THE WAY LONELINESS CHANGES STAYS THE SAME
I never get lonely. At least almost never do.
Yet situations have changed for me. The security that I once had is gone. My old neighborhood, where I had lived for 15 years is...over. While it is apparent I am having a bit of the typical delayed reaction to substantial changes in my life's routines and surroundings, I really did not know how deeply this move to a sordidly unpleasant neighborhood would affect me. But here I am, living in a suburban approximation of a ghetto, and although the apartments where I live look nice on the outside, the neighborhood outside the gates is not exactly the kind of place I find growth-inspiring. I knew this forced move would be difficult for me--moves always are, as are all big life changes--but I am a person who values place and having that place literally ripped away from me because of gentrification and rising rental costs, something HUD simply could not handle, has helped throw me off-balance. Here I am, having to go through the motions of "building street cred" out on the sidewalks when I walk to the bus stop, to the grocery store, even to get cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings. Unpleasant task, taking my place in street life one person at a time, but what else is there for me to do?
Monday morning, walking to the grocery, I ran into one of the people for whom I have to remain vigilant before. Not that I'd cower. Not at all. Such people literally feed on another's fear, and the last a person needs to do is display fear. Even feeling that chill can be deadly like an announcement around here. The guy's skin had that "extra black" tone to it, something with which I am familiar: Crack cocaine tends to turn a man's skin dark, and the usual translucence becomes flat and sickly. Those folks are likely to pop-off in an instant. One has to be careful.
So I made a fist. Like a black power fist. But I put it on "the down-low", you know, down by my side. The man looked down, then looked in my face. Our eyes locked. I didn't back down. I said this silly thing:
"Remember the Alamo."
He gave a half-grin. The test? Probably passed it. One person at a time. Word gets around. I have to go there. I'd really like to say, "Hello." I can't. Not here. Not in this place.
About three weeks ago, some loopy kids came ambling up the hill. One gave me the old "pssst..." and asked me if I wanted some green, a.k.a. pot. I asked him, "How much?" as if I was totally interested.
"Five and 10," he shot back.
I paused like I was thinking. Then I said, "You accept VISA?"
"AW MAN!" The guy knew he'd been punked. I laughed. One down, how many to go. Once these folks know I really don't mess around and am not one bit intimidated, life may be a little simpler for me. I really do not know.
Five Points. Number one violent crime rate in the city. One shithole of a place for a sensitive human to get along, eh?
Thank the greed-addicted real estate developers. Do they care at all about people? Only if the people = $$$
Compare this with my old neighborhood. Behind the courtyard fence of a newly-constructed high-rise a pretty blonde is watching her dog as he wanders around.
"That's a beautiful dog," I said.
"He really is beautiful!"
"How do you like where you are?"
She smiled. Paused. Looked me good and solid.
"I love it here!"
Connection. No street cred necessary. While she and I never really became more than passing acquaintances, we always spoke, stopped to chat, never really said too much, but there she was, a friendly face, someone who seemed to appreciate my presence. I was safe to her. She to me.
That sort of experience occurred all the time in my old neighborhood. It was easy to meet people. Some seemed a little snitty and arrogant, but then that's gentrification for you. At least these people have interests, and have lives, and aren't down in the ditch of compulsive drug and alcohol abuse. The absence of anger there was, well, palpable. The lesbian couple up the street, always having morning coffee when I'd pass on my way to the Kroger. We'd always stop to joke. I remember when the neighborhood conducted the annual gay pride parade, the two women asked me if I was going. I told them I'd probably go out to watch the wild-eyed and half-cocked parade. Then I moved off to the grocery store.
On my return, a bunch of their gay friends were also getting ready for the big to-do, and a couple asked me how I was. "I don't know about you," I told those guys, "but I just passed a group of women getting their float ready, and believe me, Jesus, those women are so damned beautiful that I'M BECOMING A LESBIAN IMMEDIATELY!!!"
Talk about some laughter. I miss this. I miss talking to Kathy, the line manager at the grocery store. We'd always stop each morning to joke around and talk gossip. She was one of those figures in my life who helped me set my day. And Arnie, the 70-year-old sacker from Brooklyn. He'd always have a mouthful for me. I liked these people, possibly even loved a few. Small contacts, of course, but who's begging? I've never had huge social needs, even if I am quite social and talkative.
Sylvia, the really pretty hot Latina who looked a little like Yoko Ono, always wearing black with sunglasses, and her fun son, and her brother. I'd always have some tease to pull on her. "How's Yoko today?" "I can certainly tell the yoga is working," I'd flirt. All registering that familiar laugh. She'd always send her son down to bring me doughnuts on Sundays. I'd give her boy books. I could buy books for a dollar at the neighborhood library. If that family ever needed anything, I'd give it. And when I got so sick I couldn't even walk to the grocery store, Sylvia dispatched her brother to take me to the ER. The bus stop, six blocks away, was too far. And the phone number. "When you get out, call us, we will come get you."
