Carmelita Estrellita has a dozen songs in the new “First of the Year: 2010”. Here’s a snap-shot of her life and times and five bonus tracks.
Puff Peace
I arrived in Charlottesville having been homeless for the previous 10 of my 22 years, if you don’t count never feeling at home at home in the first place. About 6,7 of my homeless years were in institutions, which is worse.
1978: I escaped Eastern State Hospital for the Faltering and Fatherless (just around the corner from the Governor’s mansion in Colonial Williamsburg (that guy building a guitar in Colonial garb may be a three-time killer (so far))), and the bonds of the state’s prolixin mindcuffs and headed (on a bus (tip #1: don’t take a bus coast-to-coast)) for San Francisco to become a woman. I named myself Jessica (Jesse if necessary) (Tip #2: never have a money gram sent to you under 2 different names with the word “and” between them (then you’ll have to find someonie to play your husband))) Bryne (because it rhymed with Prine).
I don’t remember thinking of myself as “homeless,” but for me having an ID with an address on it (my address) at all times made me feel safer from cops trying to put me in mental hospitals again. I was still waiting for an address to go to after 2 years when I got away from Eastern.
I guess I thought of myself as a runaway, or a street person. I think there are a lot more homeless people now than then. The “street family” I fell into (who saved my life) were a mix of winos (I say that with respect), veterans, other runaways, thieves, gun-toters (we were asked to put our weapons in a box by the door if we went somewhere), druggies, and mostly just “down-and-outers” like me. These were the kindest, most practical support people I’ve ever had the honor to live among. (I’m 55.)
I started going to churches for the soup, then to sermons evenings hoping to get chosen for a room somewhere. There were also a couple of crash places like the Height-Ashbury Switchboard. The trick was to use all of them, because they needed to keep rotating their beds.
After about 2 weeks of this life, I was blessed to crash in a bunk bed at some church with a wino. When daylight came he led me to a pensioner’s hotel in the Mission District. For $15 a week I now had an address. I was relieved.
Next the hotel proprietors set me up with papers saying I’d been there 6 weeks (or whatever the rule was to get welfare and food stamps). This couple treated me like their own kid (who the wife said was like me in that he believed himself to be a girl. She said he even had monthly visits. She liked my earrings!)
People were getting shot all over the area I was in in 1977-8, including Harvey Milk, the well-loved politician. So, it wasn’t as glamorous as it may sound.
Eventually I came back to Virginia (against everyone’s advice in SF (Virginia has a bad reputation in progressive cities (San Fran, NYC (Mama Told Me Not To Come (Randy Newman, misuse of words of)))))) to enter UVA’s gender reassignment program. I arrived here homeless.
The first place I went (that I didn’t get kicked out of) was St. Paul’s Church (on the Corner). They gave me a 5 dollar meal ticket voucher for Chancellors’ drug store. 5 dollars bought a lot of grilled cheese and milk in those days (when Chancellors still existed).
To sum up, my experience with being a homeless person is of vulnerability, fear of police, family with fellow-survivors, watching each others’ backs, and solidarity. I would not like to be homeless again. For me it would leave me open to institutionalized abuses all over again. I guess all of us have a hole we’re afraid to fall into.
So remember the churches; let us be kind, supportive and true to each other when we can; remember we’re in a tough situation and we’re coping; and above all else, respect yourself. You’re a blessing to this world, believe me.
I’d like to pass on to you other survivors the love, comfort, solidarity and practical support my street family blessed me with back in 1978. They’re still an important part of my “home” today, in 2010. Remember, “homeless” is an adjective: we’re people first!
Do the Monster
I don’t mind the Bible
I capitalize Original Sin
I believe the red words are Jesus’s
just don’t make me do the Monster again
I can do the Rhumba
but I prefer Berlin
I don’t mind the Twist sometimes
but don’t make me do the Monster again
she got it in the ghetto
I got it from a private eye
she got to stay a girl forever
but that dick made me a guy
Monster got a big appetite
voracious is too small
he abominally blocks up my passageways
from anywhere to the door at the end of the hall
she got it in the boudoir
I got it from a john
she got to be a working Donna
that prick made me a Don
I can flap the Charleston
I can fake the Swim
you can Fox Trot all over Creation
but don’t make me do the Monster again
Black Sugar
I turn into black sugar
now it turns out there’s no cure
I thought I turned this corner a long time ago
but now I’m not so sure
I think I’ve got the melody
if you give me just one note more
I remember the part about tragedy
but otherwise I’ve lost the score
I turn into black sugar
even when I know there’s no cure
I used to think I liked my coffee straight
but now I’m not at all sure
I could feel a white stirrer
mixing my latte soul
into a black sugar caffeine frenzy
beyond control
I turn into black sugar
so I can reach inside myself
find whatever’s sexy in me and
get up offa that Shelf
Aunt Meredith
my grandmother’s not answering her phone
maybe I dialed the number wrong
maybe the phone company cut off her service
or maybe she’s been dead too long
usually she’s on by the third ring
unless she’s watching golf
but since she’s been gone about 15 years
the television’s probably turned off
(she used to make me feel soft)
my grandmother’s in heaven
I have every letter she wrote
she used to save me from myself every Wednesday
with five dollars and her weekly note
my grandmother’s in heaven
welcomed by a unanimous vote
but even from her bedroom of angels
she looks down and worries whether I have a winter coat
my grandmother doesn’t come to see me anymore
she can’t cause she’s already here
sometimes having to let someone go
is the only way of keeping her near
Lunch with Debbie’s Teeth (AWOL again!!)
my best friend’s more beautiful
than anyone surmises
her memory may be shot to hell
but it’s alright: she loves suprises
when she cries
sometimes she comes to me
no one’s ever made me feel
strong before
she fries sometimes
the sizzle of guilt’s no stranger to me
between the two of us I know we can pull each other free
if we have to get there on our knees
God never worked my neighborhood
until I met my new best friend
now I’m struggling not to drown in the middle of life
hanging on for the end
my best friend’s way more beautiful
than any manual advises
her memory may be out to lunch
but it’s alright: we both love surprises
Am Are I??
one’s a crowd
it gets way to loud
I have arguments with myself
of which neither of me is proud
I’d invite you in
but it’s not allowed
it’s standing room only
when one’s a crowd
one’s a crowd
it gets way too complicated
piles of what I’d like to call art
have been more than 45 years debated
should I throw them away??
that’s not what they nor I would’ve anticipated
but now everything even our breathing is baited
one’s a crowd
mirrors make it worse
time becomes unscripted
it’s standing room only
and it’s mostly been plowed
two’s company
one’s a crowd.