I knew I was in Camden, New Jersey, when I saw the cracked cement of roads that had been left uncared for. The van grumbled as it stumbled over many scattered bumps and ridges along the light faded road, shaking us in our seats. I knew I had entered when the buildings began to press up against each other, no yard space, and their roofs would start to crumble. When more and more homes with boards covering up any source of life within them would appear between more normal ones, crumbled and shambled. There were empty lots in every street filled with dirt and rubble, the aftermath of the life that had once been there incinerated and gone. Broken fences, either rusted or mowed over, lined each house. In contrast, the sky was a bright blue and the …show more content…
We traveled to a homeless day shelter to help serve food to those there. The room resembled a prison cafeteria: bleak, with concrete walls and white tiled floors. There were tables with plastic chairs lined all across the room while the windows were bulletproof with jail bars in front of them. The people sitting in the chairs were bundled, either dirty or somewhat presentable depending on the time they last had access to water. Some were shivering, others quiet as they’d case down at their tea. There were few smiles, but mainly blank stares coming at us from the sea of people seeking shelter from the cold January air. When we were told to mingle, few would speak to us. It was like dipping your toes in cold water. You were left paralyzed by the cold, hesitant of whether or not you should dive right in, hesitant of even where to begin. I wondered if this trip would merely consist of me standing around, not speaking to anyone and letting the hours pass. I was unsure all day, and beginning to think that this trip was not going to be as wonderful as I had …show more content…
I used to live by the Everglades,” she explained before her eyes narrowed at us, “People always ask me why I moved. Y’all have only been to the beaches and Disney and such. The Everglades are a different story: dirt roads, heavy humidity, and bugs like never before! The alligators were the worst, though. They were an infestation. When I was little, my baby cousin had gone missing for days and all that they found was her shoe. I knew a gator had taken her then. It was not safe there, so I had to leave. I moved to the city, New York, because it seemed exciting. New York ain’t all that, though. I like it down here, much
...on the homeless community. I previously held preconceived notions that the homeless consisted of people who were either unable to connect and form relationships with others or didn’t desire to do so. Yet, I observed most everyone greeting one another and reminiscing with those who have been absent from the community for a while, as well as, expressing concern for those missing. I recognized that the homeless may live in a non-traditional way, but they have established their own communities and are successful in forming and maintaining cohesive relationships.
The lunch bell rung at full volume as the main doors flung open. I predicted that a herd of people will rush in like the water from a spill gate. But instead every person was a line; in fact it was a neat single filed line. Another thing I was astonished to see was to the fact that every single person I served to was superbly well mannered. It was the magical word of thank-you which left great remarks in my life and made my volunteering experience an enjoyable one. After the shift, I have come to realize that everything my family and friends have said about impoverished people was nothing but just a stereotype. In addition, I have self-discovered that volunteering is what I want to do on my spare time. The joy from making new friends, appreciated and making a difference in society was too meaningful to put in words. From then on, volunteering had become one of my most highly valued priorities. Whenever I have time to spare, I will go
I heard a blood-curdling scream and I jumped. I felt silent tears running down my heavily scarred face, but they weren’t out of sadness. Mostly. They were a mixture of pain and fear. I ran into the eerie, blood-splattered room and screamed as I felt cold fingers grab my neck. Before that night, I didn’t believe in the paranormal. Now I sure as heck do. I had been chased out of my house after a fight with my step-parents because I wasn’t doing well in school (I had dyslexia), and I had taken shelter in what seemed like a normal house. I realized what I had gotten into after the sun set. The doors locked without a sign of anyone going near them. A cold draft filled the room I was in. The house turned into a horrific scene, and I knew I would never get out alive. It was the Asylum. There’s a rumor in our town, a rumor that started when someone made the observation that everyone fit in. No one was considered strange, homeless, an outsider. That doesn’t seem possible, you think. In my town, there are tons of people with no homes, or people that don’t belong, you think. Well, think again. Those homeless people? Think about how many there are. They fit in with each other. Those people that don’t belong? Once again, they fit in with each other. But then, you
Envision a man that sat on a grimy concrete block, as nightfall began to crystallize before his eyes. His hair, charcoal-grey, was matted and straggly, as if he had ever known the pleasure of a hot shower or comb except when he was in the war. His once shimmering brown eyes were know hollow and cold. His eyes, that were once filled with the upmost blissfulness, now sagged like the bulky bags underneath his eyes, consumed by the loneliness and despair he felt for himself, for his lack of purpose in life. This man did not bare a smile, only crinkles where one used to be. He wore his only faded blue jacket with a tan shirt tucked underneath it. He wore cruddy worn out jeans that barely seized his thin waist and boney legs. His only pair of shoes that were once white, we're now grungy. His finger nails were bitten and dirty. This man, like many other homeless veterans, struggle everyday of their lives.
