Return on Investment, and There’s No Places Like Homes

Today was a good day, and a day for memories.

I am a member of the Rhode Island Bar Foundation, an arm of the Bar Association that funds scholarships for young persons aspiring to become lawyers. A recipient of the prestigious Thomas Black scholarship in 2017 ended the program with a speech reflecting on how the scholarship and other supporters impacted her life. She came to America as a young girl from South America with her mom. They had no money, no papers and mom had no job. They skipped from home to home, living with friends and extended family, sleeping 6 to a room. Her mom took on three jobs. The young woman went on to graduate with honors from Rhode Island College and Columbia University Law School, and now is an anti-trust litigator at one of the largest law firms servicing the largest companies in the world. She eloquently questioned whether, if she had arrived with her mother today in America, our country would have given her the chance to supply a return on its investment in and support of her. Sadly, the answer at this point is no.

After leaving the conference I had time to wander. I decided to visit my old ” Home”. I lived in the white building, and my bedroom window was astride the white parked car. The home is located on Helme Street in Providence’s underbelly, Olneyville. How did I end up there?

I was 25 or so and living at home with my parents, working as a young lawyer and not making much money. I had no savings, having spent money I remarkably cobbled together on an awesome silver and black Toyota Supra with mag wheels and a killer sound system. What more could a guy want? Our family home gave the impression of a white picket fence with two cats in the yard. Lurking inside, sight unseen, was a brisk boil of turmoil. It was Saturday night and my mother was in an especially gnarly mood, and I said or did something that turned up dear mother’s heat. I resolved it was time to go. There was no place like that home and that’s why I had to leave and never go back.

The following morning I searched for an apartment in the classified ads. The ad titled “East Side Charm Off of Atwells Avenue” piqued my interest. I could afford the $400 per month rent, and the East Side Charm thing was an allure. In Providence, the “East Side” is the tony end, sitting in the shadow of Brown University and Rhode Island School of Design. I called the owner and went to see the place Sunday morning. The owner was gay and took an obvious shine to my muscles – I was lifting a lot of weights at the time. I inked the deal. I drove home and threw what earthly belongings I could fit in my hot rod, and slept in my fully furnished new Home that night. The interior was new and nice. I did not have much choice but to abide the neighborhood. Despite feeling uneasy and scared I was glad to berid myself of Home #1.

At the time I was in a bad way. The loss of a relationship with a woman I was crazy about sent me into a tailspin, leading to self destructive behavior. The hurt abated with time and I settled into a new life of independence and freedom.

The neighborhood had an odd secret sauce. I never felt completely unsafe. On the other hand, I never felt completely safe either. Once a week for the first month, like clockwork, I would receive an evening telephone call. the cranker was a heavily breathing man who liked the sound of me saying hello and hanging up. I am sure it was my landlord. After a few rounds with that, I stopped answering the phone.

One morning while in bed, I heard a couple arguing outside. I unfurled a few of the Venetian blinds and saw a distraught woman standing in the street. She was screaming “My Bird!, My Bird”. Her paramour was holding a bird cage out of the second floor window. He tossed the cage into the street and the cage opened and the bird flew away and her hysteria escalated. I don’t know what happened, but she sure pissed that guy off. As for the bird, Olneyville is not a kind place for a parrot.

Another night, at 2 or 3 am there was a vehicle with a deep engine roar parked on the sidewalk near my bedroom window. After a half hour, I garnered the courage to look out the window and found a couple carnally raging in the front seat. They saw but ignored me and kept the jam going. The dude had remarkable staying power. I did not sleep much that night.

All in all, in this Home I began cobbling tougher a life. I was blessed with a large group of zany and fun-loving and loyal friends. I stabilized and began to enjoy life with this unvarnished Home as my anchor.

The neighborhood has not changed much, except to become a bit more artsy. It remains a dreary place unless one looks under the hood.

The graffiti is good.

Around the corner there is a street piano thingamajig.

And all of life’s conveniences are served by the nearby bodegas.