It’s a sweltering summer day in the Bronx and I’m pushing a laundry cart full of whatever I can manage towards a grimy room I found to move into over a mile away. I’m glad it’s not Manhattan; I would’ve certainly received ignominious looks…and I’m embarrassed enough as it is. Uneven pavement, concrete hills, potholes, e-bikes recklessly driving on sidewalks, and piles of dog shit prove challenging to maneuver through. When I finally reach my destination, I’m greeted by a broken elevator sign. Now I must carry 75 pounds of stuff up six flights of stairs. I hear an alert on my phone; It’s my mom pestering me again about cleaning up the apartment I was forced to leave. I haven’t even fully moved into this new place yet, and I’m also pressed for time to do so. I don’t reply.

I’m out of breath and sweating bullets by the time I reach the sixth floor, but push myself to organize things while ignoring an empty stomach and clear dehydration. Anger is a great source of energy.

The color of the room is teal, the ceiling florescent light constantly flickers, there are holes in the wall, the door doesn’t close without shoving it in and using one of the three locks to keep it in place, the windows are old and mostly broken, and there’s just a single outlet for the entire room. Sure, it’s also filthy, but it’s the stench I find most bothersome. To be clear, it was either this place or the streets. All thanks to my parents.

But let’s rewind to some weeks prior, when I was suddenly aware I had little time to find a new place to live—and as a “Hail Mary”—decided to email the one person I thought could brilliantly rescue me.

The email I sent my friend:

Today, when I walked over to the nearest bodega to grab a snack, I met an older woman who was lost. She was trying to find her way back to Yonkers (Bronxville) and had no idea where she was. Luckily, she was only a few blocks from the Bronx River Parkway, so, simple directions proved comforting to her. However, we ended speaking for some time before she drove off. I thought it would help ease the quiet terror she emitted from being lost.

I learned that Nancy lived in Bronxville since 1973 and was 80 years old. Her husband passed away less than a year ago and now she has to drive herself everywhere for the first time. Nancy had no kids and most of her friends and family were gone. Curiously, I asked what granted her longevity and joy in life, and her response resonated with me. She said that her happiness rested solely within the love she shared with her husband. And, similarly to my friend [REDACTED] who turned 50 earlier this week, she expressed the strangeness of time, how fast it goes, and that regret is an illusion; If we truly wanted to do or say something in our past, we would have. Regret, in this regard, is a present choice.
Nancy emphasized that the only time we have is today, and making the most with where we are and with what we have is a day-by-day ethos. No one ever dies wishing they had worked more, or earned more money. They die hoping they mattered to someone. They die hoping they were able to give at least one person a peace and love that transcended the material world. Additionally, that our significance is not in what we accomplish or become, but in what we're able to give and create for others.

Nancy offered me $10 before driving off. I reluctantly took it after she insisted, and told her I would have a sandwich in her name. What's weird about the circumstances I now face are people constantly asking me, "What are you going to do?" without recognizing—perhaps appreciating—what I already do and have done relentlessly for years.

Every day my eyes open under the warm light of sunrise beaming with the hope for success. My spirit burns with the passion of sharing what compels people like Nancy; To tell stories that inspire and influence people towards a life of connection and significance. I want to create things that matter, that bring people meaning and purpose. I consider this my value. Sure, I haven't been fortunate with consistent financial income or great recognition, but I have never let circumstances or results dictate my level of productivity. Evidently, no one would even be concerned for me if my work generated tons of money and were widely praised. Value, in this regard, has been misconstrued with monetary results and popularity. Still, I'm not—nor ever was—driven by money, but by integral prestige.

What I want mostly is productive support. Ideally by someone who sincerely believes in the meaningful projects and consequential stories I seek to produce, whether through photography, books, or film. Yes, I'm tired of struggling and just surviving; Yes, I've convinced myself it's simply how life is; But I want more. More of life...and opportunities. Admittedly, I've traveled more in imagination than in reality.

