September 2022
It was a simple note, written in ballpoint pen on a sheet of notebook paper. My hands were shaking as I wrote it and I don’t have the best handwriting as it is. It wasn’t eloquently worded because I needed to write it quickly.
It was one of the most shameful things I’ve ever had to do in my life.
The note read:
Dear [Neighborhood] Residents:
I apologize for my trailer being here — it’s a temporary emergency situation and I’ll be moving soon. I’m actively trying to get admitted into an RV park and am waiting for them to contact me.
I do have a job as a freelancer (Copywriter & Senior Copy Editor) and if I’m not here, I’m away charging my equipment and using public wifi to supplement my hotspot service.
It’s humiliating and degrading to live like this and my intention is not to be a nuisance or an eyesore. Believe me when I tell you I want to be gone sooner than you want me gone.
Again, sorry to be here and it will be for as short a period as possible.
This was my public apology to the surrounding homeowners and apartment tenants for being homeless in their midst.
I signed my initial at the bottom, taped the note onto the door of my travel trailer, and then my dog and I left to catch the bus at a nearby stop. Not only did I need to charge my phone, laptops, and portable batteries, it was going to be a hot day and we needed to be indoors with air conditioning.
Any Port in a Storm
My RV was placed here less than 48 hours earlier after eight homeless friends and acquaintances moved me from my previous location. The vehicle I’d owned and used to move the trailer before had suffered catastrophic engine failure and had to be scrapped three months ago.
If not for those eight people coming to my aid, I’d still be in a place that was unsafe since my husband is away and unable to join me for several more weeks.
The new location for my trailer was selected for the following reasons:
- It was far away from the place I’d just left.
- It wasn’t close to high-traffic areas where I might be seen.
- It didn’t put me directly in front of any homes.
- It was close enough for help to arrive quickly if I phoned for it.
But as soon as I arrived, my relief at leaving the old location was short-lived. I was uncomfortable and embarrassed to be where I am.
This is a nice neighborhood — it reminds me a lot of West Seattle, where I was once a homeowner and lived in an adorable cottage-style house. I’m in an older area full of large, shady trees and a mix of old and new construction. Cute little bungalows are tucked next to larger modern homes. The homes and apartment buildings have character and charm.
It’s the kind of neighborhood that doesn’t deserve to have a 1986 RV trailer parked on the street.
No Place for Me
I’ve been homeless for just over two years and in that time I’ve come to think of myself as an undesirable, a social outcast from the housed population in this city. Away from the trailer, I manage to pass myself off as just any other city resident. I take care in my appearance and dress much as I did in my pre-homeless life.
But I feel like it’s a disguise — as if I’m a fraud.
When I’m out in public and an average stranger strikes up a conversation, I’m fraught with anxiety. I’m polite, but I also try to keep the interaction brief and surface-level. I dread the simple question “So, what part of the city do you live in?” I’ve learned the art of being vague without outright lying.
I don’t want to see their face change when they realize they’re talking to a homeless person.
Homelessness is an isolating way to live. It’s humbling in a way that’s hard to describe to anyone who’s never experienced it for themselves.
I knew life would be hard, but it’s the shame I didn’t anticipate. Making eye contact with people when I was out in public was something I stopped doing instinctively — it was a way to become invisible. I delay seeking medical care because I have state healthcare and I know there will be questions that force me to reveal my living conditions.
Even idle chat with a store cashier is sometimes hard for me now. I feel like the word “homeless” is hanging over me for everyone to see. There are days when holding up my head with any sense of dignity is a Herculean effort.
On the other side of the coin, I don’t fit in with the homeless community either. I have two bachelor’s degrees and a master’s degree. I held a 20-year career as an IT professional. I’ve never used drugs a day in my life. My bedtime is 10:00 pm each night and my phone’s alarm wakes me at 6:00 am Monday through Friday.
For a little over two years, I’ve been living side-by-side with people I have nothing in common with because we don’t value the same things. My interactions with them have been surface-level and infrequent.
I don’t know where I belong anymore.
Didn’t See It Coming
When my dog and I returned to the RV in the early evening, I saw my note was still taped to the door (a positive sign). I wondered how many people had read it on their walks.
About 30 minutes later, I heard a man call out “Hi, are you in there?”
I replied, “Yes, just a moment” and stepped outside to find a man dressed in business casual, waiting on the sidewalk. I figured he was there to get more information about my situation and my plans to leave.
His expression was pleasantly neutral and he gestured toward the RV door. “I saw your note and you said you’re a copywriter?”
“Yes, I am,” I immediately replied. It wasn’t the question I thought he was going to ask.
He held out a business card and said “I’m putting together a team and I need freelance copywriters.”
As I took the card I was equal parts stunned and elated.
We introduced ourselves and I answered a few questions about my schedule and whether or not I was looking for more work (yes, please!). Then he asked me to contact him at the email address on the card. I assured him I would and thanked him for stopping by.
I sent an email as soon as I sat back down in front of my laptop. When he replied, I learned I had just spoken with the CEO of a small software firm who happens to live in this neighborhood. A couple of days later my resume and writing samples were forwarded to the appropriate department head and I was told I’d hear from her once she returned from vacation.
When I chose to share my profession in my note, I’d done it so people would know that I do work and don’t just hang around all day long. I get it — the label “homeless” carries a negative stereotype for valid reasons.
Sharing what I do for a living was my small way of saying “I’m not what you think this trailer means. I used to be one of you.”
It hadn’t crossed my mind that anyone would read “copywriter & senior copy editor” in my note and think “I need to see if I can work with this person.”
Ripples in the Pond
Even if this didn’t result in a working arrangement with this man’s firm, I was still grateful for the networking contact opportunity and the confidence our interaction had given me.
After sending my resume and writing samples to the CEO I’d met, I was able to shake off weeks of self-doubt-induced procrastination. That same day I sent my resume and writing samples to a national agency that connects freelancers with clients needing copywriters and copy editors.
When I taped that sheet of notebook paper to the door of my RV, I was hoping only for a little understanding and patience from the surrounding community. By addressing the elephant in the room, I hoped it might buy me a few extra days while I try to find an off-street living arrangement.
What I never imagined is that someone would look beyond my visible circumstances and take the time to find the person behind my note.
Shrinking Window
My sign has been on the door for four days. When I’m working at the RV, I’m aware of people pausing to read it and I feel a flush of embarrassment on my face.
Most of them read it in silence before continuing on.
A few times I’ve heard the person reading the sign say “temporary emergency situation” out loud — either to themselves or to someone they’re with. Most of the time, the tone implies varying degrees of sympathy.
But a few times I’ve heard a distinct note of sarcasm or contempt. One of my bachelor’s degrees is in psychology, so I read human behavior whether I want to or not.
I know my time here is limited and the expiration date is fast approaching. As each day passes and I fail to find an RV park that will accept me, my anxiety and stress grow.
My note won’t hold off negative consequences for much longer.
Comments by Bella