Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This is Clifford
After spending over an hour wandering the bustling streets of the Upper West Side in search of an elderly or homeless individual to photograph, I felt the need for a coffee break. As I was about halfway through my coffee and watching the crowds of people hurrying back and forth, I noticed a man walking slowly under the weight of a heavy backpack and bedroll, while pulling a suitcase behind him, seemingly filled with his entire life's possessions. Recognizing the signs that he was likely homeless, I decided to seize the opportunity and quickly discarded the remains of my coffee, then made my way to him. As I approached him, I greeted him with a smile and said, "It looks like you're traveling with the whole world on your back." He looked at me with a calm demeanor and replied, "I am not traveling; I am homeless." This man introduced himself as Clifford, a 46-year-old originally from Haiti who has spent the last eight years living in New York City. His life story, marked by a series of hardships, began with the absence of his father, whom he had never met. At the tender age of two, after becoming pregnant, Clifford's mother decided to leave him with his maternal grandmother, with whom he would live until adulthood. All the while still living in Haiti. He has not seen his mother since she left him with his grandmother.
Clifford shared that growing up in Haiti was fraught with danger and adversity. He recounted experiences of being bullied throughout his childhood, suffering beatings, and facing robbery as an adult. In a courageous attempt to escape the violence that plagued their lives, his grandmother moved with him to Miami when he was 20.
His time in Florida was bittersweet. He had graduated from high school in Haiti and enrolled in a community college in Miami, but he struggled to keep up with the coursework and ultimately completed only one year. Afterward, he found a job cleaning buses, which he enjoyed immensely. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of security in receiving a regular paycheck without the fear of being cheated out of his earnings by an employer or facing intimidation from gangs, unlike his experiences in Haiti. However, this promising chapter of his life was short-lived; after a year and a half of steady work, he was let go because his boss deemed him "too slow." Although Clifford's speech is deliberate and unhurried, he articulated his thoughts with clarity during our conversation, even if his rhythm seemed atypical. His slow speech had led some people to misunderstand him, with accusations that he was "disturbed." Ironically, it was evident to me that his thinking was coherent and logical, even if his delivery was measured. (After all, I am a trained psychotherapist, with 49 years in private practice. I should know.)
The loss of his job marked the beginning of a downward spiral into homelessness. Within two months of losing his job, his Grandmother passed away. Unable to afford rent without his paycheck, he found himself living on the streets of Miami for six long years. After enduring that difficult chapter of his life, he decided to relocate to New York City, hoping for a fresh start. Unfortunately, Clifford's journey did not improve in New York City.
He has now been homeless throughout his entire eight years
in the city. When I inquired about his experiences living on the streets, he replied with a surprising smile, indicating that overall, he found it "okay." He said people are kind, people take care of me. It was a little shocking to hear him say, "People take care of me." He has had difficult times, including being robbed a few times and, on occasion, losing important documents like his identification papers and, most importantly, his Green Card. He had attempted to navigate the complexities of the city's social service agencies to seek assistance, but the convoluted processes proved overwhelming, leading him to give up on that hope.
Curious about his perspective on the future, I asked Clifford if he believed he could eventually escape the life of the streets. With a shrug, he assured me he was content with his situation, stating that living on the streets of New York City was manageable for him and he anticipated it would remain his reality for the foreseeable future.
As always, I asked when he last ate. Two days ago. Clifford and I walked over to a food truck, and he ordered rice with chicken and beef. I made sure he added a drink and a dessert. The server in the food truck was thrilled to see me purchase a meal for a homeless person. With a handshake and a smile, he thanked me, saying I was a good person. Clifford asked me why I was doing this. Was I working for a Social Service agency? No. I explained my blog and told him that I want to give a voice to the voiceless. And that perhaps some of the people reading this will think twice before passing a homeless person without dropping a buck in their cup.
In the meantime, too many men, women, and children in New York City will find the concrete sidewalks of New York City their pillows tonight, and many more nights to follow.