Every day, thousands of people wander the streets looking for their next meal or hoping to get a spot in a shelter. They are looked at in disgust and often not even given a second glance as people rush by, focusing on our own problems. Welcome to New York City, where the homeless population is treated by many like the extreme rat infestation.

“Do you feel safe?”

“No, not really because I’m sleeping in the hallway,” said James Brook, 57. 

His aged, dry hand holds onto a cane that looks like it can barely hold him up. His body is obviously old and frail, but he is still pushing on. James is an older gentleman who had become a part of the everyday routine. A kind man who was judged but was the sweetest man I had the pleasure of knowing during my times at my grandmother’s house. 

One day our daily interaction involved me having to pick him up off the floor after falling. My family members came into the house, speaking about him and complaining. Without thought, I went and picked the man up off the floor. They complained some more about bugs and germs, while I felt like it was one of my best moments and welcomed the bugs and germs because at least I got them from helping out another human who needed it. 

Many walk by and judge him with their looks and harsh words because it is clear he is on drugs, but I will not and refuse to play into what society has painted out to be a “crackhead.” His habits are unfortunate, but the only difference is that his habits have taken a toll on him outwardly, but what about the bad habits we take on but hide? I have no room in me to judge, and before I would even be able to, I would have to ignore the obvious pain in his deep, scratchy voice and the tears that fall down his dirty, wrinkle-filled face. Many look at his habits and push judgment onto him, but I see a soul that is now in a situation that is beyond his control. 

His best response was, “sleeping in the hallway,” when asked about the best thing that happened to him during the week. 

My hands shake steadily as I write down his answers. Pure sadness fills my soul to the core. 

“Ain’t got nowhere to stay. If I get my own room, I’ll be all right,” was his response to me asking about what is the hardest thing about being homeless. 

This man, who is around the same age as my aunts and uncles, looks to be in his seventies. His appearance would put one in the mindset of a homeless man, but his words are those of someone who has obviously been forgotten when he talks. As I interviewed him in my grandmother’’s lobby, many walk by and look on with confusion and disgust. He begs for me to take him to a shelter throughout the majority of the conversation. The dropping temperatures put fear into him. His coat looks used and tattered. I know it will not be warm enough. His worry is clear, and he has every reason to be worried about tomorrow. Nobody is perfect, and we all have downfalls in life, but if we would all help each other out the way I helped Mr. James and got him into a shelter where he was given a room and will hopefully get an apartment, the world would not feel as cold as it does. It should never be about status when it comes to individuals but rather how far you one is willing to go to help someone in need. 

Help is out there, and some people want to help the homeless. Credit is not given to them enough for their job, and sometimes, they are forgotten about. During Hunger and Homelessness Week, I interviewed RA’s at Mercy College, who, with the help of the Mav Market, was able to put together 96 care packages for homeless people during Thanksgiving. It was bitterly cold outside that day, and the wind was blowing harshly, but still, they pushed through and did what needed to be done to give help. 

RA Jade said, “I think it has to do with the way they’re portrayed. People think they’re lazy. They’re drug addicts. They’re bums. All of those stereotypes play a huge part. The stereotypes put on them prevent people from wanting to help them because they believe that they put themselves in that position. We put one story on thousands of people, and it’s unfair.” 

When asked about what Mercy College students can do to help, RA Shirley said, “Keep helping after the holidays because a lot of people just donate during the holidays and don’t think about after,” while RA Jade said, “Mercy College can help homelessness by honoring or by just acknowledging their situation.”

Their words couldn’t be more true. 

When I stayed at my Grandma’s residence, usually when I exited the staircase, Black’s singing brings a smile to my face. A small man with a powerful, funny voice. “Everybody say goodnight, everybody say goodnight!”

It is morning, but Black sings his own tunes with energy and pride. Without having to be asked, he took on the duty of the dirty hallways and staircases. At night, without expecting anything in return, he pushes open the automatically locked doors for those who forgot their keys. When a man who could have easily hurt me followed behind me in the stairwell, Black called me back and told me to wait with him until the man was gone. A kind soul who has been struck down by one of the misfortunes of life. 

Black said the hardest aspect about being homeless is “a lot of people don’t like us. Hard because people don’t like us.”

His words couldn’t be more true. In May, he was given an apartment by someone who paid in advance and had to leave. Someone told, and less than a week later, he was homeless again. He was given a dog, Queen, who was the sweetest pit bull. Her breed did not define her behavior at all. Someone called animal control, and she was taken for not having shots. I cried for him. 

When asked why he would not go to a shelter, his response was simple, “If I go to a shelter, it would remind me of prison, and there are a lot of diseases.” 

His life seems tough from an outsider looking in, but he is always pleasant and optimistic. When asked what he would say to the world if given a chance, he said, “don’t be like me, live a better life.” 

Homelessness is not always being on the street or looking as if you are less fortunate. It comes differently and sometimes less severe. I know because it happened to me. My mornings usually started with thanking God for allowing me to rise again with a brand new 24 hours before me, no matter what that day might have in store for me. My feet take me out of my apartment and into the streets of NYC. Cold, crisp air fills my nose, and the slight warmth from the sun warms my reddening cheeks. The day is young, and happiness overflows from within me because of how simple life seemed to be. Life changes in the blink of an eye, though. 

Mental exhaustion and mornings filled with dread. That is the only way I can personally describe being homeless. It is a feeling that gnaws at the fibers holding your brain together and makes you feel useless to the world because your existence now relies on those around you rather than just yourself. My story is different, but though I still had homes to go to, not having your own place can play a huge role in affecting your mental state. I went from living on campus and having a shared room with a personal bed to sleeping on the floor or couches when Covid-19 forced me to come home. My mental health went from being something I was forced to deal with because I wanted to be better for myself and those around me to something that beat me so far down. The first year passed without a worry because I believed that it was only temporary but the second year, once I had to come home, was a life-changer.

I remained grateful through every tear and moment of unfixable sadness because somehow, I was still here. 

My life seemed so simple, and everything for me had already been planned out. Obtain the degree, get the job I always wanted, and everything else would come after. School did not even make sense to me anymore, and neither did life, but my soul cannot help but ache even more severely for humanity as I see homeless people all around me in the streets. The temperatures outside are beginning to drop, and I have a coat while some of these people do not. They are forced to gather blankets and wait outside all day in hopes of getting a warm meal. My soul cannot help but cry out as I see lives being forgotten just because of circumstance. The world goes on, yet thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children are forgotten about each night as we go on about our privileged lives. Their lives matter very much, their stories matter, and no, they should not be forgotten about because “they are not our problem,” but it seems as though humanity has forgotten about one of its darkest truths.