Nine days later, there they were, in the parking lot, asking me how I was. Neighbors.
The kids in 209. El Nino Gigante, the four-year-old with an attitude, running up the steps, giving me the stink eye and then flashing me the finger. His sister got him in trouble for that one. The next day, an entire crowd of kids were at my doorstep to apologize. I let the kid off the hook. But not after raising my eyebrows and stepping forward as if I was going to yell. Being invited to the little girl's confirmation dinner was an honor.
So much kind contact there, literally none of that here. All that equals this gnawing loneliness. From what I've seen here, I really do not want to know anyone here. Lots of shut-down people. Lots of shut-ins. I don't want to be a shut-in. I have way too much life in me.
My friend Jolee is on my case about coming to her readings, Stone Soup, and I'm now enough in need of some social contact that I'm going to go. I don't care if the rat bastards who put me down so hard two years ago are there or not. I'll just shove shit in their faces and laugh. Daniel, an old friend, wants to go to coffee with me. So does Martinez. I should take them up on this. I practically have to pry myself loose of that old disgust with people who blatantly refused to understand what had happened to me two years ago. I don't blame people for being a little scared, a little shocked. I made the mistake of simply not telling people that such episodes were possible. But I am on disability. Did those nut jobs ever stop to wonder why? It's not as if all of this is serious. I'm usually quite normal.
The last couple of months, when a mania threatened, and when I did sometimes panicked, have been both enjoyable and trying. Now that the up, up, up is leaving, I am going into what is technically called "mania recovery", but I don't like this phase, mainly because I am irritable. It's not because of anyone. But combine the irritability with the loneliness and sometimes I seem like an unhappy whiner. I am sure that, given a few weeks, I will be fine.
Sunday night, my next door neighbor decided that three a.m. was "the perfect time" to move. I sleep lightly. All his furniture shuffling and loud conversation woke me at 3:30. I couldn't sleep for all the banging. So I got up, made coffee and went to work. I was just bitching all day long. My friend Robyn was laughing at me. She's so accepting and understanding. She's like a mind reader. I am glad to have her in my life.
Other uncertainties and ambiguity are typical for what else is occurring in my life. I'm uncomfortable. The other is uncomfortable. Negotiations are often uncomfortable. Who knows what tomorrow brings?
We are all rivers. We are processes. We flow forever until we die. Nothing is fixed. I like living with this. Keeps me on my toes. What can I say?
Yet situations have changed for me. The security that I once had is gone. My old neighborhood, where I had lived for 15 years is...over. While it is apparent I am having a bit of the typical delayed reaction to substantial changes in my life's routines and surroundings, I really did not know how deeply this move to a sordidly unpleasant neighborhood would affect me. But here I am, living in a suburban approximation of a ghetto, and although the apartments where I live look nice on the outside, the neighborhood outside the gates is not exactly the kind of place I find growth-inspiring. I knew this forced move would be difficult for me--moves always are, as are all big life changes--but I am a person who values place and having that place literally ripped away from me because of gentrification and rising rental costs, something HUD simply could not handle, has helped throw me off-balance. Here I am, having to go through the motions of "building street cred" out on the sidewalks when I walk to the bus stop, to the grocery store, even to get cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings. Unpleasant task, taking my place in street life one person at a time, but what else is there for me to do?
Monday morning, walking to the grocery, I ran into one of the people for whom I have to remain vigilant before. Not that I'd cower. Not at all. Such people literally feed on another's fear, and the last a person needs to do is display fear. Even feeling that chill can be deadly like an announcement around here. The guy's skin had that "extra black" tone to it, something with which I am familiar: Crack cocaine tends to turn a man's skin dark, and the usual translucence becomes flat and sickly. Those folks are likely to pop-off in an instant. One has to be careful.
So I made a fist. Like a black power fist. But I put it on "the down-low", you know, down by my side. The man looked down, then looked in my face. Our eyes locked. I didn't back down. I said this silly thing:
"Remember the Alamo."
He gave a half-grin. The test? Probably passed it. One person at a time. Word gets around. I have to go there. I'd really like to say, "Hello." I can't. Not here. Not in this place.
About three weeks ago, some loopy kids came ambling up the hill. One gave me the old "pssst..." and asked me if I wanted some green, a.k.a. pot. I asked him, "How much?" as if I was totally interested.
"Five and 10," he shot back.
I paused like I was thinking. Then I said, "You accept VISA?"
"AW MAN!" The guy knew he'd been punked. I laughed. One down, how many to go. Once these folks know I really don't mess around and am not one bit intimidated, life may be a little simpler for me. I really do not know.
Five Points. Number one violent crime rate in the city. One shithole of a place for a sensitive human to get along, eh?
