Sheltered
Imagined Communities 2: Actual Communities
The other really funny thing at the homeless shelter went like this.
It started with a dispute about turning off the lights.
Everyone sleeps in large rooms. It has this advantage over hostels in Newark: no bunk beds.
Sometimes the night staff are vigilant and make sure every room turns off their lights at midnight. Otherwise, the situation is up to the social consensus of the room’s occupants; anyone who wants to can hit the light switch by the door. Occasionally, conflict ensues.
I wanted it to be dark so that I could try to sleep, but I was too scared to participate in the darkness debate: after all, I was literally surrounded by poor people. By homeless men! (Better to worry about them than to admit to my innermost self that I am a Poor Person Who Is Homeless.)
There was a drunk-seeming black guy whose bed was close to the door. This gave him disproportionate power over light. He was generally unruly; earlier in the evening, I’d seen him try to explain to a Hispanic man that 1. The United States is better than other countries, and 2. Other people shouldn’t come here. I remember him as the Drunk Black Patriot (DBP).
In most American contexts, being black puts you at a disadvantage. (News at 11.) The situation in the shelter is more complicated. No one is white. Except for Alex. One of the only times I ever saw another white guy, he tried to give me a sympathetic look. A look that said, “Can you believe WE’re in here?” I tried to meet his glance with a counter-glance that said, “I reject your premise as well as your conclusions.” Probably I mostly looked Afraid.
Over the dozen or so nights of my Residency at the shelter, scattered widely across the last couple years, some things remained the same. The largest number of occupants were Latin American delivery riders, with many West African migrants as well. I’d guess the native-born population of the shelter at no more than half.
This is the context in which DBP turned the lights back on after midnight.
Thankfully, someone turned them off again.
…but DBP, defiantly, turned them back on.
This continued back and forth. Finally, darkness prevailed. The lights remained off.
The arc of history is long. And it… gets lost, sometimes.
DBP wasn’t going down without a fight.
Into the darkness, his voice emerged:
“America.”
No response.
“…America.”
Can’t we sleep, yet?
“…AmERICA.”
Good god, man. Don’t you even realize that the traditional jingoistic interjection is “U-S-A?”
I was much too scared to say anything, but my mental state was fragile. I feared for my sanity if I was unable to sleep. Maybe DBP will just get tired, finally? And pass out?
…
“AMERICA!”
…
Fuck.
Still no response.
And then, from the darkness, a hero emerged. A voice in the wilderness. A fearless delivery rider who had heard enough.
…
“…Ecuador.”
…
No fucking way.
…
“—America!”
…
Louder now.
“EcaDOR.”
…
“—America!!”
…
“ECUA-DOR!”
At this point, Ecuador and his buddies are just cracking the fuck up laughing. This, finally, proves too much for DBP. He retires for the night, thank the gods. I fell asleep in the shelter in the most unlikely way: with a smile on my face.
Wherever you are, brave rider, I thank you. You, and the very nation of Ecuador.
By which I mean: Ecua-DOR!!