7
Increasingly, I felt like I needed to get away from the shelter to escape the stigma of “homeless person,” especially after realizing that my coworkers had found out I was homeless. They didn't say anything to me about it, but in my mind I imagined they thought I was disgusting for being homeless and guessed that they might me “homeless girl” behind my back. Not only that, but occasional disagreements (usually just verbal) erupted at the shelter between some of the other residents, and it seemed like an unstable environment from which I wanted to get away. There was also something else that I couldn't quite put my finger on—some kind of vibe at the shelter that felt like walking around in the same rut over and over again. So I did what I could to escape the shelter while I wasn't at work.
I discovered that a university was located just down the street from the shelter. After a few weeks, it dawned on me this was the same university where my deceased mother (she had died in a car accident about seven years before I was in the homeless shelter) had gone for her Bachelor's in Biology before I was born. I never saw her use the degree until after she and my dad got divorced (I was around 20 or so), and she had to get her own place and a job. Seeing the university now, with grass of the ideal shade of summer-green, trees trimmed to perfection, and freshly-painted, black spiked metal fences, I was curious about it. Grabbing my backpack, I disguised myself a student and went onto campus to look around.
As it turned out, I wasn't the only shelter resident who'd thought of the idea of hanging out at the university across the street. ALL of the university's doors had warning stickers on them, saying that people who enter had to be actual students or faculty—an obvious indicator that the administration was well aware of the homeless folks lurking nearby. But I wasn't a “homeless person,” I told myself; I was a potential student! I crafted the idea of going back for another degree while living at the shelter (something more useful than art, this time!) and even spoke to an advisor. I thought that maybe I could attend classes while living for free at the shelter. At least, it made sense in my brain. However, I left the advisor's office even more confused than before I went in. My plan to go back to school never got traction because I had no plan. At least, no actual break-down of action steps to take. I couldn't think clearly enough to craft a plan other than a vague sense of, “Maybe I could do this,” or “Maybe I could do that.”
Other ideas I had included asking the city for a small piece of land where I could grow food for the shelter residents and it would give us a sense of purpose to take care of plants. I even told the idea to Dee, and she was happily supportive of it. Once again, the idea never caught traction. My idea bucket was full of holes.
I hung out at libraries around Detroit, near hotels and open-air cafes, pretending to be a productive member of society, looking at books and magazines, even if only for a moment in my hazy mind—a mind that wasn't even on drugs at all! I remembered that one of my art teachers worked as a graphic designer somewhere in the city, and for a brief moment I considered contacting him and asking for a job. That idea also never gained any traction—just a passing thought that drifted away like a fluffy dandelion seed on the wind. My fluff-brain was too lazy and unfocused to read any books, talk to any people, learn anything of value, or take any concrete action.
Escape... I need to escape.