And Be Strong

The bundle is an old man, lying motionless on the bench, one arm hanging limply toward the stained concrete below the bench... Just another day homeless & struggling to get by while raising two kids

      The transitional housing we live in is placed in the middle of a block with two dead ends—on one end the block curves into another street and at the other end, the block is cut off by a bus stop squatting on a concrete curb. The bus stop is familiar to the children and I, for $1.50 all three of us could ride, and get a transfer good for two hours of travel on any bus, in any direction. When the money was running short, Marcel and I looked on the ground, and in the cracks of sidewalks for discarded transfers. Sometimes we were blessed to meet someone who had no use for their transfer, and thus were granted another ride. The children and I rode some of the most dangerous buses in Minneapolis on a daily basis—drunks, fighting and chaos were just a part of riding and our sad story created just another faded square on the fabric of inner city life.

 

            On this day, I load Marcel and Nora into the double stroller and push them toward the bus stop. We are riding to the grocery store. I always made sure to buy a little extra food to set aside for emergencies, so that my children and I would never go hungry. The times the deep snows kept us from riding, we had food. The times I was too sick to go shopping, we had food. And if someone else was struggling, we had a little extra to help them out. By the time we are done grocery shopping, one side of the stroller will be filled with grocery bags, Marcel (age 6) will be carrying at least one or two bags and my backpack will carry the gallon of milk and some smaller items. Nora (age 3) tires easily, and needs to ride in the stroller. She is capable of walking but the long bus trip (four transfers in all), walking and then shopping is too much for her. The children never complain about the bus trips, except in the winter when temperatures drop below zero. The children are immune to the crackhead cursing at no one in particular, the men trying to talk to Mommy, the googly eyed old person offering the children a linty piece of licorice plucked from a pocket. They never complain, never say a word.

 

Sometimes my children became the spectacle on the bus. Marcel might throw a tantrum, screaming and kicking. Marcel was not intimidated when the bus driver yelled at him or threatened to kick him off the bus. Calming Marcel down required catching him off guard, somehow getting his mind to go in another direction—a task that was constantly changing, and always challenging. Or, Nora, would be standing in the aisles, singing, “God is a wonderful Gooooodddddd…” Every week she would add to the song, “He made the twees (trees), fw-oers (flowers) and my Mommy….” Or “He said let the wittle cwildren come to me….” Nora is outgoing and so pretty with her brown eyes tinted with emerald and silky brown hair streaked with blond, that she draws a lot of attention. It scared me when Nora would talk to strangers or sit by people she did not know, some who tried to talk to her or offer her things. I instructed Marcel to look out for his “little sissie”, and to yell if someone got too close. Often Marcel or I would have to grab Nora, pulling her shirt or arm, because she would run off in all directions, unafraid. Nora could easily disappear in a crowded bus, and with bags to juggle and a folded stroller balancing on my legs, the task to watch her was more difficult. When shopping, I tried to ride during less busy times, that way I didn’t have to pay “rush hour” fare (which is more expensive) and there are less people, so it is easier to keep the children close. I relied on Marcel to help watch his sister; over the months he had grown closer to Nora, more protective. When Marcel became angry or had a “meltdown”, his emotions towards his Nora bubbled over to uncontrollable levels. He felt that deeply for her.

 

My family offered to help, and I took them up on emergencies but in daily life, it is just easier to do things on my own. Realistically, I know that I need to be independent. The Heywoods, Mark’s family was so angry at me for leaving that they refused to help the children and would instead assist Mark in waging an expensive, and lengthy legal battle against me for full custody of the children. When I wrote letters explaining that we are homeless and living in shelters, Miriam Heywood, his mother, sent cutesy cards embellished with her looping signature, totally ignoring our desperation and refusing to send even a penny to the children. All the money the Heywoods spent on lawyers and motions could have provided the children with so much—housing, food, transportation, a day of fun to just be kids and forget our struggles. It was my family who stepped up to love and provide for the children, and I believe that love has kept my children strong through all they have endured.

 

On this day, the children and I come to the bus stop just as day is fading into a soft blue night, the sky matching the faded color of my favorite jeans. As I approach the bus stop, I notice a raggedy black bundle heaped on the aluminum bench affixed to the plexiglass and metal shelter. Only when I get closer do I realize the bundle is an old man, lying motionless on the bench, one arm hanging limply toward the stained concrete below the bench.

“Mommy is he dead?” Marcel whispers.

“No sweetie, of course not.” I reply, trying to convince myself it is true, “He’s just taking a nap.”

“I don’t wanna take a nap!” Nora loudly proclaims.

“OK—let’s go stand over here.” I say, pushing the kids towards the far end of the curb, “Hopefully the bus will be here soon.”

“He looks dead to me.”, Marcel mumbles, kicking a rock with the toe of his black “Spiderman” shoes.

The kids continue to stare at the man, lying in a heap on the bench, his head is tucked into his chest, a tuft of course gray hair and ruddy skin.

I hear a loud clatter and turn to see a man open a door at a furniture store directly behind the bus stop. A man motions for the children and I to come in. He points to the heap of rags on the bench and says under his breath, “Crazy!”. I tell Nora and Marcel to follow me, and we step into the entry of the furniture store. I am thankful for the haven offered—and the welcome distraction my children need.

 

The furniture store is a squat stucco building painted a bright color of magenta with a large, fenced in lot in the back. I had seen the building plenty of times but never thought of it because I didn’t have a home for new furniture, let alone any extra money. The store sells exotic furniture in animal prints along with leather couches and tall lamps made of gleaming brass. It also sells African jewelry made of twine, conch shells and wooden beads as well as women’s clothing—stretch jeans with rhinestone decorations, capris and mini dresses in sporty styles. I stood on the white and black linoleum entry, instructing Nora and Marcel not to touch anything—lest the lion shaped end table open its mouth and bite them. 

“It’s okay”, The man said, “Come in. They have candy?”

I nodded, assessing the situation, while the man put a quarter in the candy machine to give my children a handful of colorful chocolates. The two employees working the store introduced themselves; both seemed nice, and were relieved that my children were safely away from the grizzled old man knocked out at the bus stop. It never ceased to amaze me that strangers often showed more kindness to my children than their father, and his side of the family.

“Mommy look—a box car ambulance!” Marcel said, his tongue tripping over the word “ambulance”, which he stuttered through.

“What they doing, Mommy?” Nora asked—which means she wants a detailed, blow by blow account with all the gory details or she will ask so many questions that you will give in simply out of exhaustion.

We watched as two police cars and an ambulance pulled up next to the bus stop. The blue and red flashing lights are common in our neighborhood, spotted as frequently as other neighborhoods observe robins and squirrels.

“He’s been lying there for a long time.”, one of the employees said, “He’s drunk.”

Another employee laughed as the police put on blue latex gloves then nudged the man, who did not move at first but when nudged more firmly, he extended his arms and legs outward, as if casually waking from a nap. Then he simply curled up, forming a tight ball on the bench.

“We see you waiting for the bus all the time”, one of the employees said, “You can come wait in here anytime.”

“Thanks”, I nod, watching as the police jab the man’s arms, prompting him to stand on shaky legs, almost falling until the ambulance attendants assist him to a stretcher.

“Mommy, he got an owie?”, Nora asks.

“Yes honey”, I sighed, “we just gotta pray for him.”

And be strong, I thought reflecting on my situation, ‘til prayers are answered…

 

 

Lynn Mari, © 2009