April 24, 2010
To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,
I lost my senses of space and time, but I knew it was April and it was the last few weeks of it. The last time I wrote to you, I had $500 in my wallet and took out all of it from the mac machine, and I met a girl at a train station who told me that she would help me. I told her if she has a sofa for me to crash in, and she told me it was okay and she lived alone.
We went to her apartment in Greenwich Village and it was a nice place with a nice entrance with a gate and she had a window facing a sandwich shop. She told me she wanted me to go to a local hospital and get checked in, but she can't help me further after that. I didn't want to go, and all I wanted was to go to the Rockefeller Plaza and meet you.
She told me that it wasn't far and I asked her if she would be able to help me. She then asked me if she knew anyone there, and of course I said I would love to know all of the SNL cast. She asked if I was a writer and I told her that I had a working journal of you with all of my experiences. She asked me to read it and I gave it to her and she told me that this was valuable. I was wondering what she meant about that, and it turns out that she was a writer. Her name was Jamila.
Jamila worked for some offshore magazine in London she said, and she gets to work remotely because she is covering fashion. I believed her and judging on how her apartment looked, it was nice and I presumed she earned her monies from that job well.
Long story short, I slept over on her couch and the next morning she gave me an everything bagel and cream cheese. I thought everything was okay but she asked me if she can read this journal. I told her that it was private and she offered to edit it and turn it into a book. Inside my chest was a pounding anxiety that was peeking out in twitches on my face.
I didn't want her to read it.
"But I let you stay and you were homeless at the train station," Jamila said. "It's the least you could do."
"It's private and I'm not trying to turn it into a book. It's a private journal and it's not about you, how would you fit into the picture of the book if you were to write it? I'm not comfortable," I told her.
"Just let me read it. I won't do anything," Jamila said.
"Promise you won't sell it?" I said.
"Promise, and as a matter of fact, I will still edit it if you'd like," said Jamila.
So I gave her this large notebook journal type of thing with lined pages inside full of writings and scribbles and there was a penciled caricature of you in a big heart with an arrow, and of course, Alexi's name was on your shirt. I found out several days ago that you're dating. I'm okay with it.
Jamila read some of the pages and she nearly cried. "These are really good," said Jamila. "You should really think about becoming a writer."
My eyes became moist and I began to cry because all I wanted to write about was about Jack and my heartbreaks and how I was assaulted. "I'm poor and my Dad is an alcoholic," I replied.
"Let me do something with this," said Jamila.
"You promised, you won't hurt me," I said.
"Let me bring this to my editor and we'll talk," said Jamila.
"I am the author of it," I said.
"I can help you," said Jamila.
So I let her take the journal and she said she will be back in the evening after work. I waited and waited and she came back about 8 in the evening, and I was so worried she stole my journal.
"I want to publish this and we can co-author," said Jamila.
"It's mine, and it's worth my life," I said.
She persisted to tell me that her editor wanted the book and it can be published in England and it would be an offer I can't refuse but the author would be Jamila and I was second author, but that's not what I wanted to do with my life at this time. I wanted to meet you.
"Let me pay you for staying here," I said.
"You can't afford this place," said Jamila. "Just work with me on the journal and we call it even."
"You're a swindler," I told her. My chest was pounding and I could feel my blood rising. I knew it would take work for this journal to become a reality but I wasn't about to let someone else take control of it. It was my journey. I was the author of this life.
"You're homeless. You will get beat up in a couple of days and no one will save you. With me, you'll get second author," said Jamila.
I took my wallet and gave her $100.
"All of it," said Jamila.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"How much do you have in there?" asked Jamila. "I could call the cops on you, right now and send you to a mental psych ward," said Jamila.
"Please don't, I thought you were nice," I said.
"I was, and I offered you a deal that you shouldn't refuse," said Jamila.
"I can only give you $100," I said.
"All of it, however much you have in your wallet, and get the fuck out of here," said Jamila.
"I don't have much," I told her. I took out another $100, and she pushed me down and kicked my waist and took my wallet and all the money inside it. She then took my backpack and threw it outside the window.
"Get the hell out of here, and leave your journal here," said Jamila.
I wanted to punch her face and I was about to, when she took my punch and she pushed my face and kicked me again and took my journal and I grabbed it away from her, and told her, "This belongs to me, and don't hurt me. I didn't do anything," I screamed.
"Bitch, get the hell out of here, and give me your wallet, of I'll call the cops for breaking and entering," said Jamila.
I knew the cops won't believe the homeless girl, so I took my journal and left her apartment as she slammed the door on my face and I walked out and took my backpack and left Greenwich Village. I didn't know where I was when I left, but I knew that the sandwich shop was across the street.
I told the guy at the sandwich shop and he said, "You're dumb. You should have kicked her ass. You're out of luck."
I just lost my cool and started screaming at him, "You bastard! I just told you that I was hurt and you called me names, you asshole!"
