Need to Go Back to Brooklyn

2 years ago, I was squatting in the house I grew up in, in East New York. I’d lost my house key visiting rebuilding New Orleans.

A cousin I grew up with ended up inviting me to stay with him and his girlfriend in San Francisco. I went, planning to use my unemployment to move forward with my life – have a key to a place again.

Turned out his girlfriend didn’t even live there. One day, he disappeared on me. When I asked him why later, he told me he thought i would immerse myself in the rich culture of La Mission.

He had asked me to be an honored guest at a school he taught at, but disappeared again a couple days later, and left town.

I was forced to stay on the street. Once at the Embarcadero, tourists were photographing me. I asked them, “yo, what you takin a picture of?” The guy said, “oh, my rivera.” This was right around Xmas 2010.

I’d see this called cousin in the time after. He always wanted a hug.

At the same time, all this wild shit started happening in the world. I did my best to build with people and stay vocal visible and keep vital and sane while living in shelters and the street in SF.

Didn’t get murdered, much as that was a real ass possibility more than a few times.

Did get arrested, attacked, jumped and institutionalized a few times.

California not so different from New York.

Then people started to say I was a cop.

Which still, honestly, due mostly to personal experience, I consider an insult.

It hurt to hear, shitty as cops been to me.

 

I am getting a sense now that there were real problems or something here, perhaps.

I believe that.

California’s not so different from New York.

I want to go home.

I need help. I have no money.

Please e-mail me.

Whoever goes thru my e-mail will hopefully leave it in my inbox.

 

 

 

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