My literacy journey began long before I had actually learned how to read or write. While recently going through baby pictures with my mother, we came across a photo of my father and I book shopping on the Logos boat, a boat that would come to my island every year that was filled with books for our purchasing. Upon looking at this picture, my mother was quite nostalgic and explained how they began my journey to literacy through experiences like this. My earliest memory of experiencing literature was as a small child. My parents would read bedtime stories to me each night before I went to bed. I vividly remember us sitting on the bed together with this big book of “365 bedtime stories for 365 days” and we read one story each day until we had
In school I 've learned that there are a total of five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. After learning of the truth of The Runaways Project, I was definitely no longer in denial that Hayden may have done this on purpose. My anger meter was beyond full and anyone who stood in my way were simply looking for trouble at this point.
It began in the County Mall food court. Resting at one of the tables after my lunch, I casually glanced around the place. The food court wasn't crowded, and consequently I had no trouble spotting him: a tall, dark, gray-haired man. He caught my gaze, and started walking towards me. As I took in his gaunt frame, his tattered red t-shirt, and the holes in his great sweats, it dawned on me that before me stood a homeless man. Reaching my table, he asked if he could sit down with me but I declined. I wasn't in the mood to talk to him, and so mumbling a poor excuse and an apology that was probably a few octaves below any decipherable level, and not particularly caring whether the man heard me or not, I got up and walked away. The man called out after me, assuring me that he didn't want money, but rather only someone to talk to. I was rattled by his persistence, and pretending I didn't hear him I quickly walked away, my heart pounding in my chest.
As I reflect back on this book I see a difference between what I thought about the homeless before and after. My perspective of homeless people and society has changed after hearing the stories of the people who live in the tunnels. They aren’t just some people who don’t have money for food or lack the basic necessities to live. They are the people who lived through the pain and see the system’s flaws. Not everyone can live in our society; its one way views of how people should strive
I was curled up in my warm blankets listening to the wind throw a tantrum outside. I thought about how much I hate wind, hoping that it would die down by the time I had to head out for school. I think suddenly thought about tents and sleeping bags on the sideway. I wondered how they were doing at that moment. I wondered if they were warm and how they were faring in the wind. I wondered how they ended up there and who’s to blame. I wondered why there wasn’t an easy solution. The next morning, as the bus approached the camp, instead of counting the tents and sleeping bags, I tried to look at their faces and reflect on how they got
I glance at my paint stained hands as I wait patiently in the stillness of the library. Carefully, I examine the remaining chips of vibrant acrylic that linger on my fingers from my morning art class. My creativity appears on water color paper with the stroke of a soft-bristled brush, with the scenes I etch it my sketch book with crumbling charcoal, and with the press of my finger as I position my camera for the perfect shot. Suddenly, I look up and see a girl, with a sweet but tired face, you wouldn’t realize she is homeless based on her appearance. I earnestly smile and give a gentle wave in her direction. She spots me and walks over. As she sets down her blue backpack, I ask her about her day, and she eagerly tells me about the typical school
In the morning, I didn’t feel well and decided to phone my manager to take a day off. Mike finished his breakfast, kissed me goodbye on my forehead and closed the door behind. It was time to prepare breakfast for Luke. I heard very often from other mums, that they need to kick their teenage kids out of their bed every morning. But with our son Luke, it was different. With a great excitement in eyes and a big smile, he was ready to start another day. I was making pancakes with a strawberry jam. His favorite.
Narrative Therapy was developed to help people separate themselves from their problems. The idea is that this will help the person use the skills that they already possess to minimize the problems that exist in their everyday lives. The Narrative Therapy approach was developed by Social Workers Michael White (Australia) and David Epston (New Zealand) during the 1970s-1980s. “White proclaimed is work to be exclusively that of ‘rich story development’ “(Gallant).
"It's raining again...Great" I mumbled, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. I set out walking as far from the orphanage for the day as my feet would carry me. Another day of dealing with the pains in my stomach and the pain in my head, from lack of sleep maybe...but the loud crying coming from the other children was also to blame. I knew they were crying for the same reason I would be leaving in a few days, the hunger and beatings had gotten far worse at the orphanage, when the funding had started to go dry 9 years ago. I had learned when I was young, the best thing to do was to leave in the morning when the cry's would start and only come home when I knew my own would not add to them.
Elliot Stretched out his arms as he woke up from a restless night of sleep. Poor Elliot was too afraid to sleep, afraid of the mysterious beastie. In the night he could hear a continuous whispering coming from outside the shelter, the whispering turned into nightmares. After rubbing away the sleep from his delicate eyes with his grubby hands he remembered all the bad dreams from the darkness of the night. These brought a tear to his eye as he remembered the comforts of home.
While the sun was beaming at 8am, we began to enter one by one marching in like miniature soldiers. I noticed that the room was small, no bigger than a bedroom and there were no faces that I was familiar with. I took a seat and started to soak up my surroundings. The room was very dim. The colors were the least of importance here. There were no windows, which contributed to the lifeless room. I should have known it wasn’t going to be a good day. This prison cell was the least of my worries on my first day of school.