When I first met your son, [REDACTED], he asked me if I had ever been to Turkey. I thought it was a strange—perhaps random question for an "intro" conversation. I simply responded with, "No." He proceeded to share about the many places he had been to and what he's done...as I privately chuckled at how I would never get the chance to ever see such places or do and experience such things. At half my age he's “done” more than I have. But I reckon this is on par for a privileged upbringing within a supporting family.
I don't want to hate my life, how I was raised, or my parents. I don't want resentment over my career or what I "turned out to be." Still, I can't help but move with sadness. I've accepted my realities and I'm not afraid of the consequences of sacrificing everything for what brings me to life, for what makes me feel alive. It's all I have. And to abandon this identity is a death I consider far greater than a mortal one. Perhaps it's hyperbole. Nevertheless, I cannot escape what compels my existence.

Thus, my biggest need is a place, a home to live in which I have the chance to thrive (or at the very least allow me to finish my novel); One that doesn't threaten my production, or suppress the opportunities that come my way, or judges me for the choices I've committed myself to. I don't care to be anyone's shame or burden, something I suspect my parents privately hold. I've always worked hard and enjoy contributing. However, just surviving isn't sustainable for progress, particularly when "homelessness" looms. As of tomorrow, my mom is flying back to Florida to close on a mobile home. My anxiety spikes in anticipation of facing living on the streets again.

It's embarrassing for me to be in this position because I'm terrible at asking for help and prefer to earn/work my way through tough times. But here I am, practically out of time. I am grateful for your hospitality and friendship. Thanks for hearing me out, [REDACTED].

The response I got from the email:

Good morning my friend, after considering some points of your email, my thoughts;

1. I agree with Nancy, live each day, no one is promised tomorrow.

2. People asking “what are you going to do now”, does not necessarily mean that they think what you’ve been doing has no value, I agree, keep doing those things. The issue being addressed is sustainability, in this society we need to earn a living, so I think the question you’re being asked is rather, “how are you going to earn money”?

3. Your parent’s decision to potentially move is proof that the prior question/concern for you is valid.

4. I’m happy to help some and pay you for any project work we do here and talk to friends about opportunities for you to work.

5. I can’t offer you a place to live at this time with much uncertainty about my two sons living situations.

Your Friend, [REDACTED]

Damn. This was not the response I was hoping for. I was asking for a place to stay, not for thoughts and critique. It struck me odd he would solicit me with them. The itemized format of his email too, a numbered list, rather than reciprocating the prose of an open letter read disjointed and indifferent. It was a turn-off. Also, his second thought I found gaslighting, or, entirely naive. People asking, “What are you going to do?”—fully aware of my career—know that if they actually supported my work, I wouldn’t be in the position I am to begin with. I earn income whenever people view, read, share, and subscribe to my content, or, purchase my book. I’ve made this clear countless times. Instead of asking, “How do you plan on making money?”, they should be asking, how can I help market your offerings, increase your audience, or support your work? But they don’t. My profession is entirely dismissed; I’m arrogantly told I ought to get a “real” job. In this instance, my work isn’t considered valued (obviously it isn’t worth their time, interest, or money).

I don’t expect everyone to be a fan or to support my work. Just don’t ask me what I’m going to do because it’s patronizing to this creative.

Additionally, it cannot be understated how my parents have no regard for my future. They suddenly decided to move to Florida without ever giving me a heads-up or communicating their interest beforehand. They never asked for my thoughts or input, never offered to help me find a new place before they left, nor assisted with the costs of moving, or even reached out to their network to help me find “real” work. While it’s true my dad stiffly offered to move my things into storage, he did so to avoid the co-op charges for not leaving the apartment empty/as “new.” He was helping himself, yet, acting like he was doing me a favor. Needless to say, at no point did he realize he was more concerned with getting me out of the apartment than into a new home.

My parents have witnessed me publish articles, photograph events, produce videos and record podcasts nearly everyday for the past two years. Let’s be honest, they aren’t invested in my livelihood. Particularly when you consider they never ask, read, view, or show any interest in my creative productions. Evidently, they’re more concerned with selling their bible and religion to me. Unfortunately, there isn’t a respect for my personal beliefs nor for what I do. Granted, I’m a responsible adult, demonstratively capable of living independently without the need for parental understanding, support or acceptance, but their decision clearly signal what they want is more important than my life. Families ought to be better.

