SURVIVING SHEILA DENNIS

It is one thing to know that you are loved; it is another to feel it.

On December 31st I opened an email from an internet friend, and could feel the love wrapped within it. I reached out to him and included an attachment spelling out all of the frustrations and angers and exasperations that had piled up and pushed me to suicide. County systems and unrelenting homelessness are not meant for genius; it is hard on us and we break easily.

I broke, but I asked God's forgiveness as I surrendered to despair and fury. My merciful Father pardoned me, and blesses my return to society with clients who need my help. I do not know if there is a full-time job out there for me, but I do know that clients are showing up and I am grateful for the work. After five years of no success, it is heartening to see a strong glimmer of profit on the horizon. My God dispenses grace with a heavy hand, especially when we have fallen.

To be picked up by the Holy Father is a very special feeling. It gives me pause and called me into the hospital chapel daily while I recovered from the effects of 120 Tramadol. Mass will be an overwhelming experience for me now that I have been forgiven and propelled back into this life. I must not waste it; every word, every hour is precious.

I live in a better place now with round the clock care. I will be sure to scream before the fury and exasperation become a deadly silence.

I caution you to grab hold of your faith with both hands and never let go, for this God we love dwarfs us with His capacity to forgive, pardon, inspire and challenge. I cannot fail this time, for I have been given another chance, a new opportunity, and I know that His Hand is on my shoulder, blessing me and shoring up my strength. Thanks be to Him.

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

A PH.D. FACES HOMELESSNESS

A good new friend for whom I had written a recommendation letter to the CEO of the company for whom she works asked me why, in everything it seemed I wrote, I mentioned being homeless and on public assistance. In the letter for her I had made mention of both facts and how her greeting me at the door, every time I entered the library, let me know that there was a place in the city that I was regularly welcomed and encouraged to feel at home.

I told her that I consistently mentioned my homelessness and status as a recipient of public assistance because I knew there were other Ph.D.s out there who were perhaps receiving food stamps for the first time in their lives, and I wanted them to know that they were not less than who they had made of themselves because they were on public assistance or living in a shelter. I wanted them to know it is possible to be on the state dole and in a homeless shelter and STILL hold your head up and share your knowledge.

I knew that I had gone into a homeless shelter because there were things I still needed to learn and because God sent one of his strongest to experience shelter living from the inside--so I could bring it to someone's attention. Within one week of being there I knew--because I asked Him--that God had sent me there to bear witness.

So this hubpage is devoted to sharing my journey through homelessness, honestly and with bare knuckle wisdom, the kind of wisdom that comes from living through what no one should have to experience.

Homeless no more!!!!!! With glee and bountiful thanksgiving to God I close this HubPage blog because as of Monday of this week, the auspicious Monday, February 6th, 2012, I am homeless no more.

A good friend whom I have known for many years has opened the doors of her one bedroom apartment and offered to share her space for as long as I need it. She has been nothing but a ball of love since I moved in and I thank God for her and her generosity every morning and every night.

And as you might expect, I wrote a poem. Know that it will be the last for this blog because I promised myself that I would close it when I was homeless no more. And now I am, thanks be to God!!!!

The poem:

BERNICE

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright February 2012

for the lifesaver

blossoms occur

in the oddest places.

3,000 miles away

15 years gone

and i begin to long for home.

it is one year

post demise of my first

most loving relationship

God tore us apart

for we forgot

in our love

He demands always

first place.

we looked in each others' eyes

saw the eternity of love

we'd always hoped for

never won.

we were secure in our devotion to each other.

he mattered most to me

i mattered most to him

separating us mattered most

to his very Christian friends.

they won

his fear and rage at God won

i was sent to homeless hell

shelters parolees former addicts

roommates housemates

and i began to long for eternity

that other coast

the ocean, its enormity

waves certain to crash the shore

thunder

slip out to the furthest reaches

of a horizon without bound.

i began to long for home.

