I've Been There
My Homeless Story

Photo Illustration by Morgan Gardener and Donte' Harvey | VOX Staff

By Donte' Harvey| VOX Staff

When I was in the fifth grade, my family was evicted from our apartment home, and I was somewhat happy. I was happy because I was leaving an apartment complex that housed gang bangers and drug dealers. I was tired of seeing police patrol the area because of weekly shoot-outs and drug activities in my community. I was sick of being around other neighborhood kids who listened to family and friends encouraging them to sell drugs and drop out of school.

But I was also heartbroken to move because this was a place I considered home. My family had lived there for most of my childhood, and even though I didn’t like living there, I felt sadness when we had to leave. We had gotten evicted because my mother was late with rent, and the management team obviously didn’t care how she got money as long as the rent was paid.

When I see homelessness on TV, the image that is most often shown is of a dirty man or woman wandering around the city with a big bundle. It’s rare to walk the streets of Atlanta and not come across a homeless man or woman. But homelessness doesn’t always means living on the streets.

I remember the day we got evicted like it was yesterday, even though it was about seven years ago. I didn’t realize it then, but one of the most unfortunate experiences had happened to my family, and we had suddenly become homeless. After the landlord evicted us, my family — my mother, stepfather, younger sister, brother and I — moved in with my mother’s older sister in a six-bedroom house with three other families. My family was in a different situation than the homeless people you might see on TV. But we were not alone. Staying with family and friends appears to be a common condition among those who are homeless.

Home Sweet Home
At my aunt’s house, I thought I was going to be happy living with my cousins. I pictured us hanging out and having fun, but it turned out to be hell for me. I was addicted to watching TV, and my cousins didn’t like that very much. That’s when they started rumors saying I thought I was better than everyone else.

“You think you smarter than everybody, but you ain’t — you dumb,” they teased me. My mother even believed the rumors and told me harsh words that lowered my self-esteem.

“Stay in a child’s place and stop trying to grow up too fast,” she said. She must have thought I was trying to act grown because I rarely played with my cousins. The gossip became such a big deal that it caused a lot of pain and pushed me into a deep depression. I felt as if no one loved me and that everyone was against me. Living with other people definitely wasn’t what I wanted, but at least we had a place to stay. In the meantime, I dreamed of being in my own home with a family where no one teased me and made me feel like an outlaw.
That July, my aunt moved out of her house, and since my family was staying with her, we also had to leave. We moved into a motel in Decatur, where many homeless families found refuge. I often heard conversations between my mom and other adults talking about how they were kicked out of their houses. The motel where all of us lived was old and rundown with lime green molded walls and hallways that smelled like freshly lit marijuana.

“I don’t want to stay here!” my little sister screamed one day in frustration.

“We have no other place to go,” my stepfather responded.

I couldn’t believe it. That’s when it dawned on me, we had hit rock bottom. You mean we have no other place to go but this filthy motel? I thought to myself.

Living in the Gutter
I hated our poor living conditions. It was summertime so my brother, sister and I weren’t in school. To keep us away from watching too much TV, sometimes our mother took us to work with her at KFC. At her job, customers and employees gave us pitiful looks, as if they wanted to say, “Poor kids! I feel sorry for ya’ll.” But sometimes my mom’s manager gave us chicken, potato wedges and macaroni so we didn’t stay hungry.

We usually took the leftovers to our room and kept them in a small refrigerator that smelled like a garbage dump — similar to the smell in the walkways of the motel. That slum motel should have been shut down by the DeKalb County Board of Health, but sadly, it was the only place we could barely afford to live. The rent was $40 a week, and with my mother working at KFC and my stepfather doing under-the-table sub-contracting, we made it for about three months.

Living there made me feel as if I didn’t belong with the world. It felt like my family was outcast and people like us didn’t deserve decent homes. Today, that motel represents so many things to me. It was the place where I came face-to-face with the reality of homelessness. It was where I spent many nights thinking about how America doesn’t care about homeless and poor families because if America cared, my family and other homeless people would have places to live.

Still Dreaming
When we were living at the motel, no one really reached out to my family. When people saw us in passing or sitting at my mom’s job while she worked, no one offered us assistance. That same motel that housed us when I was younger is open today and has a horrible reputation for housing homeless people. We walk by homeless people all the time on the streets of Atlanta, even on MARTA. I don’t know why people turn a blind eye to homelessness. Maybe it’s because they don’t really know how to help, but it’s as if the issue of homelessness is a secret scar America has kept tucked away somewhere.

My family now lives with my grandmother, and even though we no longer stay in a motel, I still consider us homeless because we are not in our own home. I continue to battle thoughts and fears that tell me we will be put out again. But I choose to stay focused on my goals of having a family some day and being a good provider for them. I work hard so that my future children will not have to experience the pain and worry of not having a home and enough food to eat.

Donte’ is a senior at Grady High who wants readers to know that homelessness wears many faces.