The Girl's Guide to Homelessness

by Brianna Karp

  For showers, I found various options. There’s always the possibility of a cheap gym membership, of course, which I eventually found. I also learned that most gyms offer free one-week passes to entice new members. You can print these out at a library or FedEx Office, use it for a week, then move on to the next gym in the area. A 25-cent printout for a free week of showers. Yes, please! Also, an online website assured me that you can often start a month-to-month membership and have your sign-up fees waived just by asking. It never hurts to ask. The worst that they can say is no, right? Smaller, mom-and-pop gyms and community centers are your friend. Their fees are waaaaaay lower than superchains like Bally’s, 24-Hour Fitness, Curves and the like. Some colleges also have showers on campus, and if you have the brass to walk in and shower as if you’re a student there, usually nobody will assume otherwise, unless you look scared. And again, in a pinch, there’s always Arco, and the ever popular strip-and-stand-and-sponge-yourself-off-body-part-by-body-part-in-a-public-restroom. This won’t get you as clean as, say, a public shower, but it will help ease the sweaty, stinky feeling a bit.

  The most irritating thing, I found, is when people question “luxury” items like phones, laptops or vehicles. “I just saw a homeless person with a cell phone! Guess he’s not really homeless.” “Wait a second, how do you blog if you’re homeless?” “Why don’t you sell your phone and laptop and car and buy food or rent an apartment?” There was even a huge uproar in 2009 when a Los Angeles Times writer took umbrage with a possibly homeless person using a BlackBerry to snap a photo of Michelle Obama volunteering at a soup kitchen.

  Or, as my online friend Matthew Mazenauer sarcastically put it, “Gee, if you can afford a $40-a-month cell phone plan, then you can afford a $40-a-month house!” I don’t begrudge homeless people access to useful technology, or even “splurges” with their own income on whatever the hell they want. Since when is it my business to judge how someone else spends his income, or judge his priorities? It’s not my place to say what anybody can or should spend his own money on, homeless or not.

  I can understand potentially taking issue with government money being misspent—if a homeless individual is receiving housing funds for a very specific, designated purpose from an assistance program, and spending them elsewhere. But personal income? It’s yours, you’ve earned it, and if you want to use it to buy a cell phone or a laptop or a book or a necklace or even a goddamn pack of cigarettes because you feel that any of the above will improve the quality of your life or just plain make you feel a little happier or more humanized for a short while, then good for you. I will never be the one to demand to know how much it cost you or look at you askance and mutter about how you wouldn’t be homeless if only you didn’t buy A, B or C. It’s basic respect, and I don’t think that basic respect and the right to privacy end when you lose your home.

  I feel very strongly that the impetus behind such financial “curiosity” is purely for the purposes of judgment, and thus the motives behind such queries are impure ones. If it’s none of your business when a person is housed, then it’s still none of your business when she’s not. Unless a homeless person volunteers financial information of her own accord, I won’t ask her about it. Again, with the occasional exception of adventurous or experimental types taking a conscious leap off the grid, almost nobody chooses to be homeless. Whenever I meet a homeless person, I assume that if she were financially or mentally capable of affording and maintaining a home, then she would be in one, regardless of any “luxury” items I see in her possession. It’s that clear-cut for me.

  Sustainability is the key to any lifestyle. Sure, I could sell my phone and my laptop for the price of a few hamburgers. But, then, the hamburgers would soon be gone, and so would my phone and laptop. I would have absolutely no phone, so an employer could contact me. And without a laptop, I would only be able to search and apply for work online during the hours that the public library was open. I wasn’t always homeless, of course, and neither were most of the homeless people out there, whether they’re the more visible ones you see in the doorway of a 7-Eleven begging for spare change or they’re able to blend in a bit better, as I do. To me, it’s the most basic thing in the world to use your resources wisely when you become homeless. In today’s society, a phone and internet access are no longer “luxury” items. They’re practically necessities. These are tools that by themselves aren’t worth enough to get you a deposit on an apartment (and even if they were, they certainly wouldn’t continue to pay rent for you ad infinitum), but they do hold out the potential in the long term for getting you a job. Why on earth should anyone be dumb enough to give up such an important resource for a couple of meals? As for true “luxury” items, I challenge the notion that homeless individuals “do not deserve” to own anything that may bring a small amount of happiness and pleasure into their lives, which are generally otherwise uncertain and bleak.

  The other thing that irked so many people about the Michelle Obama/soup kitchen/cell phone fiasco was that the Los Angeles Times writer simply assumed that the man in the photograph was homeless. He could have been anyone. He could have been homeless, sure. He could also have been another soup kitchen volunteer. He could have been a random citizen wandering past, who said, “Oh, crap! That’s Michelle Obama! I’m gonna get a picture of her!” But too many people saw the photo of a black man in sweats and a ski cap, snapping a picture with a BlackBerry, and the assumption was made. That’s the way dangerous stereotypes work. And the next thing you know, an article comes out in the Los Angeles Times, demanding to know how, if a homeless man is too poor to buy himself food, he can afford to own a cell phone. Many commentators on the article even insinuated that such a nice phone must have been stolen. Because, after all, homeless people are all criminals, right?