los angeles culver city westwood

the crenshaw district

the crenshaw district

yet first there was long beach

and the taste of ocean in the air

every street corner

intoxicating the senses as eyes

danced upon the latest eclectic

funky bookstore coffeehouse haven

teasing dollars from your billfold

just to sit in the comfy chairs

sip coffee chew brownies

chat up your muse

decide what words fall on the page today.

still the crenshaw district called

all those years of declaring before students

"Shaw dog in the house!"

to their laughter.

but hell in long beach first

demanding landlord

county system

the Village dragging its feet

the wellness center dragging its feet

your psych meds denied

christmas new years

and too much tramadol.

respirator.

life support.

icu

thirteen days

no visitors

not one.

on the 22nd day, ouster to a loving board and care

social security refused to pay

ouster again.

but this time you prayed

this time you prayed

and your Catholic heart

bore precious fruit:

God's grace

God's mercy.

from deep in the heart of the crenshaw district

a yes

a surrender,

but a yes

a yes filled with love you could trust

a yes with love costing nothing

no punishment nor bruises to follow

suddenly your own room

a double bed

when twins and bunks had been your doom

in shelters transitional sober living

hell

you can actually roll over

roll over

without fear of falling

disturbing a neighbor

snore behind a closed door

alone.

this blossom

this flower

struggles for her earth

her sunshine

her gas lights and electric

but you bring God's grace

love, mercy, gratitude

two hundred dollars a month

food stamps

and every client fortitude brings your way.

you are in the crenshaw district again

breathing the air of your youth.

changed by suffering knowledge

years learning

want hunger pain

but still home

still familiar

still streets you walk

with a little bit of fear

and a full plate of dreams

books of your own

in both hands.

BORN AGAIN

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright January 2012

born again is not starch white robes drenched in holy water

snakes charmed or the ring shout

the two step or that sweet boy's kisses on a saturday night.

born again is awaking day twelve in the hospital

pulling out the tubing to insist

you're breathing on your own.

born again is awaking with a prayer of repentance on your lips

when the last thing you remember was swallowing pills

a prayer of forgiveness spewing from your consciousness

as your faith went into hiding

and the angels went to work

beseeching their Creator.

you have no idea how much He loves you

only that the dead were right;

you're not ready

and He tosses you back

with gifts this time

hallmarking the faith He knows never really left

burying the despair and frustration

that drove you to it.

your relationship with Him is a difficult one

one-sided if you will

He sees all and you must trust

the unseen, all that has yet to occur.

you are fresh out of the hospital

and He sends you clients

something easy, writing jobs

to keep you fed, clothed, shorn

believing that in the Heavens

there is an answer, faith, trust,

Love

a shining future.

December 26th, 2011

Nothing soothes the soul like returning home, even when home turns out to be a city not quite the one in which you were raised.

I left Philadelphia for Los Angeles, only to follow my niece's advice and reside in Long Beach, California. My niece is a wise woman.

The streets here are clean, I can smell the Pacific Ocean from many parts of town, the Blue Line gets me to L.A. at the drop of a hat, and the bus drivers actually wait for you to sit down before they lurch the bus into motion. I must be in heaven.

I left Philadelphia because the dearth of love and real, genuine affection was driving me deeper and deeper into depression, especially after a year of homeless shelters and transitional housing. Here, in Long Beach, I stress about paying the rent each month, but transitional housing on 7th Street is kinder, and I am happier.

I can't wait to buy my first bathing suit!

The proximity to the ocean is a real and genuine comfort. The vastness of it, the calm of watching the waves roll in and roll out, the eternity of it all--I can't wait to combine that elixir with mass at St. Anthony's or whichever Catholic church summons my spirit.

For the moment, new Monday, new poem. I hope you enjoy the words.

