Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This Is Eric
Eric sat on a plastic crate on West 72nd Street, near the corner of Broadway, outside a Citibank branch. As the crowds hurried past, he called out, "Please help the blind. I am legally blind. Please help the blind."
The first thing I did was hand him a dollar. Then I knelt beside him so we could speak at eye level. I have never liked looking down on someone while having a conversation. To me, it is a simple matter of respect.
Eric told me that he had lost sight in one eye as a child after being struck by a batted baseball. The injury left him partially blind.
He is 36 years old. I was so surprised by his age that I asked him to repeat it. "Thirty-six," he said again. His beard, heavily streaked with gray, made him appear much older. I couldn't help but think that the hardships he had endured had taken a toll on him far beyond his years.
Born and raised in the Bronx, Eric described a childhood filled with conflict and unhappiness. He disliked his family and felt little comfort at home.
His father was a harsh disciplinarian, and he frequently clashed with his two older brothers. Their disagreements often escalated into physical fights, prompting Eric to run away from home again and again.
The one person who made him feel safe was his mother. When she died, Eric was just 15 years old. Her death marked a turning point in his life. Unable to bear living at home any longer, he dropped out of school and began living on the streets of the Bronx and Manhattan.
Eric has spent much of his life moving between the streets and whatever temporary shelter he can find. Occasionally, a friend lets him sleep in his apartment in exchange for a few dollars. During the bitter winter months, when the nights become especially difficult, he tries to find a place indoors.
I asked Eric about his work history. He told me had worked as a porter for several landlords in the Bronx. He was willing to work, but maintaining a job proved difficult when he had no stable place to sleep, shower, or get dressed.
Without those basic necessities, showing up for work consistently and presentably became a challenge. Eventually, he would lose his job, and the cycle would begin again.
It struck me that Eric's circumstances were not simply a matter of finding employment. He had worked, and he was capable of working. What he lacked was the stability that so many of us take for granted-the foundation that makes it possible to get up each morning, prepare for the day, and meet the responsibilities of a job.
At one point, he raised the issue of politics. He asked me what I would do if I were mayor and took one important step toward helping those of us who are homeless. Pointing across the street, he said he would buy all those buildings and make housing available. He told me about a shoe store across the street. Tip Top Shoes (I have been in that store many times.) He told me they placed sneakers and shoes on the sidewalk with a sign that said, "If you need shoes, please take only one pair; they are free for the taking." He showed me a pair that he received from them.
He has tried to work, sought shelter when he could, and learned to survive on the streets of a city that rarely slows down long enough to notice him.
That afternoon, countless people passed Eric on their way to somewhere else. Some may have heard his plea; others may not even have looked in his direction. I stopped, gave him a dollar, and listened.
I left thinking that perhaps the first step toward addressing homelessness is simpler than we imagine: to stop, to listen, and to recognize the person sitting before you- not merely as someone in need, but as someone with a history, a perspective, and a voice worth hearing. Knowing that tonight Eric will sleep with a concrete pillow.
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Then he turned his attention to politics on a much larger stage. He suggested that "that orange man, you know who I mean" should be made to sit on a plastic crate with a cardboard sign. "Let's see if anyone gives him any money then?" he said.
I couldn't help but appreciate the pointed humor in his remark. Beneath it, however, was a serious question. How differently might we view homelessness if we had to experience it ourselves, even for a single day?
As I sat with Eric, I was reminded that homelessness is rarely just about not having a roof over one's head. It can be the result of years of loss, family conflict, disability, and missed opportunities. And once someone falls into that cycle, finding a way out can be extraordinarily difficult without a stable place to begin again.
Eric's life has been shaped by circumstances that began long before he found himself sitting on that plastic crate on 72nd Street. He was a child who lost an eye, a teenager who lost his mother, and a young man who left home with nowhere else to go.
