I've blogged about this before but we are really close to 1,000 now and this lovely piece of agate (it may be jade) is up for grabs to a lucky winner who will be chosen by random.org. So you wanna have a go at it? You've still got time! Sign up now to become a fan! The drawing will happen once we reach 1,000.
It was on a Sunday in late August. I was off that day and I got ready for the Trapped Truth Society meeting at Johnny's Pizza. Trapped Truth is a poetry group I attended. Back then, I was very much infatuated with this guy w ho wanted nothing to do with me. Most of my poetry was about him and how I dealt with his rejection. His excuse was a good one: we worked together. But that didn't stop him from playing mind game and my innocence getting the best of me.
Her family managed to convince her to turn around and get back on 49 and head home.
The next day I went to work. Katrina was on the lips of everyone. I was working at Sutherlands Lumber at the time. The day wore on and I went home.
When the levees broke, we were all stunned. Then a couple of weeks later my landlord, got the phone call of his life. I lived at the Mid City Motor Hotel--a hotel that was converted into apartments. My mother had just moved back to Atlanta after being away for13 years to find work. She chose to make sure I was the only family to keep contact in. Our family in Georgia wanted nothing to do with us which is why moved away in the first place.
In October, there was a silent art auction and concert held to raise money for musicians who had lost their instruments. I was invited to have art in the auction, which was an honor for me. I didn't have the time to volunteer because I was only off one day a week, but I wanted to do something good.
It was worse when I got off and my coworker gave me a ride home. The next day I was having severe chest pain but I ignored it. It got so bad over the next week that my bosses daughter took me to the hospital where I was diagnoses with pneumonia. It had filled half of my lung and started on my other lung. I was sent home with prescriptions for medicine that I could not afford: penicillin, hydrocodone cough syrup and some over the counter meds. Members of Trapped Truth rallied around me and one of them bought my art--for the exact price of my medicine. My artists friends supported me and in the light of that good news, it only got worse.
I was on bed rest and really doped up off the narcotic cough syrup when my landlord came to me and told he he was breaking our lease. Kevin Costner's movie crew needed space to live. I had 30 days to get out. I was homeless and all of my art would be lost. One of my coworkers took in as much art as she could but I knew I would never see my pieces again. My coffee table that I built was featured in an art show right before I left. It was also left behind and I am sure my landlord trashed it. All I have left are photos that I haven't scanned. I took a pic of one with my phone so you could see the table.
My old friend from school, Rebecca, got in touch with me and let me stay with her. Thing is she lived in Dubach, LA which was closer to Monroe than Shreveport. I had to leave my job and that meant also admitting to myself that this guy I really felt for really and honestly didn’t feel the same. I was broken inside and honestly, it wasn’t his fault. It was my own. I stayed with Becky for about a month and then realized that Dubach wasn’t for me. So I moved to Atlanta. My mother had gotten on housing but I couldn’t stay with her so I did something for myself.
I signed up for Job Corps. Since I came from Louisiana, I was considered a Katrina victim even though I have never even been to New Orleans. People would introduce me, this is Johnna from New Orleans, and I would correct them. No, I am from Shreveport. Once I explained my story, I was told I could get aid and money from FEMA, but I refused. I didn’t lose my whole LIFE like so many did. Many people had nothing but the clothes on their backs and some didn’t even have their own clothes on their backs.
I had no money, just my few paints and brushes, pictures of my apartment, my phone which Alltel didn’t serve Atlanta. I lived in a homeless shelter in Clayton County near the Airport and I was terrified. My mother kept my things and I would bathe at her house so the ladies could have the shower. Honestly, I was just scared.
I would lose myself in music. I had a little CD player that I carried with me everywhere. I would always be going through batteries. Churches gave us food and clothes. I had nothing to give but my art. The shelter I stayed at is called Calvary and it was off of the route for bus 501 or 502 I can’t remember.
I stayed there for about two weeks when I got the news that I would be going to Brunswick, GA which is on the coast. I was to leave that following Thursday. I got there the day before Christmas Eve and I was so lonely, so achingly lonely and homesick. I just wanted to go home but I had no home. I was just an artist in a strange place where no one knew me. We went to Jacksonville to a flea market. I was given like $20 to spend on myself which was an unexpected blessing.
I already had my diploma from graduating high school so all I really needed was a trade. I buried myself in art. I became known as the artist on center even though there were other artists. I also found my true calling in life. I wanted to help the homeless. So I started the Art4TheHomeless Blog. Actually it was called Colors of Ink. My friend Samantha came up with the name Art4TH. I met her and many of my now close friends at BJCC. One year later, I was on the front page of the Brunswick Newspaper. They got it wrong. They said I was from South Louisiana, but they did get the city right and my name spelled right.
And then I got another job working at Nancy’s Pizza—where I am now. We’d lost our home but I managed to get a storage unit to store our things. I wasn’t about to lose more art or anything else. The owner of my job, Mike G, found out and paid our rent. That same week, my mother’s disability that she was fighting for two years, got started. It helped out with rent and I covered the food. And now you know the rest—she just recently had the open heart surgery.
So today I look back five years. And I still cry. And I still fight. And I still survive. And I am not the only one. My tears are for the ones lost to Katrina, the ones who lost everything, the ones struggling now, and the ones who are trying. And I am with you.
Art4TheHomeless is my dream to unite artists of all venues to promote homeless awareness in the USA. The average age of a homeless American is 9 years old. I was homeless at 9. But this post isn't about me.