On the morning of March 26, 2011, I found myself standing in front of my apartment complex.
There were a dozen empty houses on the first floor.
The windows were boarded up.
A few days earlier, a homeless man named Beulah Land had been shot and killed outside my apartment building.
The police were there, but the man was unarmed.
I was at the front door, watching my neighbors for any sign of trouble.
When I heard gunshots, I immediately called 911.
I thought I’d been waiting for someone to break the news, but instead I heard the gunshots go off.
A group of men ran toward me.
They had guns pointed at my face and hands.
I screamed, “Get the fuck out of my face!”
The police came and handcuffed me, and I told them, “I’ve had enough.”
They released me after only a few minutes.
When the police left, I started to think, This is not over.
I wanted to run.
But when I got home, I realized that I couldn’t.
The next day, I called my father, who was also homeless.
He was distraught.
He thought it was a dream.
He told me that Beulahs death had changed his life forever.
The only way I could change it was to start sleeping on the street.
That night, I had a dream about sleeping on an empty street, where no one would see me.
I woke up to a man on the other side of the street staring at me.
He yelled at me, “You know I hate you, you fucking homeless fucker!”
He was yelling at me because I had told him to leave me alone.
He said, “If I didn’t want to hear from you, I’d never get out of bed.”
I realized, I didn-t deserve this.
I didn’ t deserve to be a criminal.
When people call me a homeless person, I think of the time I spent on the streets in the ’80s.
I had no money, no clothes, no money to pay rent, no car.
But I kept going, because I didn t want to get out.
At the time, there was no police department to call if I was wanted.
My only source of income was from the kindness of strangers.
When a stranger called me a “nigger bitch” and asked if I had any drugs, I told him no, because it was against my religion.
I told the guy to go fuck himself.
My dream of walking to my apartment was never realized.
I moved back into my mother’s home, and now I am homeless again.
I’m homeless for the rest of my life, and it’s hard for me to find housing.
My father is still waiting for the city to give him a new apartment.
He wants a place with a bed, so that he can be closer to his family.
The problem with living in the city is that the government takes all of your money, and there is no hope.
There are so many people who want to be homeless, but there are so few places to stay, and most of the people that need help are already sleeping in the streets.
If I had not gotten on the sidewalk, I could have stayed there, sleeping on a cold night.
And that’s where I got my new apartment, which is right in the middle of a major development, and where I am now living.
My mom and I have been homeless for over a year now.
The city has been taking money from me and from other homeless people to build new housing, but I can’t find a place to stay.
I feel like my life is on the line every time I see a homeless guy sleeping on public property, and when he’s on public land, it doesn’t matter if he has a knife or not.
It’s not worth it.
If someone is on a city street, they don’t deserve to sleep in that garbage, especially not me.
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