By Amy F. Marshall
OAKLAND, CA — The fear of becoming homeless crept up on me slowly. Housing security had never been an issue as I moved between nine states and two countries over the last thirty years. Relocating was as natural as breathing, or so I thought. I wasn’t working, my health wasn’t good, my mother was having major health challenges, my partner and I had broken up.
My mother was hospitalized and lost the ability to walk and make personal decisions. I lived with her friend for three months as I alternated being my Mom’s caregiver, and packing to relocate her to the Bay Area. Sleeping on someone’s sofa in their home was new to me yet cheaper than a hotel.
Within nine months after returning to the Bay Area with my Mom, I was homeless. Where would I go? Consumed with fear I confided my predicament to someone I recently met. She made it possible for me to get an interview with a women’s shelter. For one night I had to sleep in my car. I parked near a Safeway gas station where I reasoned I would be safe in a well-lit place with people milling about. I didn’t sleep well and worried about bringing attention to myself.
My temporary residence consisted of one room, a shared restroom and dayroom facilities. After moving in I looked out the window, surveyed my surroundings and cried. The move from Dublin to inner city Oakland was a dramatic change.
For two years I lived in a shelter for women. Homeless men and women congregated on the corner. I spoke to the familiar ones daily and corrected the ones who mistook me for someone who worked in human services. I live here and I’m your neighbor was my phrase to set the matter straight. When the litter became too much for me to bear and I protested, and one man said “We’ll take care of it Miss Lady” and they did. While I lived there, every morning the area was swept up and a bag hung from the street sign to collect garbage. I gave out small gifts of sweets during the holidays and they treated me like I mattered, always. I was grateful for my mother’s care, my shelter, and having a sense of community. Leaving was bittersweet. Relaxing without being concerned about another’s comfort was liberating. Yet, receiving care and concern from those whose living situation was worse than mine was an awaking experience.
Today, I see past the clutter of makeshift shanty housing and tents. I see individuals in fellowship and community, claiming, organizing, and sweeping the entry around their space. I’ve slept on someone’s couch for months, rented a room, slept in my car overnight, and lived in a shelter for two years. I have my private space again and no longer take having a place to live for granted. My concern is that rising rents may put me at risk of homelessness. The fear of ‘where will I go?’ is ever-present.
An awakening experience
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A wonderful, compassionate, meaningful article. Thank you for telling your story.