By Janet C. Phelan
I am lying in my sleeping bag and listening to the staccato of rain hitting the roof of the Inglewood Armory. Like so many others, I have lost my imminent Section 8 voucher due to the impounding of funds by the federal government. According to the pundits, more money is needed for our military efforts — in Iraq, now Haiti, soon Iran.
The irony of warehousing the homeless in a military weapons bin is not lost on me. Vietnam vets, former professionals with graduate degrees, drug addicts, the mentally ill — we all came in tonight to stay dry. Thank you for the roof, mother government.
I am reluctant to use the cot and proffered blanket, as so many shelter denizens have recently come down with scabies. I prefer my own clean sleeping bag on the floor, as it is probably more sanitary. The woman sleeping next to me reeks of urine. One row over, another woman murmurs incessantly in her sleep about “Joey” who did her wrong. I hope I can get some sleep tonight.
Linda (not her real name) was subdued this evening. She had confided in me that she would not be pursuing her lawsuit against the Aryan Nations cop who handcuffed her, took her to a small room in Men’s Central Jail, and injected her with a substance that produced a series of convulsions. She had recognized the officer as a reputed founder of that racist group, and had confronted him with his associations. His resultant actions impacted more than her health. As a result, she became unhoused. Having suffered nearly fatal police abuse myself, I know the difficulties and pitfalls in redressing an action of that sort. When I called the Long Beach Police Department to inform Internal Affairs of the officers’ aggression, I was told I was “not allowed” to contact IA.
Linda and I are sisters in the spirit. On release from the hospital to which I had been transported unconscious as a victim of overzealous police officers, I returned to my Long Beach apartment to find, incomprehensibly, some one else living in my home. I have since been homeless.
Linda is a well-grounded and sensible woman of color who “knew something” and spoke out. She is a talented writer who won national essay contests in high school but did not pursue her gift. As the daughter of a well-known investigative reporter and best-selling author, I followed my promise. I was attempting to address a nefarious matter at the time that the officers became “concerned.”
The Aryan Nation officer who so violated Linda was probably protecting himself.
The lead officer in Long Beach said he was “protecting the president.”
The operative lingo is “suicide by cop.” Having noted other suicides by those attacking the current administration — Jim Hatfield, the author of “Fortunate Son”; Vince Foster, who aided Hatfield with his book; David Kelley, a scientist who granted an interview to the BBC about the real nature of intelligence concerning “weapons of mass destruction” in Iraq — I know I am linked in destiny to the informed, the decent, the outraged.
I spoke to a friend in Iowa City several days ago. She wanted to know if it was “all right” to keep silent when threatened.
Acknowledging that this is the most personal of decisions, I replied that, by my lights, it is not “all right.” “You don’t buy your own safety on the backs of others’ mortality,” I told her. “The price is irrelevant. Eventually, we all return to dust. What distinguishes us is what we do with our lives, our free will.”
The rain is still coming down. With its cavernous size and the beams ribbing the ceiling, the Armory resembles a huge whale, and I feel almost like Jonah. Inside the belly of the beast, the homeless will stay dry tonight. (Janet C. Phelan is a university graduate and a freelance writer who has been published in several publications including the Los Angeles Times. She has been homeless in Santa Monica for a year).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on March 8, 2004. Read the original PDF.