Andrei Kuznetsov
26th December 2003, 21:20
From the Shelters: The Choices of Women
Revolutionary Worker #1224, December 28, 2003, posted at rwor.org
The RW received this correspondence from a reader.
Heat rises from the pavement like a wave. The sweat runs down my forehead. I sink back onto the rugged brick of the wall.
The heat is everywhere. It seems to rise from the filthy sidewalk, mingling with the smell of sweat and poverty. My most precious, my son, Cody is here next to me.
Everything I have is in four bags that I can barely carry. They sit around me like pieces of my life. I can't leave them for a second. When I go into the nearby bathroom I know what it feels like to be a refugee.
I am sick. It is hard to put one foot in front of the other. My joints are swollen, and I try to ignore the pain. It is hard to catch my breath.
Cody tells me that he is hot and thirsty. And hungry. I don't have an answer. The stairs seem too high to climb, even to fill our coke bottle with water. I sink down onto the large bag filled with my clothing to wait.
He asks if he can go fill up the bottle. I'm terrified to let him out of my sight. Can I lose him too in the middle of this nightmare? And if I did, if something happened to him, what would be left? But, of course, one of us has to go for water. I watch the bags. He returns a few minutes later with the water and some candy that someone has given him upstairs and settles down on the worn backpack beside me.
I suddenly realize that just around the corner, in the shade, the whole sidewalk is filled with women, like me, waiting for the bus to the women's shelter. We grab all our stuff and join them.
There's a cop car parked across the street, with an officer sitting inside just watching. Not much later another cop car pulls up. Someone mentions: "They are always here." I rub the bruise on my face that Frank gave me with the huge ashtray and look again at that fat cop glaring over the steering wheel. How many times has HE bruised a woman? And then complained about "that *****" over a drink?
Believe it or not, tourists pass by this spot in groups, on their way to the museum. I feel like an attraction in a zoo --and I actually hear the tour guide say "don't give them anything" as people pass us. Some things make you feel alone even when surrounded by people. Some people make you feel guilty, even when you are simply fighting to survive.
To continue this article, go to http://rwor.org/a/1224/shelter.htm
If you want to reach the author she posts on the discussion board Another World Is Possible (http://awip.proboards23.com/) as RosaRL.
Revolutionary Worker #1224, December 28, 2003, posted at rwor.org
The RW received this correspondence from a reader.
Heat rises from the pavement like a wave. The sweat runs down my forehead. I sink back onto the rugged brick of the wall.
The heat is everywhere. It seems to rise from the filthy sidewalk, mingling with the smell of sweat and poverty. My most precious, my son, Cody is here next to me.
Everything I have is in four bags that I can barely carry. They sit around me like pieces of my life. I can't leave them for a second. When I go into the nearby bathroom I know what it feels like to be a refugee.
I am sick. It is hard to put one foot in front of the other. My joints are swollen, and I try to ignore the pain. It is hard to catch my breath.
Cody tells me that he is hot and thirsty. And hungry. I don't have an answer. The stairs seem too high to climb, even to fill our coke bottle with water. I sink down onto the large bag filled with my clothing to wait.
He asks if he can go fill up the bottle. I'm terrified to let him out of my sight. Can I lose him too in the middle of this nightmare? And if I did, if something happened to him, what would be left? But, of course, one of us has to go for water. I watch the bags. He returns a few minutes later with the water and some candy that someone has given him upstairs and settles down on the worn backpack beside me.
I suddenly realize that just around the corner, in the shade, the whole sidewalk is filled with women, like me, waiting for the bus to the women's shelter. We grab all our stuff and join them.
There's a cop car parked across the street, with an officer sitting inside just watching. Not much later another cop car pulls up. Someone mentions: "They are always here." I rub the bruise on my face that Frank gave me with the huge ashtray and look again at that fat cop glaring over the steering wheel. How many times has HE bruised a woman? And then complained about "that *****" over a drink?
Believe it or not, tourists pass by this spot in groups, on their way to the museum. I feel like an attraction in a zoo --and I actually hear the tour guide say "don't give them anything" as people pass us. Some things make you feel alone even when surrounded by people. Some people make you feel guilty, even when you are simply fighting to survive.
To continue this article, go to http://rwor.org/a/1224/shelter.htm
If you want to reach the author she posts on the discussion board Another World Is Possible (http://awip.proboards23.com/) as RosaRL.