CHCF February 9, 2024
Seven years ago, I lived on the streets of West Oakland, California — one of the legions of human beings whose trauma had hurled them into the position of having no place to be somebody. In my unhoused community, we huddled in our tarp-covered shanties — cobbled together out of discarded items under a cathedral of overpasses and elevated Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) tracks by the truck stop off Interstate 80 on 6th Street. Like the other 80 or so displaced people I lived with, my struggle with mental health, substance use, and poverty had me falling off the edge of the world.
While people with someplace to go — someplace to be — flew by on the tracks...
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