I remember the day I aged out of Oregon Youth Authority and I found myself homeless. My case manager was in tears, angry that she was taken by surprise and I was in shock. She muttered 'fuck' under her breath, doing everything she could to keep her job while still managing to cram as much social service into this last day for me as she possibly could.
Two other staff members packed my stuff in black plastic bags and placed them by the door, while she spends time on the office phone feverishly trying to piece together some kind of plan. It was astounding how much she was able to put in place. She walks out of the office of the group home and finds me, stoic, frozen, afraid, standing by the front door with my black plastic bags.
She'd called the Social Security Administration, she'd called the housing bureau, she'd called the Youth Homeless Prevention organization at that time called Greenhouse. She called the powers that be at her organization, she'd called the powers that be at Oregon Youth Authority, she called everyone under the sun. Now, it was time to hit the streets.
At that time I'd held down a full-time job at The Mallory Hotel as a buser, hostess helper and dining room assistant. She called the luxury hotel to make sure they would work with me during my transition to hang on to me as much as possible. They said they would. That was a good thing, that was where I was fed.
We got into a state car and rolled over to the YWCA. She checked me in, for a short time I had a roof at a women's shelter. We rolled over the Alder House, the state's first SRO LIHTC rent-controlled building in Portland, we got an SRO room for me to rent. At that time housing practiced age discrimination so it took some serious finagling for her to convince them to rent to an individual one day into her 18th year of life. We rolled over to the Social Security Administration and got 'benefits' in place. I later found out they used my placement in Oregon Youth Authority as a base for disability benefits. Anyone's guess how they pulled that off. Now the sun starts to set and I feel a buzz on the inside of me. My exhausted caseworker takes a deep breath, looks over at me and says, "Okay kiddo, you can do this. You can do this, we got a plan. Work as much as you can at that hotel, BEHAVE yourself at that apartment complex, I mean it, don't fuck with them. I'll call the shelter in a few days." Boom! with that, I and my black plastic bags found our way into a small room with two cots. I roomed with a woman name Naezie, a young, beautiful, middle eastern woman escaping a violent husband. Naezie seemed relieved that I was her roommate. She said some of the faces she saw at the YWCA scared her. I sat on the cot and looked at her, the deep buzzing and spinning head continued. Suddenly I feel an uneasiness, a queasiness. The cots begin to screech at their base, a massive rumbling sound filled the room, we grab hold of the cots and stare at each other even more intently. "My God!" she says in her soft Sudanese accent, we've just had an earthquake.
Seems fitting.
Over the hours Naezie and I walk the streets of Portland getting to know one another. We plan our next steps, I feel better knowing I've got someone, a base, a friend. She was 15 years older than I and I was comfortable in her presence. We grab a slice of pizza on Burnside and head to Powell's Bookstore.
"Hey, you ever been to this place Naezie? Careful, you'll get lost."
At the group home, you'd find a good deal of my 'sisters' hanging out at Paranoia Park (O'Bryant Square) a punk scene, Satyricon, and Greenhouse. I frequented those places too, but most of my experience was spent idling the hours away at Burnside's Powells Bookstore. Education was never a priority to the Youth Authority in those days. We educated ourselves. I permitted my meager budget to buy books and magazines. Mostly, Powells Bookstore taught me about my fellow man. In a clean, safe environment I learned about the outside world, and now I was right in it.
Fast forward to 2020, I'm 45 years old, and right as if it was taken directly from the pages of a manuscript I'm working on, we're knee-deep in a worldwide pandemic. I see this Grand Matron Powells Bookstore, closed to the public. She's quiet, still, lonely. I sit for a moment and think, I could swear I can feel the heartbeat of the city become weaker. Yes, it has become weaker. May this great Dame rise again and give birth to another generation of stronger, more educated and united public than ever before. May she rise like a Phoenix, immune and thriving. I give a moment of great thanks to Mother Powells. I imagine a better day.