Sacred

My first time was behind a dumpster in an alley.

 It was a chilly, cloudy evening in Los Angeles, and my friends had convinced me to go out with them: I wasn’t doing anything, after all. On went my denim jacket, ratty sneakers, and wooly sweater, to the tinney bar down the road. 

“Those? Why don’t you put on something nice?” I recall her, Sadie, saying. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy, and her inky black tresses were flat ironed into a middle part, unlike her normal waves. I didn’t know at what point she started acting differently, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I knew her before she started drinking, after all. 

“Because,” I said. “I’m not going to show off.” 

She ruffled my hair, urging me to hurry, stepping outside to where our other friends were waiting – another guy and girl duo – Calvin and Claudia, twins. I’d only drunk with them in their backyard, and they seemed pretty tame, so I thought it was okay.

They were having a great time, somehow chatting up the barista through the bumping music and bustle of people while I sat alongside them, a brandy cola in front of me slowly disappearing through my straw. Taking in the sweet, syrupy smell of Coke, my eyes lingered on the antique surroundings, the rustic walls, and blurring, horizontal lines on the old television. I supposed the place was meant to be vintage. I didn’t realize how badly I was slouching until Claudia’s voice caught my attention.

“What’s got you down?”

“Yeah, you haven’t said much since we left.” Calvin added.

“Lotta classwork is all,” I waved her off. An understatement, since I was failing two courses at the time.  

“Then kick back an’ relax, no?” He chuckled, lifting his beer bottle as if to cheer me on. I gave a smile to the two, but in hindsight, I was far too exhausted to be in a boisterous environment as I was. Sadie had been in her own little world, sipping a gifted cocktail from a flirty stranger, which left a space between me, Cal and Claud. 

Then, as if out of nowhere, the feeling of someone close raised the hairs on my neck. Bleached, yellowy hair and amber eyes turned toward me, settling in the vacant bar chair, next to my friends and I. 

“How goes it?” His voice was low. There was a southern accent to him, but I couldn’t pinpoint where from. 

“…Fine.” I answered, after a moment of silence. He waited ever so patiently for his drink, his few free fingers hooking the edge of the bar in anticipation, while the other palm rested in his pocket. The bartender brought out a shot of vodka and he tapped his fingers on the table, tossing the bitter liquid back into his throat. His eyes were back on me as soon as they left.

I sunk into myself, my stomach beginning to churn. 

Something about him was off. Something in my gut told me to go home. Something, something – and I didn’t listen.

Dodoitsu Form

Memories in that big house,

Wooden walls painted with crimson

From bloodied, shredded scuffle

Evil brotherhood.

The hill coming up seemed like an endless road. Gum-spotted concrete rose up like a stairway to familiarity – the discomfortable comfort in poverty. The sun was too warm for the jumper against my bare legs, the polyester along my collarbone. My mother called me a tropical baby, born with an overheated body meant for hot weather – but I disagreed. My sister grabbed my hand with a parental-like grip as the shops blurred together, the bell of the icee lady ringing in my ears as she towed her cart around the streets. 

“One dollar, one dollar! Coco, cherry, mango!” 

She guided me towards the woman, reaching for her wallet to pull out two bills. Handing me the “rainbow” colored treat, I licked and licked, desperate for relief from the approaching summer. My sister’s tongue was red with her own. 

“Can we go to the store?” I asked. 

“For what?” She gazed down at me. I knew she felt the same, but she wouldn’t admit to being hungry like a kid would. 

“A snack.” 

She gave me a look. No. I knew. It was okay. I had something already, right?

Marching my mary janes past the bakery, my favorite smell wafted through the air, sweet and cozy. I longed to eat just one piece of bread – but it was out of reach, out of budget. General Tso’s chicken and slices of pepperoni and cheese mingled with the scent, becoming a food symphony that taunted my nostrils. Melancholy, I slurped up the remaining sugar water from my cup as she tugged my arm up the hill, home to an empty fridge, faucet dripping into my glass as I awaited dinner.

I think that a time where I felt as though my perspective has changed due to literature was reading about the homelessness problem in New York. As of late, our new mayor, Eric Adams, has enacted some measures to ensure that homeless people do not actually receive the help they need. Having initially been in favor of him (I’d never voted before then, read his blurb and thought his ideas sounded great), his leadership has been pretty ineffective. Whether intentional or not, it seems as though these ideas hurt homeless people rather than “solve the problem” of them simply existing. His recent move to forcibly put homeless people into psychiatric/health clinics via police seems counterintuitive. “…If you stop and think about it, it makes sense, right? People who are disoriented or having atypical thoughts, they’re not in a position oftentimes to comply collaboratively with a police officer,” he said. “And given the fact that police officers are carrying weapons, you have sort of a recipe for bad outcomes.” (via  Ryan McBain, a policy researcher at the RAND Corporation, CNN) The truth is that the problem with homelessness in New York and in many other places, is more complex than one might think. On the surface, you look at the stats of housing in NY and realize that there’s so much free space, and yet so many people on the streets – why not just place these people into housing? That’s how I thought initially. But then you realize, a lot of these people are on the streets not only because they were kicked out of their old homes, maybe they lost a job, maybe they couldn’t afford the upkeep of rent, but also some of these people need assistance with their health. With mental health only in recent years becoming less stigmatized, it’s no wonder that people are still of the mindset that these folks are “unhelpable.” And when these people are having uncontrollable outbursts and impacting other people’s lives, it’s easy to paint them as the “bad guys,” or not treat them humanely. If you’re struggling with mental health, and the government is expecting you to pack all your belongings off the street, get a job, and take a shower to support your home, it seems almost impossible. While Adams’ intentions are in good faith, he keeps going about it the wrong way. Placing police in certain stations only and yanking people off the streets into psych wards so that New York doesn’t have to face the reality of our homeless population, hiding them away, is not the first step to solving the homelessness problem. If you want to fix the issue of homelessness in America, you need to look at it from multiple perspectives. There’s no easy fix for a big problem that has been marinating in NY for years. It’s going to be expensive, difficult, and time consuming. It’s not just mental health and housing, but those are important places to start.