Life from The Bubble

“Home away from Home.” 28 March 2012

Who would not love the idea of living in a hotel? Having your room cleaned, the access to food whenever you ask for it, or just ring a ‘bell’ if you ever need some extra care. My experiences with living in a hotel next to Route 95, in Waltham, MA, were far from anyone’s perceptions of a resort life. I wasn’t received with a big bright smile, and a delightful tone, "Welcome to the Suites Inn" or “We hope you enjoy your stay,” like they do with their regular guests –face it Diana, you were part of that group: those who are usually being treated as if their misery is not enough to burden for them to be also judged by the society. It is shameful -or call it ignorance, that I used to be like those with such narrowed idea of what a homeless person must look like, especially if that person was a Latina single mom, until homelessness knocked of my door, and dragged me and my children into the 40% of the Hispanics who seek for shelter in Massachusetts on a single night.

Homelessness is a wide-world spread disease social problem that can affect anyone regardless of race, age, social status, and/or educational background. I learned this in 2011, after finding out that I was going to raise my [then] 4-year-old son and my [then] yet-to-be-born daughter as a single parent. Two weeks prior moving to “Room 206,” the one I used to call home, my son and I had to sleep on top of some folded blankets inside an empty Revere apartment, in the third floor of the same building my two-year-older sister used to live. She used to take the T to work when the sun raised to then come back in the sunset, leaving me with minimum to zero access to her stove or fridge, because her roommate-husband regularly “forgot” to leave the door unlocked for me and my children to come in. My meal for the entire day included a green or red apple, a turkey ham or chicken breast sandwich, a kiddy-size 2% chocolate milk or water, and sometimes crackers or a muffin -all part of the Project Bread Program during summer school vacation at a near local park. Michael and I used to share this lunch mainly because I was too embarrassed to ask for one for myself, and my small pregnant belly did not help me at all to prevent people to stop looking at me like I was ‘stealing’ some of my son’s food. When there were times I used to feel that sharing wasn’t satisfying my hunger, I stayed around for some few extra hours with the hope that I could sneakily send Michael to get me at least another apple.

It was a hot Tuesday morning when Michael and I walked five blocks towards the Department of Transitional Assistance, in Ocean Drive. With a suitcase in one hand and my little big boy on the other, I told myself, "The day has come." Today, we were so happy…me, due to just having thoughts of finally getting that goodnight-sleep my body begged me for two weeks, while Michael was air-driving one of his four Hot-Wheels cars, ready for his “Aventura.” The two and a half of us against this new world.

We arrived at the DTA a few minutes after 8:30 am, looking forward being translated to “any city within a 90-mile range,” just like my Latina social worker notified me around 3:00 pm. The same employee, whose name I cannot forget, feverishly shown me her unwillingness to do her duties and her eagerness to jump into conclusions when just three weeks before after almost exhausting her entire box of tissues when explaining that I was at risk of being homeless. In Spanish, I began listing my situation to her… “I’m expecting my second child and my baby’s father who lives in DR does not want to be involved… He wanted me to have an abortion, accused me of arruinarle su vida because I decided to keep our--my baby… I left my [native] country buscando un nuevo comienzo; a new beginning… and here, aqui I don’t feel safe, I had experienced sexual harassment coming from someone who supposed to be like un hermano…I have been sleeping en el piso…me duele tanto mi espalda… I really need a place to stay for me and my son… please, I really need your help.” Raising her right eyebrow and finally looking me in the eyes, she said, “So…you’re pregnant…again?” She went back to look down while continued filling some paperwork.

“I’ll call you in three or four days,” she concluded.

4:45 pm. Tuesday, July 12^th, 2011. Internally, I was sobbing for missing today’s opportunity for having lunch at the park. “Your ride is outside,” said the sweetest and polite White lady who came from the password-controlled door on the right, that leads to the social workers’ cubicles. She was a total contradiction to most of the front desk personnel at this public office. I stood up from the chair in the now empty waiting area; placing her left hand on the back of my shoulder, she tells me, “You are going to Waltham -it’s a nice town; you’ll like it… it is a nice town.”  She walked with us to the elevator’ door and waved goodbye to Michael.

Outside, there was a white van waiting for me. With a list on his hands, the driver asked for my name, tells me to “hang in there a little bit more,” because the woman sitting in the back needed to be dropped first in a city near my destination. Oh well… a few more minutes won’t hurt me, and my stomach stopped its concert a while ago. Michael automatically fell asleep on top of my left lap, holding one of his little cars like a treasure. I was getting bored but excited at the same time, while the van driver only exchanged a few words throughout this ride; “how old is your baby,” and eventually, “you have arrived.”

Oh wow, a hotel... this would be interesting. A White, blond lady greeted me at the front desk, “Hi -Diana? Ok… Sign here, read here, and sign there… here is your key -DON’T lose it! Now follow him (a bellhop) to your room -good night!”

“Thank you,” I smiled and started following the young adult, also White with blond hair.

