June 21, 2012

In Need, in New York

By ALEX MILLER

A native of Chicago’s South Side, I was raised in poverty. Several times my mother and I had to take refuge in other people’s homes, and sometimes in shelters. I thought that by joining the Navy at 18, I would get the training and education I needed to improve my life and help my family.

Yet once I was honorably discharged in 2008, with good conduct medals and, from a service-related injury, seven screws in my foot and ankle, I found the recession had left few available jobs. I worked as a server at a pizza joint and as a salesman at a retail store. Finally I did maintenance at the veterans hospital in the Bronx. I should have taken a full-time job there when it was available, but felt sure I could find something that paid higher. I was proud, and I was wrong. For a long time, I got by on the G.I. bill benefits and scholarship grants I received from going to community college and, more recently, the New School. But eventually I couldn’t get by anymore; I couldn’t even pay rent.

One in seven homeless people have previously served in the military. This year, at 25, I became one of those homeless veterans.

One of my most vivid memories of New York City shelters is of watching a fellow black veteran having a heated argument with himself. The oddest thing was that no words were said — the man spit and sputtered and pounded his fist on his chest, all while only moving his lips. It was as if a mime was violently illustrating anger to a person who had never experienced it.

Bénédicte Muller

It reminded me of a conversation I’d once had in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Bored of waiting to hit land, which could take two months or more, my shipmates and I made up games. One such game, which we called “Wish List,” was simple. We had to envision the most extravagant thing we’d do in order to get an early discharge from the Navy. One guy said he’d pretend he was crazy — eat foreign objects and pull his pants down while pledging allegiance to Harvey the pooka instead of the United States of America. That got laughs.

It was hard to laugh at that veteran in the shelter, though. And others were worse off than he. The mistake that the shelter system makes is to clump everyone together. Those unstable vets lay in cots directly next to stable soldiers who lay next to ex-cons with any number of offenses. It was hard sleeping at night not knowing how innocent or guilty the former prisoner in the bed next to me was. Just about every shelter had gang members or former gang members and stories of violence and theft. Sadly, there was always someone who had taken, or at least claimed to have taken, the life of another. There was speculation that sex offenders were being quietly shuffled through the system, too.

I experienced firsthand the frustrations veterans feel in shelters each day. We were told how little we mattered by social workers with limited patience and even less training in working with recently deployed soldiers, and pushed into applying for public assistance. I wanted a job, not welfare, but I was told that no New York City shelter would house me if I didn’t apply for food stamps and warned I would fail to find work.

Despite the setbacks, I am grateful for some of the acquaintances I made. I met a former service member who worked for NASA before a crack addiction led to theft, a prison sentence and homelessness. I got to know an Army doctor who served in Vietnam. Doc, as we called him, lost it during combat and even admitted to enjoying killing people, but his charm and patience made that hard to believe. Another former-Navy man was an astronomy geek, just like me, so we hit it off instantly.

In the beginning, I blamed the government for our fate, for training us for sophisticated equipment that is found only in the military, thus limiting our job opportunities in the civilian world, and for failing to put better safeguards in place to keep veterans off the streets. I pointed fingers at my college for only granting me a small sum for food and transportation while my world was crumbling. I even found fault with my mother, for dying and leaving me and my siblings to pay for her funeral and burial costs.

But ultimately, my experience has made me realize that I’m more responsible for my situation than I’d like to admit. Drinking to excess and my uncanny ability to withstand hardship when help should be requested are two of the main culprits. Today I’m focusing on my education; I moved out of the shelter last month and am now living in a beautiful duplex in New Jersey. I have been able to find purpose in all of this: a persistent determination to do better for myself, ironically the very lesson the Navy instilled in me when I joined eight years ago.

 In Need, in New York – NYTimes.com.

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