I live on the Central Coast of California. Over the past few months our local newspaper has reported on the plight of a tent city in Santa Cruz and how it was being forced to relocate. The homeless people occupying the tent city didn’t want to have to move but the residents of Santa Cruz with homes neighboring the tent city wanted it gone.
In this essay, I attempt to give readers a different perspective on the tent city, from a fictional homeless person, Rick Michaels. Now, I’m not naive enough to think that the majority of homeless people fit this profile but I think it’s important to see all points of view. I know that these homeless communities often have a lot of drug use and mental health issues among their residents. And, honestly, I wouldn’t want a tent city near my home. But then I think, didn’t Jesus say, “What you do to the least of my brethren, that you do unto me”? Isn’t there a way that we can resolve the plight of the homeless while protecting our neighborhoods, keeping them safe and clean? Isn’t there some avenue for providing psychiatric services to those who need them? Isn’t it possible to build a facility that moves the tent city inside? Anyway, here’s the story of “Rick Michaels” as told by Rick Michaels.
You don’t know me so I don’t expect you to care. I don’t want your sympathy – it wouldn’t do me any good anyway. Your sympathy won’t bring back my wife. It won’t reunite me with my kids. It won’t find me another teaching job or secure a proper home for me. You don’t know me but I think you’d find that I’m very much like you. Or I used to be, anyway.
My name is Rick Michaels. I was born into a large, upper middle class family – with both parents present and accounted for. I went to both a Catholic elementary and high school. I even went to college and graduated with a teaching degree.
Two months after graduating, I was teaching history and political science at the local high school. I even coached the girls’ track and field and cross country running teams.
I was living a good life. I fell in love and married Becca when I was 24. Had two kids by the time I was 28. I had it all.
But by the time I turned 29, I had lost everything.
My wife died unexpectedly. They told me it was some sort of aneurism, a blood clot in her brain. I was at practice when it happened. It was a Wednesday afternoon, I remember.
Even today, six years later, while everyone else is recognizing hump day as one day closer to the weekend, I experience “I think I want to jump day.” As in, off a bridge. My Wednesdays are a painful reminder of the glorious life I once had.
By the time I got home on that Wednesday six years ago, just after 6:00 pm, the house was unusually dark. No lights on. I thought maybe Becca had taken the kids to her mom’s house – something she sometimes did when I had an after school practice. I pushed a button and the garage door lifted, exposing my wife’s parked car. Hmm. Maybe everyone was napping?
I cautiously opened the door to the kitchen. I say cautiously because I had a bad feeling about what was inside.
The second I opened the door I heard it. My kids were crying. Where was the noise coming from? Upstairs.
Turning on lights as I rushed to the staircase, I called for Becca. There was no response.
I found the love of my life, my reason for living, my Becca, sprawled on the floor of my daughters’ bedroom. Dead? Dead! My Becca!
My screaming joined the chorus of my girls’ screaming. That’s the last thing I remember from that horrible day.
The doctors say I had a mental breakdown. I must’ve called 911 that day but I don’t remember. The authorities took my kids that night, at least, that’s what I was told. They ended up with my in-laws and now live 2,000 miles away. I didn’t lose custody per se, I just didn’t have it in me to argue. I was too caught up in my own misery to consider the hell my babies were going through.
To this day I can’t recall if I even attended my own wife’s funeral. My wife, who had made me promise that I would attend her funeral even if we were divorced and no longer together. She was so concerned about no one showing up. She had written down for me a list of songs she wanted played at her funeral. Made me keep it in a safe spot. I laughed at her assuming she would die before me, but I obliged and put her list in the safe we kept in our closet.
I have no idea if they played her songs at the funeral… I hope so. I promised. Man, I don’t even know where our blasted safe is.
I lost my job because I couldn’t get my shit together. I had lost the most important person in my life. I was catatonic with grief.
I lost our lease and all our belongings. It’s possible that my in-laws have some of our stuff, but how would I know? I haven’t seen or talked to them or my daughters since I straightened myself out four years ago. We are “estranged”, I guess you call it.
And now, here I am, a homeless, childless widow, living in a temporary tent city in Santa Cruz, California, which I just learned they’re tearing down. The community thinks it’s an eyesore. I suppose I would have thought so too…before. I’ve lived here for three years. I have sixteen more days before I have to “vacate the premises”.
You don’t know me and I know you don’t really care about the circumstances that brought me here. I just want you to know that I’m not the bum you may think I am. I’ve never done drugs, never even smoked pot. I haven’t had a measly can of beer let alone hard alcohol, for six years. I’ve never committed a crime. I keep myself clean. I’m not crazy.
I even have a job. It’s not much of a job but I was able, after months of walking to and from my work, to buy myself a used bicycle that gets me there much faster. I work for the city, cleaning up trash on the streets and in the parks. A government job.
What I’m trying to say is that I was just like you. I’m still like you, really, just a sadder and perhaps more tired version of you.
Can you please think about me and the scores of other homeless folks in Santa Cruz before you vote to close my tent city? We are ordinary people; we just don’t have homes. Please don’t make us tear down our tent city. I’m sorry you don’t like to see it on your commute to and from the office every day or on your drive to the beach on weekends. But these are my friends. This is my neighborhood. My tent is this homeless man’s home – the only one I’m likely to have for a long time. I’ve lost one home; please don’t take this one away too. ✿
I like it. There’s a tent city in St. Petersburg, FL, but when advocates tried to create one here in Tampa, residents objected.
This was a good and thought provoking read! Thanks for the insight for another perspective.
And so it continues on and on over the years and nothing is done. I wish there was a really good and loving solution for homelessness.
While a lot of homeless individuals have mental health and addiction issues, many don’t, as you illustrated so well Jill. The reality is that many of us are just a health issue or paycheck away from a similar situation. I had a library patron who lost everything after he helped one of his children that had no medical insurance and became very ill. He lost his business and found himself living in his car outside the library. He was so embarrassed to be regularly reported by the school nearby. I came to his assistance many times. Hunger and homelessness in this country is shameful. We need to do better!
powerful view of the “other side”…..thanks for sharing!
powerful view of the “other” side….thanks for sharing!