We walked down the hallway. On my right, a few women seating down chatting in the lounge area were eye-scanning my essence like if I was fresh meat in front of a wolf pack. Awkwardly intimidated, I quickly turned my face back to the front.

“Now we turn to the right [ok… he is talking to me like I talk to my son] and your room should be… right… here! This is the one,” said the bellhop.

“Is there anything you need to ask me or know?” he asked.

“May I have a cup of water…please?”

“Well, we don’t provide water or anything besides a continental breakfast from 6 to 8 am,” he looked at me puzzled by my question. Then, perhaps, he noticed or assumed that I did not carry any food with me. “But, don’t worry, I’m sure I won’t get into trouble with me doing that.” And off he went.

I stood at the door, just waiting patiently for him to come back. Michael went straight to the bed. In a few minutes, the bellhop returned with a 7oz cup of water. “Sorry, we don’t have bigger cups,” he said shamefully. Then, he walked away.

As soon as I closed the door, my journey began…

I could not stop the river down my eyes when I walked into Room 206, and saw a queen-size bed waiting just for me. It embraced me like no man have before. I didn’t mind going to bed without proper food on that day -at least I have a bed!! Some extra sheets… a pillow… ahh, comfort. The very next day, after having breakfast, Mmmm… English muffins with cream cheese, wheat toast with butter, apples and oranges, orange juice, and milk (I don’t drink coffee -so that’s that), Michael, his four cars, and I went to the patio. There were there females intoxicating their bodies, smoking some cigarettes. Minutes after Michael and I’s first expedition, I noticed some used needles near the courtyard shrubs. I assumed they were doing some vaccination campaign and forgot to correctly dispose of them (later on, an ally warned me of the real meaning).

More and more residents started getting out and mingling with each other. There, a group of White women dropping the F-bombs at each other in front of their children; over there, a couple of African Americans aggressively arguing with each other, “I F-kin’ told that M-F-ing n---a’ to stop talkin’ that F-whore;” near me, a Latina talking on her cell phone, “Esa maldita mujer del diablo no me ha llamado -no joda- yo he ido a ese maldito welfea’ tres mil veces ya, y nadie me atiende -ya llevo casi un año aqui y no se lo que pretenden…” And if you are Dominican, you know exactly how her complaints about the ‘welfare’ department would sound: “EsamalDItamujerdelDIABLOnomehallamado-nojoda- yoheidoaeseMalDItowelFEA’tresmilvecesya.” Then, I see a bunch children climbing some small trees -I see Michael running to one of the boys –and there he goes… and here he comes…crying? Ugh! He just lost his blue car.

“How did you lose your car?” I asked Michael in Spanish.

“He (sniff-sniff) won’t (sniff) give (sniff-sniff) my car back to me!!”

Michael’s lack of English words and knowledge led him to lose the rest of his cards, all of them on the hand of one single boy who figured this out.

Day two, “Hey, you!! can I keep your car?”

Day three, “Hey, I’m keeping your car”

“Yes.” 

He had no idea of what this boy was asking, and the only English word he knew was not exactly the proper one in this situation.

Week one…week 10…week 30...week 48… Ugh! English muffins with cream cheese, wheat toast with butter, apples and oranges, orange juice, and milk… repeat. I had a Master in Microwave Culinary Arts. I became an expert in cooking chicken, rice, pasta, vegetables, you-name-it…How much I missed our delicious Bandera so much, I even used to have dreams of arroz con pollo and waking up to my reality.

Living with over 90 families, being exposed by incidents like I previously mentioned, conversations without filter, people fighting across the hallways, saying goodbyes to many of our shrubs because some extroverts wanted to play Adam and Eve under the moonlight, and having some non-homeless men-guests hitting on me because I  “deserve someone who would take me out of poverty,” gave me no other choice than placing myself and my children into a bubble that, for either good or bad, it became part of my life. But, then, I realized that despite all the negativity, it was up to me to choose staying inside my conform zone or helping others to see our situation as a learning experience because, “No hay mal que dure mil años, ni cuerpo que lo aguante.”

My perceptions of homeless individuals changed tremendously thanks to experiences in the Suites Inn. What began with me judging and criticizing all the homeless residents inside and outside this hotel, vanished when I stopped myself to meditate and realize that even those who seemed “tough” were often using their angry faces as a protection wall. Using my own experiences on homelessness I become more aware of the importance of not be feeding the stereotypes on homeless Latinas, single moms (with often being labeled as lazy, Welfare Queen, baby momma, Chapiadora). It might not have been as wonderful as I would like it to be, but then I started counting my blessings:

In the Suites Inn, Michael learned his first English words, besides “Yes;” he also had the opportunity of enrolling at his first public school in the U.S.

In this shelter, I had the opportunity to volunteer for the Waltham Creative Head-Start’s playroom time and served as an English translator for the Spanish-only residents (using my limited English vocabulary).  

In this shelter, I learned that it’s Ok to carry my own bubble, I just need to let people in and coexist. In the Suites Inn, Amber Sophia was born, y junto a ella, mi mayor fuerza para salir adelante por mis dos hijos…por mi…for those who need more than a voice, an ally.