I am lucky enough to have never been homeless. The same cannot be said for my father, who was homeless for six weeks in his mid-20’s. While this is nothing in comparison to the years some of the city’s most unfortunate citizens suffer through, the street is still the street. Yet it also can’t be ignored that his experience was in part due to his pride. My dad had friends and cousins who lived in the city, but he did not want them to know he had fallen on hard times. He had lost his job and been thrown out of his uncle’s house, whom he was staying with after he had moved to America.

My dad was able to secure another job, but as a construction laborer, the pay was very low. It covered food and subway tokens and some nights at a shelter, where he was able to get food, a shower, and a place to sleep. On nights when he had to keep up appearances and go out with the guys, he would choose beer over a safe place to sleep. He slept on church steps, in the 42nd street bus terminal, and on the train, and was lucky enough to not be arrested. He was also lucky that this happened over the summer.

Eventually, he swallowed his pride and talked to his cousins, who let him live with them for the first two months rent free as he saved up. My dad later got a better job, met my mother, and made amends with his uncle, but those six weeks are still a sore spot for him. He refuses to talk about it, and what little I know was siphoned from my mother.
I did learn that he had his tools stolen by another homeless person, but it could have been much, much worse. For the last Macaulay seminar, I completed a research project on homelessness, and learned that the shelters are largely the centers of violence and assault. Both my father’s experience and my research was eye opening to the fact that literally anyone can experience homelessness. The homeless are not alien concepts who just beg for money on trains or spout gibberish on street corners. They are parents, friends, people, and above all, New Yorkers.