Lastly, number five I found lame. My friend lives in a 2 million dollar house with multiple empty rooms. Even if his sons were there, there’s still space for me. Less than a year prior he temporarily hosted two young women (sisters) as they searched for work and a place to live in NYC on two separate occasions (not including their mother who also stayed on one of those occasions) while his younger son lived in the house with his girlfriend. His response was feigned. I would’ve appreciated a simple “No” rather than the excuse he offered; There isn’t a need for artificial guise. We both know he doesn’t owe me anything, nor am I family or his responsibility. It’s completely fine, really. But I have to admit, the overarching piety both my friend and my parents extensively project is dumbfounding.

the “thoughts and prayers” people are exasperating; I always assume nothing more than religious grandstanding, and have never been disappointed.

I hate to steer things towards religion, but it’s entirely warranted here. The friend I emailed, along with my parents, are devote Christians who’ve attended the same church and known each other for over 10 years (while maintaining prominent positions in the church). With regularity, they refer to one another as “brother” or “sister in Christ,” and have prayed, sang, worshiped, visited each other’s homes, shared bible studies and meals, and proudly preach about their god’s infinite power and love. Alright, but I’m involuntarily being thrust towards homelessness. And neither they, their resources or networks, nor their god can actually do anything about it? Personally, I find it as shocking as seeing the color beige in a Martha Stewart magazine. But it gets worse. Allegedly, my predicament is entirely my fault.

“As long as he relies on himself and not God, he will never have success”, “I cannot let my son dictate how I should live my life”, “I have to do what I have to do”, “I can’t help him, only God can”, “I have to let God teach him”, “God has a way of breaking people and allowing them to suffer so that they come to him”…etc. The vitriol I’ve heard my parents spew when they think I’m not listening is despairing and shameful. I get it, I’m not one of “them.” It’s already bad enough I’m considered “lost”, or, a “heathen,” perhaps even “God’s problem” not theirs. But what I don’t get is the blatant contradiction of what Christians claim to believe and follow against what they actually say and do; It couldn’t be more flagrant.

Christians are well-known virtue signalers, hypocrites, and prejudicial. It remains true even when it comes to their own friends and family.

My mom has comfortably spoken foul of me over the phone or dinner to her Christian friends while I’m literally an earshot away (of course she argues it’s out of holy love and concern for my soul). It hurts. Not because it’s my mom per se, but because she sincerely believes there’s something “spiritually” wrong with me, and that my direction leads straight to hell (my dad quietly agrees). This leaves me perplexed about their faith because Christians often speak loudly of their god’s great power, love and sacrifice for the world. But then again, his not theirs. And the benefits are only when you’re a Christian. It’s quite the conditional arrangement. I guess the Christian god doesn’t provide “friends and family” insurance coverage. The implication that my life faces potentially homelessness and severe financial struggle due to not being a believer is diabolical. It’s unsurprising, but also quintessential Christian scapegoating.

No one forced my parents to move to Florida. It was their personal choice to do so. But according to them, it was somehow “God.” This rationale is the kind of nonsense that give Christians a bad rap, and why they’re so easily made fun of. Whilst there’s nothing “moral” about moving to Florida, to say it was supernaturally divine, that there was “no choice” in the matter but to “follow God’s will” is completely absurd and wreaks of victim-hood mentality. It suggests God’s intention was to put me in a precarious position to demonstrate his love and power, or, for my parents to unquestionably obey him where I’m simply collateral damage. Either way, it’s clear: “God” had nothing to do with anything. My parents used religiosity to justify their selfish reckless move because they’re too craven to own up to the consequences of their choices. Case in point, my mom—without any consideration towards me—bumped up the date to move to Florida because the timing of their arrival and the moving truck weren’t aligned closely enough. I had even less time to find a “real” job and new place to live. My level of enmity and trepidation soared.

Avoiding accountability and responsibility has become synonymous with Christian living.