Thank the greed-addicted real estate developers. Do they care at all about people? Only if the people = $$$
Compare this with my old neighborhood. Behind the courtyard fence of a newly-constructed high-rise a pretty blonde is watching her dog as he wanders around.
"That's a beautiful dog," I said.
"He really is beautiful!"
"How do you like where you are?"
She smiled. Paused. Looked me good and solid.
"I love it here!"
Connection. No street cred necessary. While she and I never really became more than passing acquaintances, we always spoke, stopped to chat, never really said too much, but there she was, a friendly face, someone who seemed to appreciate my presence. I was safe to her. She to me.
That sort of experience occurred all the time in my old neighborhood. It was easy to meet people. Some seemed a little snitty and arrogant, but then that's gentrification for you. At least these people have interests, and have lives, and aren't down in the ditch of compulsive drug and alcohol abuse. The absence of anger there was, well, palpable. The lesbian couple up the street, always having morning coffee when I'd pass on my way to the Kroger. We'd always stop to joke. I remember when the neighborhood conducted the annual gay pride parade, the two women asked me if I was going. I told them I'd probably go out to watch the wild-eyed and half-cocked parade. Then I moved off to the grocery store.
On my return, a bunch of their gay friends were also getting ready for the big to-do, and a couple asked me how I was. "I don't know about you," I told those guys, "but I just passed a group of women getting their float ready, and believe me, Jesus, those women are so damned beautiful that I'M BECOMING A LESBIAN IMMEDIATELY!!!"
Talk about some laughter. I miss this. I miss talking to Kathy, the line manager at the grocery store. We'd always stop each morning to joke around and talk gossip. She was one of those figures in my life who helped me set my day. And Arnie, the 70-year-old sacker from Brooklyn. He'd always have a mouthful for me. I liked these people, possibly even loved a few. Small contacts, of course, but who's begging? I've never had huge social needs, even if I am quite social and talkative.
Sylvia, the really pretty hot Latina who looked a little like Yoko Ono, always wearing black with sunglasses, and her fun son, and her brother. I'd always have some tease to pull on her. "How's Yoko today?" "I can certainly tell the yoga is working," I'd flirt. All registering that familiar laugh. She'd always send her son down to bring me doughnuts on Sundays. I'd give her boy books. I could buy books for a dollar at the neighborhood library. If that family ever needed anything, I'd give it. And when I got so sick I couldn't even walk to the grocery store, Sylvia dispatched her brother to take me to the ER. The bus stop, six blocks away, was too far. And the phone number. "When you get out, call us, we will come get you."
Nine days later, there they were, in the parking lot, asking me how I was. Neighbors.
The kids in 209. El Nino Gigante, the four-year-old with an attitude, running up the steps, giving me the stink eye and then flashing me the finger. His sister got him in trouble for that one. The next day, an entire crowd of kids were at my doorstep to apologize. I let the kid off the hook. But not after raising my eyebrows and stepping forward as if I was going to yell. Being invited to the little girl's confirmation dinner was an honor.
So much kind contact there, literally none of that here. All that equals this gnawing loneliness. From what I've seen here, I really do not want to know anyone here. Lots of shut-down people. Lots of shut-ins. I don't want to be a shut-in. I have way too much life in me.
My friend Jolee is on my case about coming to her readings, Stone Soup, and I'm now enough in need of some social contact that I'm going to go. I don't care if the rat bastards who put me down so hard two years ago are there or not. I'll just shove shit in their faces and laugh. Daniel, an old friend, wants to go to coffee with me. So does Martinez. I should take them up on this. I practically have to pry myself loose of that old disgust with people who blatantly refused to understand what had happened to me two years ago. I don't blame people for being a little scared, a little shocked. I made the mistake of simply not telling people that such episodes were possible. But I am on disability. Did those nut jobs ever stop to wonder why? It's not as if all of this is serious. I'm usually quite normal.
The last couple of months, when a mania threatened, and when I did sometimes panicked, have been both enjoyable and trying. Now that the up, up, up is leaving, I am going into what is technically called "mania recovery", but I don't like this phase, mainly because I am irritable. It's not because of anyone. But combine the irritability with the loneliness and sometimes I seem like an unhappy whiner. I am sure that, given a few weeks, I will be fine.
Sunday night, my next door neighbor decided that three a.m. was "the perfect time" to move. I sleep lightly. All his furniture shuffling and loud conversation woke me at 3:30. I couldn't sleep for all the banging. So I got up, made coffee and went to work. I was just bitching all day long. My friend Robyn was laughing at me. She's so accepting and understanding. She's like a mind reader. I am glad to have her in my life.
Other uncertainties and ambiguity are typical for what else is occurring in my life. I'm uncomfortable. The other is uncomfortable. Negotiations are often uncomfortable. Who knows what tomorrow brings?
We are all rivers. We are processes. We flow forever until we die. Nothing is fixed. I like living with this. Keeps me on my toes. What can I say?
posted by Faceshaker at 3:46 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home