I left my house on Walters Street in the Bronx ten years ago and I can’t find my way back.” “Because I can get better health insurance here than in Puerto Rico.” “Because this is where the bus brought me.” “Because where I was staying they only let you stay in chairs, and I want a bed.” “Because when I got out of prison in Baltimore, I read that Giuliani had brought the crime rate down so I decided to return to New York.” “Because someone was trying to kill me in Las Vegas.” ![]() Some of the answers I’ve heard over the years: “So, why did you come to New York…that is, Manhattan?” I almost always ask the people in the black chair. ![]() They may be mentally ill, but they’re not crazy: it is Manhattan that the voices tell them to go to, and not, for example, Staten Island. The men tell me that if you do it respectfully, and look decrepit enough-but not so decrepit as to scare people-you can make between twenty and eighty dollars an hour panhandling in a prime location in Midtown. Panhandling goes much better in Times Square than in Far Rockaway. At first I was indignant-these people are choosy about where they’re going to stay? But I thought about it, and realized the sources of their livelihood, such as they are, are far more lucrative in Manhattan. I’ve learned that homeless people prefer to be in Manhattan, just like everybody else. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow night.”Īnd they get up and leave, back to the streets or park or wherever. “Fuck, if that’s all you got, I’m leaving. All we have is the shelter in Bedford Stuyvesant.” I ain’t going to no fucking Brooklyn! You sure that’s it? Nothing in Midtown, or maybe the Wall Street area?” “Yes, that’s the only place that there are beds tonight.” ![]() “ Brooklyn! That’s all the beds you got tonight! Just Brooklyn! Shit!!” Countless times I’ve found myself in the following exchange: And it is Manhattan-not Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx-that they want to come to. They come from Jamaica, Georgia, Colombia, Kuwait, Poughkeepsie, Italy, Oregon, Taiwan, Wyoming, Poland, Detroit, and Bosnia. In truth, they are all travelers and wanderers. I sit at the computer and duly check off the city’s official list. The truly weird, from whom we can find no category that fitsīut all this I keep to myself. People who choose to live underground and in darkness Various persons destroyed by alcohol, crack, heroin or some other substanceĪlzheimer’s patients and other victims of senility Waylaid tourists, usually recently robbed These, I’ve learned in my two years of sitting next to the black chair, are the far more descriptive and pertinent categories: It’s a nice list of nice bureaucratic categories, but it means nothing, really. Mentally Retarded/Developmentally Disabled The staff and I are instructed to classify the men we see into one or more of the following official categories of disability or distress, as promulgated by the New York City Department of Mental Health: To my amazement, they almost always say “thank you.” ![]() “Good luck,” I always say to the men as they are taken away. Within ten minutes, the police and EMT’s arrive. Fortunately, the hospital is only one block away. I call 911 and write a note addressed to the Attending Psychiatrist, Bellevue Hospital Emergency Room, detailing my observations and my assessment of their mental status. Almost always they agree without complaint. At that point, I calmly tell my client in the black chair that I think they need to go to the hospital in order to be safe. These men are between 18 and 80 years old, usually black or Hispanic, usually with a psychiatric problem and a substance abuse history (crack, heroin, and alcohol), often with a forensic history (usually released from prison that day), and quite often with a major medical illness.Īt some point during the interview with these men, I get around to the questions: “Are you hearing voices?” “Have you ever seen things that other people didn’t see?” “Have you ever tried to hurt yourself?” A few times a month I hear responses like, “I thought about jumping in front of the subway,” or “I can’t tell you whether I’m going to hurt myself or not.” Or I am shown wrists that have recently been cut, or bellies and limbs and necks with long scars. I am a mental health worker at the Bellevue Men’s Shelter. A thousand men each year sit in the black chair next to my desk.
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