  The article made me want to scream. If indeed the man was homeless, then what exactly was he supposed to do—sell off any and all useful possessions upon losing his home, so that he could fit into an ignorant journalist’s definition of poverty? Would readers feel more comfortable believing he was a “real” homeless person if he was sans phone and dirtier, hungrier, perhaps mumbling to himself or pushing a shopping cart full of random odds and ends down the street? Did any of these readers consider that there are several state and federal programs that hand out cell phones with free plans to homeless people, so that they are able to look for work and call 911 in case of an emergency, since living on the streets is dangerous?

  Nope. Very few people who have never been homeless consider the importance of hoarding available resources, or the thought and planning that goes into using them to maximum effect. Resources are the absolute most important thing when you’re homeless. You learn to make the most of everything you have. I was lucky; I had retained more assets than many—a vehicle, a trailer, a laptop, a phone, a little bit of money, a decent résumé. Many homeless people have one or more of these things. Many have none. The only resource that all of us have is ourselves.

  My body and my mind were and are my most important assets. As long as I was alive and healthy and physically/mentally capable of coming up with a plan and executing it, I knew I’d be OK. I didn’t need to utilize resources that could and should be allocated to homeless people in more dire circumstances than me—perhaps people struggling with mental illness, drug addiction or some other challenges. State and federal programs can be limited, as it is, in who they’re able to provide for. I’d rather people without the advantages that I had get first crack at those. The only benefit I accepted or even applied for was unemployment, during the periods when I was looking for work. After all, I had spent over a decade paying into the system, so that was only right and fair.

  I occasionally saw the other homeless people in the lot during the daytime, as I would leave to take Fezzik out for a walk or head to Starbucks. I tried to enter and exit the trailer mainly early in the morning, before Walmart customers began to show up, or late in the evening, after 10:00 p.m., when the store closed. We didn�
��t interact that much, but we were all well aware of one another, and would occasionally exchange little nods of mutual acknowledgment. One day, I ran into a group of them conversing in the parking lot, and chatted with them for a few minutes. One of them was Pete, who owned the trailer next to mine. He’d been here the longest; homeless for a year and on the lot for a few months, and was the self-proclaimed “mayor of the Walmart parking lot.” He used to be a limo driver, owned seven neatly pressed tuxedos and was regarded with deference and respect by the others. There was also a former doctor, who spoke four languages, living out of another trailer, who was considering taking a job in India teaching English as a second language—free accommodations and a decent salary. Then there was another man living with his wife out of their car—they had owned two homes before the recession had forced them into the parking lot. At any given time, the lot had between eight and twelve permanent residents, in addition to those passing through who would only stay for a night or two before moving on, or those who would rotate between three or four different parking lots—either for a change of scenery or because they were afraid of wearing out their welcome.

  I was as under the radar as they come: My dog was quiet and I found a small chain gym in Anaheim, called Planet Fitness, that charged only $10 a month for a membership. I became known there as the girl who would show up every three to four days, around 7:00 a.m., take a shower and leave. Planet Fitness was eight miles away from the Walmart, which was an incredible waste of fuel just to bathe, so I had to make each shower count.

  There are times when a general air of innocence and naïveté can serve you well. One of them, I discovered, is when dealing with the police—try to remain calm and sound appreciative, even if you’re not.

  I blended in well enough that I only occasionally came to the attention of police officers. This usually occurred when Starbucks would close, and I would continue to loaf in the Starbucks parking lot in my car, catching the wireless signal for another hour or two until my laptop battery died and I had to wrap the extension cord around it and head back to the trailer for the night.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I would roll the window down, placing my hands on the windowsill and putting on the most innocent, bland face I could muster, peering up through my lashes with wide, doelike eyes. A baby couldn’t have had a more angelic face.

  “Good evening, officer! Can I help you?”

  I have to admit, I was pretty good. I was never ticketed, and was clearly charming enough, because they would generally give me goofy grins and speak to me in patronizing What’re-you-doing-out-here-alone-at-midnight-little-lady? tones.

  I avoided the word homeless. I was aware of the sort of response the word triggered in law enforcement, though of course it was pretty obvious what must have been going on—I had a back seat piled high with emergency changes of clothing, after all.

  “I’m sorry, officer, my [boyfriend/mother/father/roommate] and I had a little tiff, and I didn’t have anywhere to go tonight. I’m going to be calling my sister in the morning and going to stay with her. She’s out of town until tomorrow, though, so I just picked a parking lot. I apologize if I shouldn’t be here; I didn’t realize! [shocked expression] I’ll be on my way, if it’s not all right for me to stay here…”

  I would trail off, and the cop would invariably smile at the poor, confused little girl, her eyes verging on tears (I completely lack the ability to cry on cue, but I can throw a little waver into my voice that would make any man swear that my dry eyes are red and brimming with tears), and hastily assure me that he understood—we’d just keep it between us, and I could go ahead and park here for the night. I would shake his hand gratefully and firmly (none of that dead-fish grip here!), and thank him profusely for his kindness.