He then got out of the counter line and told me, "You need to get out or I'll call the cops and I'll have you sent to jail for disturbing an establishment and harassing me."
I cried and ran out with my backpack with the journal on my chest, and walked to a nearby wall around the corner. I just sobbed. This all happened in the span of two days and I just wanted to end my life.
But, the whole time, the bitch writer's words lingered in my head, "You should really think about becoming a writer." For some reason I took it as a lesson to not trust anyone, and to not trust even the kindest soul who told you to trust them. If a person was to be trusted, they would earn it and they'd show they are worthy of trust. I found out. They won't say, Trust me, I'm trustworthy. But, it was too late. I lost all of my savings to save my journal and my dignity and myself. I would rather "die that to have the bitch publish it under her name. This journey was mine and mine alone. I was the author of my life.
April 26, 2010.
To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,
Sorry for the long break. I needed it. It felt like a couple of days had gone by, but as I said, I lost my senses of space and time because everything was about numbers and years and times and I just hate it. I just wanted to be lost in space, but then I'd be a space cadet, so I decided to take another break from writing to you just to recollect my mind.
I walked by the 9/11 memorial and it was already built. I slept on the bridge of it, where it connects to the street. I figured it was monitored and a lot of people always walked by, so I took a six hour nap there and it was freezing but I had my jacket and used my backpack as a pillow. An officer walked by and woke me up.
"You're mighty young to be sleeping on the street," said the Police Officer. "Can we talk for a minute?"
"I'm sorry officer, I didn't want to be home anymore. I was asaulted," I said.
"By a parent? Your dad?" he asked. I looked at his eyes and he looked kind, a tall black man with big eyes, a little on the husky side.
"No, it was an ex-boyfriend. My Dad is an alcoholic. He doesn't know I'm here," I said.
"Come with me for a minute and we'll get you settled in, I won't do anything. I just need to help you get off the street," he said.
"If you know of a shelter or a place to stay, officer. I'd stay there," I said.
"Why are you holding that book to your chest like that?" asked the officer.
"This is my SNL journal," I said. "I write to Seth Meyers almost every day."
"Ooooohhhhh.....Saturday night live," he said. "I see.....you're a huge fan I see."
"Since I was little, officer. Do you know Seth?" I asked him, hoping he would take me to officially become a guest to the Rockefeller Plaza and finally become an SNL audience.
"No, of course not," he said, with a smile. "You know....they're real people, and they have real lives. But, I don't think they'd let anyone to be their friends. They're sort of....celebrities."
I felt my eyes drooped down and faced the asphalt. I knew my dreams of the SNL cast as the nicest people on Earth was probably out of reach and perhaps unreal. I should have known that you were all celebrities and won't meet homeless teens like me who was crazy and probably mentally depressed.
"If I can get you a place to stay, would you come with me? It will be at a teen shelter or something like that," said the officer.
"Yeah, I would come with you," I said.
"Good, let's get you to a safer place," he said.
I took my backpack and my journal, although my dreams of meeting you, Seth Meyers, was no longer within reach, I was willing to give survival a try.
April 27, 2010.
To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,
I haven't watched SNL for a very long time. Weeks and months since I was assaulted and last night, I slept in the Police Station that was smaller than most, and it felt like a small shop rather than a police station. Everyone of every kind came in, and sat on the bench next to me. A man with a squirrel and a big bite mark on his face sat down and I had to step aside because his pet looked like it was infested with rabies. I never knew squirrels were pets.
A prostitute came in with her pumps and red stockings and see through dress. She wore that underwear that showed your butt. It must be very uncomfortable. And a man in his cowboy outfit without pants was standing handcuffed to his girlfriend both in their underwear were standing in front of the administration desk. They must have had a costume party somewhere and I was not invited. I won't come with them if I were invited, because they smelled like a joint and it stinks like a skunk.
I still didn't know what day it was and the officer who took me, came back several times and told me, "Just sit tight, and I'll be back."
He finally came back with some paper work. He gave me a paper with a printout of a map directions and he showed me a place for girls. It was Covenant House. It was on 41st Street, and I was supposed to go there.
"I'll get you a cab and I'll get you the fare. Just don't wander around but just go straight there, and meet Sister Rose McGeady," said the officer.
"Sister McGeady, ... a nun?" I asked.
The officer smiled, and said, "Yes. But she's not mean. She's really nice."
He took out a small pocket sized book, entitled Sometimes God has a Kid's Face, and Sister Mary Rose McGeady was the author. "Read this for me," said the officer.
The officer left and called the cab for me, and I read the first few pages during the wait.
When the cab arrived, my eyes were red from the tears that just flowed out of love for the homeless. I didn't feel homeless, because I walked out of my own home. I felt I deserved it. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't know how to shake off the feeling of anger and bitterness and self-righteousness out of me.
I took the cab and during the drive there, I thought about you, Seth Meyers, and wondered if we would ever meet. Perhaps one day, but I knew I wanted to meet Sister Mary Rose McGeady too. Perhaps, she could save my life.