MIRAGE

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright December 2011

for the homeless mentally ill

there is a wasteland

amidst riches

a place of easy ocean

clean streets

palm trees and despair.

we have made our own choices

broken families

broken friendships

medication flung in the face

of the powers that be

working for our stability

peace and calm.

we are delusional

we are freedom-seekers

desperate and determined

that those who hurt us

have no second chance.

most of us are not believed.

there is an oasis

amidst this wasteland

buried in riches.

its offerings meek

a world to those like us

it is not the showers

the laundry the kind word

the respect

it is the understanding

we turned away for a reason

a pathos to our resistance

to reconnect submit

take the bitter white pills

there may be delusion

but we insist

submission created

the dust of anguish in our mouths.

this mirage

this village near the sea

takes our delusion

as evidence of something more

rights it

examines it

stabilizes us with one hand

applies balm for brain chemistry with another

we fight

the lesser damaged recognize

something experienced before the world turned on us

walk through the door

take pallet offered

assistance freely given

concern in their eyes

desperate love in their hearts

early, they watched us become walking wounded

us-es with family faces

never able to speak

to tell

what they do now

rings the bell

sounds the alarm

on clean streets

before ocean-view houses

in a city not shy about its caring

no occupy long beach eviction here.

there is a wasteland

amidst riches

in a desert basin

graced by ocean

it is a torment of the mind

of circumstance and bias

and families creating buttons to push.

the mirage artists know all

discern patiently

the scabs we try to cover

bring out the mercurochrome

not before we’re ready

they have patience born of job

crosses like jesus

torments of their own.

without us

they would bleed and die

or combust

co-existence co-operation yes co-dependence

keeps the ocean near

the axis in place

justice’s blindfold aright

and the underside of florence nightingale’s cape

blood red.

-------------------------------------------------------

PORSANDEH

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright December 2011

he does not know what it means

and everyone asks him.

there is that about him

speaks of drummer boy

lost

laying down of handsome

allegiance to the misgiven

recalcitrant

the lost at sea in cities.

he feels one of us

masquerades as picaro

trickster waif

but if you need a home

he is on the phone all day

working his magic rolodex.

he seems too insubstantial

to withstand the weight

of our need

need sucking us dry and wilting our spirit

but he knows waif, picaro

starvation

and will slash the throat

of any who proselytize it.

------------------------------------------

SUSQUIE

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright September 2011

it is the house of tired

weary worn down worn out

trampled and trampled upon.

it is the house of

just think about trampling

and this brick will do interesting things

to your body

it is the house

of jerry springer maury and steve wilko

watched because only one channel on the tv

and we know these lives so well

it is the house where one asian woman

upsets the balance of chore

with cleaning for those who despise it

cleaning for those in fear of the rules

bathing the floors in fluid

no matter the words from warden wodarski

she gives her gift because something within

remembers country mornings free of grit and grime

fish served on cakes with tea

early mornings and clean air and wet floors warm underfoot.

the poet risks recording all this

because she longs to buy a cake:

1303—WE ROCK

because women here

survived the forces that maim the body

kill the spirit

make the crack pipe

chocolate chip cookie

an easy choice

her next step is out of here

if she can win the getting out of bed war

and when she does

the days she does

she will remember wodarski

on the day of her bravery:

“right now, i’m living in the undertow”

wodarski at work everyday

barking

wodarski a this house veteran.

we don’t die easy

those of us who reside here

the best have tried to kill us

those who were supposed to love us

we beat them by choosing alone

rather than death at fifth and central.

we forget

in our despair

that choice

depression finds us so easily

but the poet is here to remind us

we once chose life

we can choose it again

and thrive.

