MARTA: VOL I

By Dave Rogers

Not everyone looks to be homeless, many of us just kind of fall into it" delves into the intricate and often overlooked reality of homeless youth in 1980s. Through poignant narratives and insightful perspectives, this book sheds light on the diverse experiences and circumstances that lead individuals to face homelessness. Drawing from personal a

• Language: English
• Publisher: KDP-Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869365675

Dave Rogers

Dave Rogers is a bestselling author, certified coach, and business consultant whose philanthropic techniques have seen him become a leading voice in the fields of conscious entrepreneurship, heart centric leadership, and personal development.Dave's vision has taken him to more than forty-three nations across five continents, conducting mentoring and coaching workshops, delivering keynote presentations and engaging hands-on with key decision-makers in private companies and public organizations.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to:

My son David, I am sorry I could not be a better father to you.

My cousin Anne Louise, thank you for always being there and believing in me even when I did not believe in myself.

Contents

Dedication

Forward

MARTA’S FIRST TRANSITION

MS. JONES

JUAN

MARTA’S SECOND TRANSITION

MARTA’S FIRST TRANSITION: PART II

THE PASSING OF JOHN PART I

OFFICER DEWALT

THE SUMMER OF ‘84

JOSE: PART II

THE PASSING OF JOHN: PART II

MARTA’S THIRD TRANSITION

MAMMA J: PART II

MARTA’S FIRST TRANSITION: PART III

About The Author

Forward

Not everyone plans to be homeless, some of us just fall into it.

While my journey to being homeless is something I like to say that I choose, the truth is that life left me no choice. Sometimes, the harshness of street life can seem like a break from the realities of what living at home with your family can be. Many of the stories from those around me had a bit of familiarity to it. We felt trapped, we felt like victims, we felt worthless, and so the alternative was the only path forward we could see.

For some, life is short-lived, either you make it, or you don’t, for others, it is a lifetime of pain. Even if you escape it, the trauma is always there. Always fearing being back in the life you are trying to leave behind. You can take the kid out of the street, but you can’t totally take the street out of the kid.

I spent a great deal of my youth, and even part of my adulthood, craving the type of life you would see on TV, desperate to be accepted by my father, but that was a fantasy. I can’t picture that anyone lives like that. Where you make a mistake, and your family learns to love you. That dream never comes true when your parents never totally accept you for who you are, no matter how much you wish it to.

Living a life of pain, loss and disappointment at home and on the streets did make it easier in some ways, having known real struggles young, it became easy to navigate some aspects of life others found difficult. Not to say it does not have its downside, living with the knowledge that at any moment, all you have can go away and you can be right back in that situation, so you tend to take every victory with the idea that the other shoe is about to drop.

While I would come to appreciate the life that I would later live, I find myself sad knowing that I am one tragic event from becoming a statistic.

MARTA’S FIRST TRANSITION

The smell of spray paint and tar filled the air on the upper scaffold of the West Side train depot. On this crisp fall evening, the paint would leave a colorful mist of pinks, yellows, and blues that would linger like a thick fog. When the night is clear, like tonight, you can see to both ends of the yard, which is helpful when you are not supposed to be there.

The trek to the top was a dangerous one, but it was the only way to stay out of direct eye-level view of the police, should they be trolling the yard. We would climb the street light poles and, when on the outside of the platform, jump onto the ledge. It was a great risk and not easy when carrying a backpack of spray paint, but the harder areas seemed to be the most sought out since it was harder for the MTA to remove your tags.

There I stood, marking my name on a piece that Marta and I had been working on for four nights. Doing a section at a time since you don’t want to overstay your welcome for fear of getting caught. There, of course, was the fear that working on such a piece for more than one day would lead the MTA Police to see the progress and be waiting for you the next time you came, so you had to design each section to look completed. Larger groups could have spotters or pawns to draw the police away from the main tag, but it was just us here. So, we had to have a plan, and we did: Work fast and be ready to run at any time.

As I looked over at Marta, she was brushing pink hair from her slightly freckled face and spray-painting the legs on the girl rocker spray paint can on the wall. After a moment of looking at her, I went back to spray-painting my section of the piece. This was a long way from where we first met.

I first met Marta in 1975, when my parents moved out of my grandmother’s basement to our new apartment. While the apartment had its benefits, being closer to the stores and a window in our bedroom, I did miss my grandmother’s cooking and spending time with her in the afternoon. Marta was sitting on the stoop to our building as we were moving into our new apartment.

Something about her was different from the first time that I saw her. In some ways, she reminded me of my mother, which may have been what initially drew me to her. She had piercing dark brown eyes, and long black hair that Marta would often wear up in a bun, or a French Braid down the back, while most of the girls I saw in our neighborhood tended to wear their hair down or in pigtails. Marta also preferred wearing dresses to shorts or overalls like the other girls wore while playing outside. Not those jean dresses or stiff school dresses that many girls wore either. These were softer and more free flowing, allowing her to run if she wanted.

Now, here she was with those same dark brown piercing eyes, but the braided hair was wavy, shorter and pink, with several piercings in her ears, wearing torn jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, and yet to me, she was as beautiful as the day I first caught sight of her.

Suddenly, I hear yelling and movement from below. Marta grabs my arm, letting me know we need to run. I look down and see the Transit Police coming toward us. We quickly grab our bag of spray paint cans and start to run. The Transit Police, all the while, running and climbing to get to us. Don’t you kids make us run after you, just stop where you are.

Of course, we would run, I mean, really. Does anyone just stand there waiting to be arrested?

The police were cracking down on street artists and if you were caught, it was because you were not fast enough. My heart, beating faster and faster as we ran, made hearing difficult as the cadence of the increasing heartbeats filled my ears. First, we made it to the end of the platform, and then, throwing our bags over the wall, we ran faster, knowing we could pick the bags up later.

When we got to the gate of the rail yard, I jumped to the top and reached out my hand to help Marta. All the while trying to keep my eyes on where the Transit Police were. Sometimes, they would split up and try to cut you off. Lucky for us, they were on the lower level. We would soon be on the main train platform. The hope is that they wouldn’t have another group of cops waiting on the main platform. Usually, that meant that they knew you were there. If they did not know you were around, it might be a while before they showed up. They didn’t seem to have anything better to do than catch us, so we knew we had to keep out of their reach.

Just as we got over the gate, a train was pulling into the station. We hopped on, as soon as the doors opened, and ducked down. When the