My parents liked to go partying a lot and somehow got convinced that leaving a 5-year-old unattended for 9 hours at a time so they could get hammered was wrong. So I was routinely placed in a holding facility with other unfortunates.
The wardens tried to break down our resistance.
They started with the carrot.
“We’ll have fun together. We’ll sing and play games.”
They passed out toys and all the inmates played for one minute with the one toy they were provided, until the biggest inmate, Jake the Rake, went around and snatched up all the toys and assembled them into a pile for himself.
When the rest of us complained to the warden about Jake’s behavior, we were told we needed to learn to get along. So we sat around and watched Jake run his fingers through his prizes. Then after an hour or so our educational playtime came officially to a close and we were all marched out into the yard.
The yard was about 400 square feet surrounded by chain-link fencing three times our height. There were picnic tables and the ground was gravel and sand, best to soak up the blood. We were first told to stretch our legs. We all walked to the fence and gripped it, just to smell the freedom that awaited us on the other side. If only the wardens would look away long enough, I knew I could scale that fence and be out of there.
Then they made us sit at the picnic tables. There was forced singing. “A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket.” Who really cares? We only wanted out. Keep your stinking baskets.
They brought milk and graham crackers. What a cruel joke. Milk to quench the thirst, graham crackers to restore it. When they first showed me the graham crackers, I couldn’t believe they were intended to be food. Then they demanded that we nap, and the real reason for loading us up with faux bread stuffs became clear. It was to induce drowsiness so that we would nod off, and the wardens could take a break from us.
After napping, they took us back inside for another round of playtime. Jake did his thing again, and some kid resisted and was bloodied. Everyone screamed, and one or two kids threw up their crackers. Then we were all forced to lie on cots, the lights were dimmed, and all that was left was for each one of us to lie there in anguish, wondering why our parents weren’t there yet to spring us. The wardens kept telling us to go to sleep, it’s after our bedtime, but how?
How do you sleep on a cot in a roomful of guys sleeping on cots all 6 inches from you? The incessant wailing. Some idiot has to spend an hour saying his bedtime prayers out loud. “Please bless mommy and daddy and sissy and aunt dodo and uncle turkey and …” Shut up!
Being homeless as an adult, one of the things I learned quickly was that all the authorities who wanted to pretend they were going to help me were playing out roles. They all imagined themselves as better than me, and that they were going to fix me. They were the caretakers; I was the caretakee.
In order to be fixed, they thought I needed discipline I supposedly lacked. They would control when I could sleep and where, for my own good, and if I didn’t like the conditions it was because I was a troublemaker. I didn’t know how to get along.
As far back as 1996, I have had homeless people come to me and ask me to write about the sorry conditions of the shelters they have found themselves in. There have been complaints about infested bedding. There have been complaints of overcrowding. Failures to provide security in situations where too many people are thrown together.
Adults don’t deserve that sort of treatment.
Above all, people need to stop the homeless blaming. Stop telling people who choose to stay out of the shelters that they are the problem. The problem is, so many shelters are so inadequate that sleeping under a bridge is better.