The second part of the story of a very poor San Franciscan who died on the streets after being subjected to abuse in the shelters and harassment by a new branch of the San Francisco Police Department.
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by Vlad Pogorelov and Harry Jones When Harry finally made it to a shelter he saw a long line of people standing outside the building. Harry recognized the familiar faces of his ex-neighbors from his last stay under the 101 Freeway. A few people said, Hello, to Harry, but he was barely able to greet them back. At one point he collapsed onto the sidewalk. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw a fashionably dressed yuppie couple hurrying towards a fancy nightclub a block away. There was an expression of disgust and fear on their clean, white faces. For a second Harry felt ashamed of something, he wasn't sure what. He should have hated them for what they were but strangely he didnt feel much animosity towards them. As Harry was lying on the steps of the shelter, his eye caught sight of dozens of rough army boots, cheap dirty sneakers, and skinny white legs dressed in silver pantyhose and red, shiny high-heeled shoesósize 7 1/2ówalking away. Harry thought of his own family, and how he was not able to support them because of his broken back. He also felt some regret for not telling them of his present situation. Maybe if they knew how bad I was, they would accept me, he thought. But somehow, he felt that it was too late, that he had lost his chance and the circumstances were against him. Fellow homeless in the shelter line, seeing how weak Harry was, let him go ahead of them. Shaking, Harry approached the clerk. He was asked for his Social Security card. Harry searched through his pockets but couldnít find his wallet. He could not show any ID to the clerk. Harry was asked to wait until his Social Security number could be verified. There was no place to sit down so Harry had to sit on the cold cement floor. Harry felt dead tired but he couldnít just close his eyes and take a napóa terrible pain in his back prevented him from sleeping. After almost two hours his status was verified and he was let into a room filled with rows of wooden seats. Harry was given a dirty blanket and shown a chair. He tried to tell someone that he needed to lie down, that he needed a real bed, but no one was listening to him. Within a few minutes the lights went out and the doors were shut. Harry tried to make himself comfortable, but it was impossible. A hard, wooden seat was pressing against Harryís hurting back. Harry felt betrayed by the whole world. He felt that his pain was only his and no one in the world would help him. At times, being in the total darkness, surrounded by the hardñsmelling, sobbing, and snoring people Harry started hallucinating. Memories of his childhood came back to him. He saw his deceased parents. They were levitating above the 101 Freeway and calling Harry to join them, ìCome with us Harry, we miss you.ÖÓ Harry tried to touch them. He reached for his mother but suddenly he felt as if he were falling down. When he became more alert, he realized that he was on the floor and the neighbors were yelling at him and telling him to be quiet. With difficulties, Harry got back into his ìbedÓ and covered himself with a thin stale blanket. No matter how hard he tried to get some rest it was not possible. Harryís desperation reached a point where he could no longer remain in the rough, wooden chair that was supposed to be his ìbedÓ. Still very weak and quite disoriented, Harry left the building and went towards the China Basin area. He crossed Mission Rock Road, slipped through an opening in the fence along an industrial area beside the Bay, and entered through a hole in the cement floor of an abandoned dock. It was dark in there, and as he was lying on the mix of gravel and sand he could hear the water splashing on the shore and the distant sound of an ambulance. They must be coming here to help me, he thought. They must be coming for me. as he was slipping into unconsciousness. Before complete darkness descended upon him, Harry saw flashlights and police officers, who were ordering him to, ìFreeze.Ó ìShit, this bum is dead,Ó said one of the officers to another after checking his pulse. ìYep, thatís how all of those hobos are going to end up,Ó replied another policemen. Shortly, an ambulance arrived and Harry Jones, a 53-year-old homeless resident of San Francisco, was pronounced dead. As the sun was rising above the horizon a group of disheveled men with red sleepless eyes were exiting a ìMenís ShelterÓ. Somehow, they survived another day of their miserable existence, but for Harry Jones it was all over. Harryís name joined hundreds of othersí on the Homeless Death List of San Francisco. Yet, I hope that Harryís case will not just become statistic. Harryís voice deserves to be heard even after his tragic and untimely death. There are thousands of homeless residents in this city who are facing the grim prospect of standing in long lines leading into overcrowded shelters, where they are forced to sleep on rough, wooden chairs. Or they have the option of sleeping outside and facing the risk of being criminalized by Southern Station's Gestapo UnitóH.O.M.E.T.E.A.M., as well as being exposed to the elements, the risk of serious diseases, and frequently, death. I am urging all of you, who are now aware of what happened to Harry Jones, to contact the mayor and your elected officials to demand the abolition of H.O.M.E.T.E.A.M. and to demand better conditions in San Francisco shelters before itís too late for another Harry Jones. To read Harry Jones and the HOMETEAM part I- |