Posts Tagged ‘displacement’

Unhappiness

April 5, 2018

Unhappiness

It is an unhappiness that will not go away. It stays around and loiters, like an intruder in a building. The unhappiness does not express itself. It has no exact words to describe what it feels like. It eats away, little by little, someone’s spirit. It makes people restless and angry. The anger doesn’t show. Nobody sees it. All that people see are white teeth and a permanent grin.

 

 

 

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The Rain

March 29, 2018

The Rain

It was the rain. The rain was the worst part of it all. When it hit, the face and the body had no chance of escape. There was nowhere to hide from the rain. On hot summer nights the rain resembled a traitor; it was a most unwelcome surprise, the worst possible slap.  The water had to be put up even without thunder. Doorways were no help. The feet got wet and there was nowhere to dry them. There was nowhere to dry the clothes on one’s back. All the thoughts went to a place with a cup of hot tea, somewhere to take away the taste of wet poverty.

 

 

 

The Wind

March 16, 2018

The Wind

This is how I feel—this is exactly how I feel. The wind is hard; it is harsh and it is striking my face. The woman had these thoughts in her head as she thought about the new crisis in her life. She was threatened with homelessness, with sleeping on the street again after having been inside in a cramped apt. The apt. was the roof over her head, the only roof she had, the only roof available. She listened to the heavy duty traffic. This is just what I need, she said to herself as she smiled. All this mirrors my mood. This chaos, this nightmare that I have inside is the new problem. It is the so hard to solve problem. I hate it! I hate myself for not having the solution to it. A new gust of wind struck her face. Enough! This is enough! What to do now. I need to concentrate on that and that only. My life—what will happen to my life from now on and beyond. I have to live it until I die—but how and where?

 

 

Raw Storm Scene

March 7, 2018

Raw Storm Scene

White, white and more even white falls on the sidewalk, the streets, everywhere. People and their umbrellas caught by the wind stumble, then keep on walking. They skip the black ice areas if they can; most walk as fast as possible. At one end of a street, a man sits on a piece of cardboard. A large black umbrella covers his head. At the other end, someone is sitting on three United Post office crates, the kind that postal workers use. The person looks up at the sky; the shoulders first, then the head shake. She looks towards the man. That we should be out on such a day! We would rather be nice and cozy somewhere, not here in the wild of the storm. People hand her single dollar bills. She looks at their hands. Thank you. Thank you very much. The snow has turned her black pants white. Her fingers shake it off.

 

 

 

 

Fitting In

February 16, 2018

Fit

You don’t fit in. You are no one; everybody thinks that you are nobody, nobody at all. The way you look is not the look they want. They want a different look, something that will be like them. You walk a certain way; you carry yourself a certain way. Your clothes are shabby; they dress with style. None of it is their way and never will be. You can’t pretend to be another type of person. You can’t back down. That will not work. You are out. You are definitely out. The photograph is taken without you.

 

 

In or out

February 12, 2018

In

To fit in—there is, there always has been, a need to belong somewhere, anywhere. An outsider, she is an outsider always with her nose stuck on the glass window. She looks at all the people who have made it, all the people who are in. They are part of a group and they have the badge to prove it. They have done something, whatever that something was, to make their selves known, to make themselves seen. How can she, this now older person, be herself when her real self is not accepted? She’s just not what is accepted; she’s not what the people want. Her eyes close; a minute or two of rest, of forgetting so she won’t have to think. She is no stranger to the harsh realities of life. Harsh realities have been her companions for a long time—more time than she cares to remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Know

January 10, 2018

Don’t Know

You don’t. You don’t know. It is insecurity—it is more than insecurity, more than looking up in the dark at the lights shining inside an apt. or house. It is being hurt over and over again and not knowing what will happen next. It is expecting the worst from life in spite of all the good wishes of this or that person. Homelessness—homelessness does that to a person. It rips the person apart, makes the person feel devastated and terribly alone in a snowstorm.

 

 

Safe

November 4, 2017

Safe

I have not felt safe. I do not feel safe because I am not.  I don’t know what safety is anymore. The last time I felt safe was so many years ago; maybe it was when I was a child and didn’t know what was to come. A safe place to live; a place with no threats of eviction, with no threats of anything harmful to me—all this seems an unreachable and impossible dream. It is a far away event. I can’t even remember it anymore. I dread what will happen next.

 

 

The Curb

October 31, 2017

The Curb

She was near the curb; he was sitting next to her. He had a suitcase; she had a purse and a bag. It was dark—7 o’clock in the morning of a fall day. The milk crate hurt her back, but she had to sit somewhere. She had to do something to be there with him. People walked by. It was the early morning rush; they were the ones that arrived at work before the others had to. They walked fast and never glanced at the man and the woman. She shivered; he put he covered his head with a hoodie and looked at the sidewalk. How long will this morning last? It feels long, so long.

 

 

 

Nasty Neighbor

October 5, 2017

Nasty

There was a knock on the door, a heavy knock. The woman opened the door. She saw a bleached blonde standing before her. Oh, yes, the neighbor from the second floor, she thought. The blonde’s face was angry; her wrinkles were prominent. Do you know that your cat meows during the night? Is he feral? Feral? Of course, he isn’t feral. He’s a stray I am fostering. You’re not fostering him. He hasn’t even seen a vet. Yes, he has seen a vet, the woman behind the door said. Then why is he meowing. That’s what cats do. You bitch! I am going to call the ASPCA. I’m going to have you kicked out. Don’t call the ASPCA. On second thought call them. I’m helping the cat. The woman on the inside of the door shrugged her shoulders. Enough! I am tired of these people. If it’s not one, it’s another. Unsafe—now I feel more unsafe about housing than ever. It’s like I can never be home. I can never have my little sure thing space somewhere, anywhere.