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My friend sent me jpegs of her little room. For reasons I can't explain, except that something about it triggered the memory, I wrote this:
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Sent e-mail message
From: (Rogi Riverstone)
Date: Sun, Jul 25, 2004,
5:14am
Subject: Re: My room
...I had a dresser, on which I'd placed a few, personal things; it
served as my altar. One of the items there was a jar candle, on a
saucer. I'd found them in the dumpster in the parking lot. They were
donated to the shelter's thrift store, next door, used to make profits
for the shelter.
The night I was thrown out, the staff had a Christmas cruise on the Ohio
River. It was Dec. 21. It was snowing: wet and accumulating.
The staff came back, went into the office, and turned on the intercom,
to spy on residents. They heard talking on the 3rd floor, after 11pm.
Some of my roommates were chatting quietly.
I was lying in my bed, headphones on, falling asleep by candle light.
Suddenly, the intercom blasted, "you women, shut up and go to bed up
there. Especially you, Rogi! I hear you!" It was the shelter director.
I never said a word. The other women began shouting at the speaker,
"Rogi's ASLEEP! She ain't talkin'!' And they all, at risk to their OWN
security in the shelter, began shouting out their names, so the Director
would know who was talking.
It did no good, of course. But the fact that over a dozen poor,
Southern, African American, excon, illiterate women SHOUTED to a rich
white lady their NAMES, to protect ME! Good gawd! I've never
forgotten that night, not for the horror of what followed, but for the
healing love of those Sisters of Mercy who REALLY sheltered me, chanting
their names to the overseers! I owe them my freedom and, quite possibly,
my life.
Soon, multiple foot stomps came up the stairs. The light came on. In
flew the shelter Director, the night staff and the MALE "pastor,"
Director of men's and women's shelters, "Pastor" Tim.
NO MEN ARE ALLOWED IN THE WOMEN'S SHELTER UNTIL ALL WOMEN ARE EVACUATED!
Except in common rooms.
So, this was an obvious set up.
The woman Director stormed past everybody else, who were obviously
sitting and talking --and EATING, which was forbidden. She tore down my
sheet, covering my sleeping area. She tore the covers off my bed and
ordered me to get up.
I was lying there, as I'd been the whole time. True, I was fully awake
after the intercom business, but I had my eyes closed and was breathing
softly, to put myself back to sleep.
All the other women rushed to the entrance to my space, blocking access
for "Pastor" Tim. Nobody else could get to me, once the Director was at
my bed.
She began screaming at me. I don't know what. She went to the dresser
and picked up my candle, claiming it was a fire hazard, and started to
leave with it.
I FLEW out of bed, snatched the candle from her and said, "how DARE you
remove a religious artifact from a resident's private area! How would
you feel if I grabbed your Bible to throw it out?! This is America; I
have freedom of religion!"
I was evicted on the spot. I had an hour to vacate, or be arrested.
I had collected many, useful things from the dumpster. I didn't want to
lose them. But I couldn't walk up and down 3 flights of stairs,
repeatedly.
So, I tied things up in my sheets, towels, blankets, etc and pushed them
out the windows, into the parking lot. I was crying. No, I was HOWLING.
I had NO place to go. I knew NOONE in Louisville. It was midnight.
Everything was wet and snowy.
The other women were forbidden to help me carry things down, but they
packed and bundled and pushed stuff out windows. They hugged me and,
when I wasn't looking, crammed my pockets with food stamps, money, phone
numbers, presents, a pocket knife and a joint.
The Director called the paramedics and reported that I was mentally ill.
They came and took my vitals, in the great room. They said they smellled
alcohol on my breath.
I said, yes, I'd gone to the Gay bar, in the converted morgue across the
street, for ONE fifty cent beer, during Happy Hour, at five o'clock in
the afternoon. I also said that, as hard as I was breathing, as scared
as I was, they could probably smell the entire contents of my stomach
and bowels, by now.
That seemed to save me. They didn't lock me up. If they had, I'd have
lost EVERYTHING I owned, including my car in the parking lot, and my
CAT, living in it.
As much as I didn't want to, I called my mother. I stayed out there for
a few days.
My mail was delivered to her. On the 23rd of December, 2 days later, I
got a letter from Housing. My apartment in the Projects was ready.
And THAT, my dear, is a whole OTHER story.
I need to write these stories, huh?
Those bedraggled, strung out, bitter, confused Black women surrounded me
that night. They built up every form of protection they could assemble
on such short notice. They wrapped me in every skill of mothering and
righteous indignation they could muster.
I guess I deserved it, or they wouldn't have done it. You know how I am
about people, about trying to help, trying to be useful. But it was
humbling
The Civil War is alive and well in Louisville, Kentucky. You see it
everywhere and hear it in every interacial transaction.
I suppose them "colored gals" never met a "honkey" like me before. Ain't
too many California progressives run through their lives, since they got
the right to vote, back in the sixties. I must've seemed like Phyllis
Wheatley's "Goddess" of Freedom, to them, which shames and humbles me at
the same time.
I don't remember their names. I remember their eyes. I remember their
strong arms and soft breasts as theY fiercely hugged me good bye.
I still have the pocket knife. I carry it every day.