It’s a few weeks later, and I awake to a roach crawling on the back of my head. I quickly kill it, turn on the light, scan the bed, then, the rest of the room under flickering fluorescence at 2am. It’s not uncommon; I dodge roaches in the kitchen and bathroom regularly here. I can barely get a night’s rest as it is living in a ghetto building and neighborhood…where one roommate randomly blasts their music (mostly during early mornings), and the other, smokes weed more than he breathes. The anxiety of surviving day to day is a bonus. It continually reminds me of what happened and how quickly life changes. I can’t remember the last time I fought deep anger like this. The unrelenting stress this past month got so bad I developed hand psoriasis. It peaked when the hustler who rented me this room “helped” me move in. I’m triggered recalling the experience. He showed up in a beat-up minivan and wildly handled my things while yapping non-stop. In the end, all my furniture had scuffs, dents, cracks and scratches. Just months prior I bought them all brand-new from IKEA, because living with my parents seemed like a safe investment, a home. And not for nothing, I had a beautiful room.

I hated that in my hour of desperate need no family or friends helped me or even showed. My parents had a small army of people from their church help them move out. None were spared or offered to me. I know it’s unrealistic to think people can drop everything to help in a moment’s notice, but not one person? I had to embarrassingly rely on some street scoundrel who was trying to extract more money from me for helping me move into a shit hole. Unfortunately for him, I appeared so angry he refrained from asking; I already gave him $1,100 to buy into his racket (The place is a low-income rent stabilized apartment under his parents name. He rents the rooms at inflated prices for profit while paying off the mortgage of his own house upstate New York).

Despite everything I endure, there’s just one thing keeping me from turning violent on the world;

Surayaa…my dark angel.

Surayaa helped me shop that day in IKEA, and even helped put the furniture together. She showed up when no one else did. She was also the sole person who took care of me throughout the pandemic prior (She cooked, cleaned and comforted me in my own home). The narrative of Surayaa and I is far too great for this article; I will not delve any further into her significance. Nevertheless, I am compelled to say I have never desired or loved a woman more than her. She’s been there for me against all odds. And my parents treated her like trash.

I haven’t a clue how much I’m suppressing, I’m too concerned with making ends meet and positioning myself advantageously for the future. But I know things will weigh heavy when the holidays and birthdays come around; No more family gatherings, home cooked meals or picture memories. Sadly, I’ve been here before. This is the family I was born into. My sister cut herself off, and my brother did nothing aside from offering $500 (less than half a month’s rent) as “help” before washing his hands clean of me. I initially proposed getting a two-bedroom apartment in a nice neighborhood with him—which would’ve benefited the both of us greatly, but he declined.

My dad borrowed against his life insurance to purchase the used mobile home in Florida because he couldn’t afford it outright. Never mind the fact mobile homes are a terrible investment (especially in a state like Florida where extreme weather is common), our family’s financially security is indefinitely jeopardized until he pays that money back entirely with interest in a timely fashion. Otherwise, he will incur tax penalties or possibly lose his policy, resulting in benefits evaporating. It’s bad enough they paid over twice the value for the home due to inflation and skyrocketing real estate in Florida. Additionally, the state has the second highest home insurance rates in the country. My parents can’t afford it, so, they don’t have any. To boot, mobile homes depreciate in value, are often difficult to resell, and aren’t considered worthy investments because owners don’t own the land the home sits on, it’s leased. Hence, rates can increase at any moment for any reason whilst mobile home owners can’t do anything about it.

But it gets worse; My parents still haven’t found a buyer for the apartment they moved out of. And even if they do, the amalgamated board are suffering enormous debt and haven’t been able to payout to sellers for years. They’re likely never going to get their money back. Conclusively, my siblings and I have no interest in dealing with my parent’s trailer home in the event anything happens because it’s simply not worth the headache. Especially for a place neither of us care to live. If the aforementioned weren’t already enough, the community my parents moved into prohibits anyone under the age of 65. Even if my siblings and I wanted to visit long or live there, we can’t. We don’t have a family home.

