The main goal of
independent living is to teach the kids that are part of the program, how to
live on their own. We are taught about budgeting, money, goals, shopping, bills
and cleaning.
I am also am taken on weekly trips to look for an apartment with a counselor.
The counselor uses these trips to teach me about to live and my own. Today's lesson is to help me to move out and find an apartment. She says this as she crosses her fingers and pulls out of the driveway.
I am also am taken on weekly trips to look for an apartment with a counselor.
The counselor uses these trips to teach me about to live and my own. Today's lesson is to help me to move out and find an apartment. She says this as she crosses her fingers and pulls out of the driveway.
Independent
living is supposed to be a temporary place, 6 months being the longest that you
are allowed to be staying there. Jonathan has been part of the program for five
years and will not be going anywhere soon. “There is no place for him,” the
counselor mumbles under her breath.
One of the first apartments
I am taken to is in the basement of a funeral home. The room is literally right
across from the embalming room. Even though I am a big fan of ghosts and scary
places, this place is even too much for me. “The upside,” the Funeral Director
points out to me is that “Albany High is directly across the street.” I ask if
I will ever see a body coming or going. The Funeral Director ignores this
question and leads me to a look at a shared bathroom down the hall. My
counselor looks at me smiles and gives me thumbs up. I shake my head to say “No
way in Hell.”
We thank the
Funeral Director on our way out the door. My counselor has two more apartments
for me to look at. The first one is literally in an apartment complex referred
to as “The Projects.” We walk down the hallway past several doors where loud
televisions blare The Price is Right and every other door has either a crying
baby or a loud argument going on behind it.
My counselor is
clutching her purse to her chest. She has a smile frozen on her face but in her
eyes I see sheer panic. After five minutes of knocking on one apartment door,
there is the sound of six or seven bolts and chains being unlocked. The final
sound before the door is yanked open is a long bar that braces the door when
its shut being removed.
The door gets
dragged open and a small little man is standing there. He is dressed head to
toe in traditional African garb. With no smile on his face and not a word, he
motions for us to come in. My counselor looks at me and it’s clear that she
doesn’t want to enter but has to decide between running down the hall screaming
back to the car, or teaching me about independent living.
I try my best to
avoid and awkward moment by putting my hand out. “Hi I’m Geoff,” I say. He nods his head and
motions for me to follow him. I am then taken on a tour of this man’s house. He
doesn’t say a word or let his face change the whole time we are there.
In the living
room there are glass museum cases filled with African statues, Masks and
Artifacts. On the wall is a Zebra skin. It’s beautiful to look at but there
would be no place for me to put my stuff. My counselor is still clutching her
purse to her chest will she sits on the edge of his couch.
My counselor has
sweat forming on her upper lip. “It’s nice here,” she stammers while looking
around. The man never says anything he just continues to open doors and point.
The room that is to be mine if I like, is gigantic. It has white shag carpeting, white walls,
white ceilings and 4 windows. It is beautiful. I call my counselor to come look
at the room. She yells back from the living room that “She’s fine.”
To be continued………..
Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.
Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.
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