  This patter, of course, likely wouldn’t have worked if I’d been a man (or, I’m sad to say, an ineloquent woman). If I’d been a man, I’d probably have been asked to move on, or worse. Orange County, in particular, is overwhelmingly conservative, white suburbia—keen on appearances and hasty to drive out all appearances of homelessness. That’s what LA is for, they figure. To be homeless in Orange County, you have to not be seen.

  I did get the impression from the police I encountered, that they were trying in their way to take the recession into account, to go easier on the rapidly rising number of homeless people. I don’t believe that most of them would be intentionally cruel to a homeless person. More that it was just an unfortunate, inevitable side effect of asking them to move on. Did it sadden me that perhaps a man, or someone sleeping on a park bench, or someone who was mentally ill would be treated worse than me in a police encounter? Absolutely. It’s horrific, when you think about it. The more “visible” homeless individuals out there needed compassion far more than I did. They were the ones who really needed the cops to be flexible on the rules, to leave them in peace to sleep or at least to point them in the direction of a shelter or a program that could help them.

  Still, that didn’t stop me from taking advantage of the natural, built-in benefits of femininity. My gender is viewed as a hindrance in many other life situations—may always be. It was about damn time it came in handy for something, and I intended to make full use of it.

  Job hunting was another pain in the ass. Nobody was hiring, or even bothering to call back. So many people were out of work that every job posting must have prompted hundreds or even thousands of résumés in response—an inbox-shattering wall of cover letters, a jumble of the qualified, the unqualified, the overqualified and the utterly hopeless. Everyone was desperate and willing to apply for any open position, however slim the chances were. I’d be lucky if a hiring manager ever even opened my email, much less read my résumé. The interviews that I did get were uncommonly dismal.

  “What do you think about this recession we’re going through?” asked a large, puffy interviewer behind the desk at a stainless-steel bathroom accessory factory. He stared at me in my business suit, freshly showered and primped at the gym, looking just like any other job applicant. He looked at me with saggy eyes behind round, dinner-plate, owl glasses.

  I told him the truth—that it made me sad to see everyone having such a tough time, struggling, losing their homes, wondering where their next meal would come from. I said that I hoped the economy would right itself quickly and that things would be back on the up-and-up soon.

  “No!” he slammed his hands on his desk dramatically and leaned over, into my personal space. “This economy is excellent for us, and do you know why?”

  I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to respond. I was having a hard time thinking of anything positive to say about the recession. I kept my mouth shut and raised my eyebrows, smiling slightly at him as though he’d asked a rhetorical question.

  “It’s because,” he crowed, “now we, as a company, have our pick of the litter. We can hire people like you for dirt cheap. You’ve got great experience and credentials!” He waved my résumé in the air. “If everyone’s out of work and desperate for a job, we can choose who we want. The best of the best. I couldn’t do that a year ago. Somebody like you would never have come in to interview at a place like this.”

  I couldn’t quite believe this conversation. It stunned me that anybody would be so tactless and rude as to say such a thing in a job interview, much less rub a potential hire’s face in it, even if his company were profiting from the recession. Not only did it show a lack of professionalism, but it reflected utter crudeness of the lowest sort. He made me sick. I resisted the urge to grab a flabby cheek in each hand and bang his head on his mahogany desk.

  Then he offered me the job, at a wage lower than entry-level. Lower than even unemployment. Bare minimum wage. I politely declined, when what I really wanted to tell him was to get stuffed. I’m a damn hard worker, but I’m nobody’s slave.

  Chapter Eight

  Between job searching, I was updating the blog with random musings I was still positive nobody would ever read. Brandon, who called to check up
on me every now and again, suggested that I start a Twitter account. I had vaguely heard of this Twitter crap, and thought it was ridiculous. Microblogging? One hundred forty characters? Why? What was the point? I simply didn’t get it.

  “No, really, Bri. It’s, like, the wave of the future for self-promotion and advertising. You can make all sorts of connections on Twitter!” Brandon had a Twitter account himself, with about nine followers. I thought he was completely full of it. Still, I did it, to make him happy. “The Girl’s Guide to Homelessness” wouldn’t fit within the username limit, so I became “tGGtH.” Feeling like an idiot, I punched a single tweet out into the internet ether:

  www.girlsguidetohomelessness.blogspot.com. Tips for surviving homelessness.

  It was March 2, 2009. My twenty-fourth birthday was four days away. I had no way of knowing how much that single tweet would rock my entire world to its foundation. I had no way of knowing the chain series of events it would set in motion, changing my life—and me—forever.

  All I knew was that within an hour, I had my first follower, @w0lfh0und, from across the Atlantic. His name was Matt Barnes, and he was formerly a homeless activist from England. After spending several months homeless, he had recently been placed in a government-subsidized flat in Scotland, and ran a website called HomelessTales.com, a forum where homeless and formerly homeless writers could publish articles about their experiences, as well as engage in commenting and constructive debate. More than that, it was a place to come together, propose solutions, create friendships and form a support network.