Bear in mind, my dad is in his seventies. It’s not lost on me that the average life expectancy for a man in the United States is 73 years old. I’ve written off any chance for an inheritance. All for what? The embarrassing part is that my parents aren’t even cognitive to what they’ve communicated to the family with their actions, nor to the destructive repercussions of their behavior. Just a week after my parents moved, my mom began asking when I was going to visit them, and, if I can go there for the holidays. Excuse me? You don’t get to drive me into homeless, then, ask me to visit you at the most traveled and costly days of the year. My parents will have to live with the results of their choices. It’s a shame they aren’t interested in spending their twilight years close to family, building lasting memories, or making sure everyone is positioned well after their passing. There will be no notable legacy, and likely no inheritance.

As my parents decimate what’s left of our family, the rest of us quietly suffer.

Life isn’t fair, nor just, but it goes on. And so must I. I’ll have to somehow negotiate contentment pass anger and resentment; These aren’t a path forward. Suffering is a part of living. It always will be. But finding meaning and purpose through what we endure is a duel I suspect lasts to the end. As an effort to build upon an edifying mindset, I agreed to help my friend—the one I initially emailed for a space to stay—when he reached out and asked for assistance. Nonetheless, I was quietly triggered while moving furniture from one empty bedroom to another in his house. It suddenly hit me: People only help from a place of convenience, out of abundance. And it usually ends whenever things encroach on their comfort, when it becomes sacrificial, a disadvantage.

I estimate my friend is just as dense as my parents. The gall to have me move things around empty rooms in a large beautiful house—while I’m desperately seeking a place to live—is quite devilish. A following thought pops: There’s nothing benevolent about Christians. They’re just people using super-naturalism to mask their frailty…their humanness. Whenever things become threatening, disruptive, or, if there’s ever a form of discomfort, decisive action is immediately taken similarly to how everyone else takes them. I reckon the difference is Christian religiosity prevents believers from ever embracing reality. They’ll wildly claim that their god’s “will” is aligned with theirs, that he’s working through them. In many cases, Christians consequently conclude, “No matter what happens, god is in control and everything happens the way he preordained.” In other words, they get to say and do whatever they want with the holy benefit of being covered by the religion’s insurance policy. Christians aren’t held liable because of the ironclad guarantee that “it’s always in god’s hands”— alleviating them from any accountability. This doesn’t factor in their infinite access to godly love and forgiveness whenever they experience guilt or shame (which helps them abate responsibility). It’s a brilliant warped vortex; God is the ultimate scapegoat and explanation.

this utterly clarifies how my situation materialized and why it unraveled the way it did.

As if things couldn’t get more arduous, an additional component I’ve had to grapple with throughout this saga is ageism. Friends and family—whom I reached out to for help—kept bringing up my age as if it bared any relevance. Whether I’m 18 or 60 years old didn’t matter as to the urgency of my situation. It’s a Red Herring assertion…a cheap shot suggesting my crisis is somehow someway entirely my fault. I resent the notion. We can agree life is a great many things, and on the top of that list is, unpredictable. We do the best we can with what we have and where we are, every day. I survived the pandemic, but sold everything I owned (including my camera and lighting equipment) to stay financially afloat. Even still, I lost my place and incurred debt. There’s also the matter of my decision not to get vaccinated that left me unjustly and perpetually unemployed. Nevertheless, I’m being accused for my circumstance? It’s a lazy and absurd inference.

Sadly, elevated levels of anxiety and stress have migrated into malnutrition. I don’t say anything to anyone about it. Not out of ego or shame, but because I don’t think I can take the blame for yet another thing. My nails are showing signs of Onychorrhexis, my hair is falling out more and noticeably turning white almost overnight. Alcohol helps mitigate these concerns. Though, as a result, my tongue is showing signs of Glossitis. I’m immediately tempted to join a nearby health club so I may restore, detox, and de-stress my mind and body more appropriately and healthily whenever needed. I can’t afford it whatsoever.

The harsh reality is that life goes on with what accompanies survival; Suffering.