DEBORAH’S POEM

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright October 2011

nefertiti saw the onset

said, this one might not make it out

they might bury her too deep

just in case, let’s prepare a particular hell for them

justice must be served.

wrongs must be righted.

peace must come to the survivors who are wise.

believers must not lose their faith.

i have watched you, tall and stately

i have watched you be sinned against and not fight back

i wonder what makes us different.

i think, in no small measure, it is faith.

i have walked away and, ostensibly, failed

i come back like the energizer bunny

i do not die easily

nor wish to die readily

there were days of that

but you see, i kept listening

listening to that still small voice within

listening and following its instruction

and as i did

as i let that voice guide me in all things

even when it required leaving the sure possibility of housing

for the unknown quantity

california

i left

found clean streets

kind people

social services

love

you.

all of this built my hope

solidified my faith

made it stronger

because there you were

the first day i looked at the apartment

there you were: tall, stunning, friendly

and i noticed you, then roomed with you

then felt saved by you

damaged though you believe you are.

i still see the tall positive amazon

gazing at the horizon

foretelling the tribe’s future

guiding us, sussuring and securing the right place to camp

to build, to hunt, to rest

you see farthest and we trust you instinctively

you are built of the creator’s best stuff

we wait on your wisdom like we wait on the rising of the nile

you teach us with your every breath

but you have lost your way this moment

our seers know not how to reach you

how to rebuild the potion that is the strong stuff of your innards

we wait

we watch

we pray

we want to see that steel in your eye again

the glint of the hungry warrior

the queen who knows when charge is the only appropriate cry

the woman who knows when to tell her beloveds

back off—you kill me with this stroke

we wait to see that bold command

we know it is there

for we have never lost our faith

in you.

###

July 16th, 2011

I am stepping down from performing, blogging, and marketing my business because I need to focus on two searches: one personal and family-related, a search I do not want to reveal the process of until it is completed.

The other search is a search for my perfect next job, and my career coach has requested that I journal about that process. I choose to do so in private.

It will be new for me to "be quiet" for awhile and focus on my Strayer students and these two life searches, but the exhaustion of daily chores at the transitional housing where I live means I must conserve my strength literally and focus on what matters most to me.

I will have to say no to some opportunities, but the saying no is only for the greater good and temporary. Please be well in my absence and know that once I return to you--I shall only be stronger.

Thank you for your rapt attention to all I have written previously. I hope my words graced your life with hope. Your kind attention has certainly graced mine!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

POSSIBILITY AND POTENTIAL

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright June 2011

for ben

what did you see
papa stand in
all those weeks
nights 
semesters
in my eyes?

what made you choose me
for last night breathing
morphine covering
pain of prostate
causing body to become ghost?

i remember as though yesterday
the rolling contortions
the last night of pain
i knew you wanted me
as you moved toward you weren't sure what
faith
where you were with faith
unknowable.

sure i am
only that you wished me to know my power
my gift
and so for me
we shared a memory stark and moving
confusing now as i still want to know
who, sire,
if not you?

i face possibility
after long-suffering

a shelter that presented me
torturers who picked
cause they knew no retaliation
torturers who picked
to ensure shared misery
on all sides, torturers
the onslaught so murderously regular
i gave up hope of breathing
without pain
suffering
a knife in my back
twisting.

on the other side now of giving up
final scream to superiors of superiors
wrenching me free
liberating me and case manager 
assigned to ensure my survival
in new stage of shelter living
one roommate only now
a torturer too
a resident of misery, pa
liking others discomforted
dissed and dismissed.

her favorite tactic
silence in response to conversation

i let her rile me
then remember:
tomorrow i start a job
at long last, a paying job
pleasant people
teaching again
the classroom a welcome space once more
a coming home
gratitude pours
the grape-induced finest California wine
for a vintner used to French and classic.

i smile at prospect of 22 fresh tired 
working student faces
student faces!
and the desperate vote of confidence
by cherry hill strayer
bless that instructor with the better opportunity
who opened a door
for me

papa, i face 22 faces
hungry for something
will get them higher salaries
promotions, just treatment

and i eager to share
to open wisdom's door
glean for them
the secrets to learning
mastery
the love of correct writing and speech

this, and the clef club wednesday night
with talaam acey to hear my best poem
and i say, papa--who are you?
reveal yourself
unsync the twisted knots
memory withheld
by a protective brain

stand aside
that which would shelter me
i need to know
i need to know,
for credit must be given
rights must be claimed
my second 50
gotten off on the right foot.