By Jenna Matthews
Dec. 24, 2017
As a child, I felt a rush of excitement every time I rode in a taxi with my grandparents instead of taking the subway. It was a small adventure, a rare treat that seemed to mark a special occasion. I didn’t realize then that my own parents couldn’t afford such luxuries; I simply thought it was an indulgence reserved for those with wealth.
During my teenage years, I spent my summers in the bustling streets of Brooklyn with my grandparents, where the stark differences in our lifestyles began to unfold. They had a television, ample food, and more than one bedroom—things that were mere dreams for my siblings and me back home.
By the time I turned seventeen, I had dissected my parents’ pattern of irresponsible behavior. It came in relentless waves, crashing harder with each storm. Financial instability was a constant, and once I started earning money at my part-time job, my parents felt entitled to my meager $6-an-hour paycheck. I realized that staying with them would mean sacrificing my future. I held onto the hope that I could break the cycle of poverty that enveloped us. So, my siblings and I gathered our belongings and left, all under the age of eighteen.
The last image I have of my father is from when he was arrested for stealing a car. I visited him in jail, and he pleaded with us to bail him out. We complied, only for him to skip out on the bail, leaving us $1,400 poorer. His reasoning was baffling—he believed that if we weren’t in dire straits that day, then we didn’t need to eat that night. He would frequently lose jobs, claiming his bosses were always terrible. The tally of “bad bosses” from my childhood is too high to count.
When we confronted him about the car theft, he justified it by saying the owners had more vehicles than they needed, as if his actions were merely a response to others’ circumstances rather than a reflection of his own poor choices.
Years later, I received a call from the police in Miami-Dade. My father had become homeless, living in the terminal of Miami International Airport, and had been arrested by the TSA. He reached out to me, stating I was his only contact. The thought of traveling from Arizona to Florida to bail him out felt futile, so I asked him to call me.
When he did, I wrestled with anxiety. I didn’t want to engage with him, yet I was curious about how he had ended up in such a dire situation. How had he become homeless? Why the airport? Why did he ask for my help? Did he even recognize his need for support?
His voice made my stomach churn, and I struggled to find words. He explained that he had lived in his minivan for years until it broke down, and he then lost everything he owned when it was towed. To him, the airport was a refuge—he could shower in sinks, sleep on couches, and scavenge for food. He described it as a luxurious resort. I felt a mix of anger and compassion; it was clear he was grappling with mental illness and living according to his own warped logic.
He asked if he could come live with me, but I thought of my own children and the need to protect them. I had long wished someone had protected me from his tumultuous influence. I was already raising my kids, and the thought of taking on the responsibility of caring for my father was overwhelming.
My belief that I could break the cycle of poverty had manifested into my adult life, a conviction I hold dear. When I hung up that day, it marked the last conversation I had with him. I’m left wondering if I made the right choice to prioritize my own family’s wellbeing over his needs.
For years, I carried the weight of his stories, feeling burdened by memories I couldn’t escape. But I’ve come to realize that I owe my strength to him; his choices motivated me to strive for a better life.
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In summary, my father’s journey from a troubled past to a life of homelessness serves as a profound reminder of the consequences of choices, and the importance of breaking the cycle for the sake of the next generation.