My dad left me on read when I texted him asking for money so I could buy food; I have to constantly go for walks because the stench of where I live permeates my nose so deeply I cannot smell anything else unless I air it out; I’m triggered whenever I leave my room because of all the flies, gnats and roaches everywhere. Often there’s leftover phlegm in the bathroom sink or shit stains in the toilet. No one here makes eye contact. We dodge each other like we’re avoiding jury duty service. There’s more camaraderie between prison cellmates. Then, there’s also the frustration I cannot receive mail here, nor do I qualify for a P.O. Box at the local Post office because it requires home/car insurance, or, a lease to prove my residency—which doesn’t work because I’m renting a room unofficially. Later, I discover that the guy who rented me this room isn’t even on the lease. His parents are. And, he’s backed-up on paying rent nearly half a year. Everyone living here can get evicted at any moment without notice. Now, I must scramble to find another place to live with the little money I have left.

What helps keep me sane a bit is where I work, Wave Hill. It’s so beautiful and peaceful there. Another, is playing Xbox with my brother. There’s underrated comfort in online competitive play while talking trash. Surayaa unfortunately cannot help me during these times because whatever magic she’s conjuring is being used to sustain herself through her own private hell. Eating as best I can, relaxing music, aroma therapy, and working out isn’t as effective as I need them to be. I’m alone, and slowly falling apart while everyone criticizes my choices and casually tells me what I ought to be doing with my life. “Don’t worry. Things will work out”, “Just move”, or, “Just get a job that pays more”, or even, “Manifest what you want. Put that energy into the universe and it’ll happen!” I finally understand and sympathize with suicidal people. Particularly now when panic attacks are beginning to emerge. But don’t feel bad for me, I’m a tall good looking guy who’s talented and capable, remember?

I take it back. This is my fault. I trusted in family…in the Meritocratic systems I was raised into following and defending. I’m a fool for it, and this is my reward for believing in them.

My position isn’t sustainable. I know my threshold and I’m not going to last long this way. When I wrote Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Unknown Neighbor, I spoke on how catalyst family is when it comes to the probability of success in life. Here I am, still agonizing for a better one beyond mere survival. Maybe this is it. This is as good as it gets. I have to reconcile with the reality I may die never achieving anything I ever aspired to do or become. This could be the only life I know. Morbid? Sure. But it’s something I must accept amidst my fight towards better. Like I stated in my 7-year old essay, I will die trying.

Recently, on a beautiful late summer afternoon, I decided to walk home from work and took the scenic route back. It was much needed and therapeutic, though, happened to bypass the house of the “friend” I first asked to stay in months back. Through one of the windows, he sat comfortably on a large couch watching a 70” 4K TV in one of the three living rooms in his empty house. Fuck him and his religion. Thinking on it, all the rooms were probably occupied by his porcelain ego; There simply wasn’t space for anything authentic or valuable. I keep it moving assured I’ll never see or speak to him again. I have no idea what will happen next. I’m still desperate, not sleeping much, and not eating healthy because I cannot afford to. I’ve exhausted every avenue, suggestion, and contact imaginable. Not even the gods can accuse me of not trying everything or giving my best in every opportunity.

A week after my walk, my job at Wave Hill lays me off—due to “budgeting restraints.” Literally a day before my 4-month probation period ended and all my insurance benefits would’ve kicked in (including the ability to collect unemployment). I must be cursed. All the while, my mom continues to stubbornly “sell” Florida to me. I’m reminded of the time when I went to Miami with her for a week. She was scouting out the possibility of living there years back for retirement. We both hated it. I must’ve hated it more. Either way, it’s likely her last move. As for me, I’ve got plenty more to make…without family.

Change is upon me, whether I desire it or not. And, in a short time, I won’t be where I am anymore. I feel depleted, like I have nothing left. Unfortunately, I’ve been here before; Tired beyond measure, and not just physically. Recently, when I visited my brother, even he confessed, “You know what you need? A break.” Yeah… yeah. I don’t think one is coming any time soon. Maybe when I’m dead I’ll finally get that big break. Until then, I must find comfort in suffering because none of this is going away on its own. I convince myself there are still reasons to fight and live, even if I can’t see them right now. If life goes on, so must I.

Strangely, Pass the stench of urine and weed, the sight of roaches, mold and flies, An old feeling emerges against the weight of darkness. an ally I deemed long dead appears on the distant horizon; hope.