  There are about 75,000 homeless people in New York.  Where do they all sleep?  And where do they get their food?  Or the money for their food?

The questions about eating and sleeping for homeless people interests me a lot because, as unbelievable as it may seem, the death rate for homeless people in the City is lower than the death rate generally which includes all those for housed people.  And drug overdoses constitute a large percentage of the homeless death rate.   The death rate for the overall population of New York city is 6/10% while the death rate for homeless people is 3/10%.  That’s ½ the regular death rate.  Mindboggling.  And this statistic holds true in other cities with a large homeless population – such as Los Angeles.

Population of NYC in 2017 was 8,615,000.  Total deaths 54,000 = .6%

Homeless population of NYC was 75,500.    Total deaths 239     = .3%

Drum-seller Thomas Harris has twice the chance of survival on the streets of NYC as in an apartment or house, as do his homeless companions.  Yet, no one is asking what is it about their lives that creates that much lower death rate.

[Read the Post article here:  https://nypost.com/2018/12/09/two-heartbreaking-truths-about-the-city-and-street-homeless/]

THE MAN WHO THREATENED TO KILL ME

One evening I was riding home from Manhattan to Brooklyn and there was a man sitting on a seat at the very end of the train. Everyone who entered the train moved away from him quickly. Along with fidgeting and mumbling, he was wiping yogurt out of a container with his fingers and licking them.

Homeless people ride the trains. Some of them are cleanish - meaning they looked weathered but don't smell. They just want a place to sleep. Less often, you find someone who hasn't bathed in a year, and the smell of urine and body odor and goodness knows what else is overpowering. Those people get a car all to themselves.

This particular man was very unusual. There was something beautiful about him. He looked to be in his 30s. His face was tanned, but not leathery, and his thick, black beard reached to his chest.. He was barefoot, but his feet hadn't calloused. His hands were gentle looking, the nails were dirty, but not ridged or discolored. His hair was long, curly, and shiny. His clothes weren't mismatched and raggedy. They were stained, but looked a bit preppy. I figured him to be off his meds.

I knew a woman in New York who took psychotropic drugs. She found it hard to concentrate and impossible to write while she was taking the correct dosages. Sometimes she stopped so she could write something and then she'd get manic, ending up in the psych ward for evaluation. It seemed like a hellish way to live. Feel nothing or feel crazy.

I don't know how long it takes to grow a beard down to your chest, but I expect it would take a few weeks. But he just couldn't be that clean if he'd been sleeping on the street that long. In fact, I now realize that he surely had an apartment where that he could shower, change clothes, and walk out barefoot. If I had realized that at the time, I wouldn't have done what I did. Which was to take a few dollars out of my wallet and drop them on the seat next to him when I exited the train.

Oh boy.

He jumped up and started screaming at me DON'T YOU DARE GIVE ME MONEY as he tore the money and threw it out the door onto the train platform not far from where I was standing. Other people hurried away. I stood there anchored, watching him. He screamed, I'LL KILL YOU!

He didn't move toward me, and oddly, the look on his face was not anger or malice, but defeat. I knew he was living a drama that had nothing to do with me and felt very sad for him. The train door closed and he was gone. I picked up the money (of course) and went upstairs to the booth to report that a mentally ill man was having an episode on the train, gave the car number, and went home.

Three months or so later, I saw him again. He was on the street in Manhattan. Clean shaved, hair cut, clean clothes and a pinched look on his gray face. Gone was the beauty. He saw me and looked ashamed. Again, I felt sad.

There's a point to this story and it's not that you should be afraid to ride the subway. That's not a common episode and is only scary if you decide to jump into a drama and escalate it the wrong way. But something brought this event to my mind recently and I thought, that man was perfectly fine sitting there licking his fingers until I decided what he needed. He didn't ask me or anyone else for money. Even so, when he got upset, I didn't take it personally, not one bit. I was neither angry with him, judgmental, nor afraid. Not for one minute did I think at the time that he was going to hurt me nor did his ranting effect me except for a little embarrassment in front of others.

Why can't I see all provocative situations and people that way - whether family, friends, or strangers? Why can I not just see them as sad, instead of seeing them as rude, arrogant, or mean? Why do I take it personally and get my feelings hurt, get angry, or become afraid over silly things? Why try to prove a point or make them wrong and myself right even if it's only in my own mind? They are just projecting, expressing, manifesting their own feelings and until I take it personally, it's not about me.

Maybe this week, I'll practice the Four Agreements -

be impeccable with your word

don't take anything personally

don't make assumptions

do your best

Maybe next week I'll practice them again.

[The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz: http://ow.ly/pz5V30888Bw]