Good morning Officer Nameless (to protect you against censure)!

Thanks to you and your kindness, I have completed a letter to the man in England I believe to be my uncle. It is a long letter, explaining why and how I believe we are related, and I could not have written it without knowing I would have a safe place to work and be during the scary hours of the night.

This morning dawns and I now have only six days to wait until the arrival of my first disability disbursement. I have heard and seen cruel things written about LBPD, but my second attempt at a column for the Long Beach Post will explain how this South Central L.A.-born and raised young woman feels safest and most grateful that she is able to pass the night at 400 W. Broadway with some of the kindest and most caring officers known to man.

I remember distinctly the first night that I met you. I was feeling particularly alone and afraid that night; I knew about the M.E.T. team and the Quality of Life officers, but I expected none to be available that night and your stern demeanor and insistence on upholding the rule of no homeless people sleeping at 400 W. Broadway dictated that I could merely charge my phone for two hours, from 11:00pm to 1:00am, and then I must be on my way.

I don’t remember where I spent the rest of that night; most likely at “my” bus stop: Pacific and Broadway, the northeast corner. In the sightline of the 24-hour Subway and one block from the LBPD Public Safety Building, I felt safe with those four bright lights shining down on me and cop cars whizzing by every 5 or 10 minutes at high speed to shock me awake and ensure that I did not lose consciousness, thus making myself vulnerable to head-bashing and robbery of the few belongings still in my possession.

When I sought the safety and succor of Pacific Hospital of Long Beach’s Behavioral Health Unit, South Campus, I gave that corner as my residence and explained my selection of that very corner as the best a homeless Black woman could aim for. Yet as I awaken this morning, “sleep” in the corners of my eyes and a gunky thickness to my mouth, I know that there are other, safer, nobler choices. The Post has extended the possibility of writing for them, a column even, and I long to tell them of the patient uniformed men and women of the Public Safety Building’s Front Desk.

They are properly designated “Police Service Specialists” who “man” the Business Desk of LBPD, assisting the public with the filing and obtaining of copies of reports, the visiting of those with felonies and misdemeanors who are presently incarcerated, and the quiescent nurturing of homeless for six more days mulatto female writers who hope to make Officers Tall-with-Slight-Potbelly-and-Hot-Legs, Shorter-with-Hollywood-Minor-Actor’s-Name, Thinks-He’s-Too-Handsome-To-Work-the-Business-Desk-So-He’s-Very-Quiet, Cute-Moustache-and-Even-Kinder-Smile, and the not-deserving-to-be-nameless female volunteers (blue uniforms vs. brown or other colors) famous for their kindness and their caring.

There is the one bad apple. I have studiously not noted the name of the Asian officer who observed my appeal and gentle servicing by Officer _____ and Social Worker _____ one night of desperation. The best beautiful young and female Latina Officer _____ could suggest that night was Pacific Hospital of Long Beach’s ER til the morning and I accepted her suggestion because the exhaustion and perpetual rejection of homelessness lay heavy on my shoulders that night.

Tears had already graced my eyes that evening, but they were to reappear in fury as my physically overtired self went to the window one last time at after 9:30pm when there was no longer a #182 bus running to humbly request that the paramedics deliver me to said ER.

“We are not a taxi service; the best I can do is call you a cab,” the Asian officer cruelly yet quietly posited. He might as well have offered me a yacht for transport. I had not one red cent to pay a taxi and no hope of coin til the advent of my first ever disability direct deposit on the 27th of June.

It was barely the 8th or 9th of the month and GR funds were already slim and none, given the mistake of temporary residence and provisions bought for an intended stay in a woefully misguided “Opportunity Home” in Bellflower. Yet the Asian officer was bad to the bone and meant what he said, so I turned away from the front desk, my eyes filling, and walked my exhausted, beleagured self to the Blue Line. I took it to Long Beach Boulevarde and Willow, hoping to somehow find Pacific Hospital once I alighted at Willow Station, but doom was certain that night,and cruelty maintained the upper hand. I walked Willow station dazed and hopelessly lost, finally calling 9-1-1 and begging the paramedics to come and get me for I was now completely suicidal.

They arrived, along with the police and a fire truck. Why all three units show up when one calls 9-1-1 seems a colossal waste, but this night budgetary concerns remained under the purview of a particularly vehement and bile-filled paradmedic whom, once on the scene, loudly declared that I was the “waste of time” who purposely and repeatedly abused the system, calling 9-1-1 and wasting valuable city resources.

The cuts of a year and a half of homelessness with four degrees (including two master’s degrees and a doctorate) were so deep that night I told everyone it did not matter; leave me be, I would wait for the next #51 bus, take the Passport to Cherry and Ocean, and find a way to walk into the sea, an option initially oh so attractive when my ex-beloved, Joseph, finally refused all hope of our continuing to live together in what had been Norristown, PA, bliss and ejected me from our two-bedroom apartment to begin the journey of homelessness.

Oh yes indeed there are bad apples at 400 W. Broadway, but I have passed this night under the protection of Officer Tall-with-Slight-Potbelly-and-Hot-Legs who told me that second night I saw him, and fled in fear, knowing he was “the mean one” who previously only let me stay two hours then kicked me out into the one a.m. murderous cold; no, this night I have slept soundly with my three full WalMart bags and my Doors of Hope shelter bookbag adjacent to me as the day crew arrived and the beautiful ,slightly chunky African American woman prepared the lobby floors and trash cans for another day.

For indeed it is Officer Tall-with-Slight-Potbelly-and-Hot-Legs who tells me, now — two nights ago? three? — that he too remembers distinctly “turning me out” that 1:00am and how forlornly I stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away just as his conscience assaulted him and he was about to invite me back in to the physical warmth and safety of 400 W. Broadway.

Sleep well today, Officer Tall-with-Slight-Potbelly-and-Hot-Legs, when you get home to your wife and children. For I have rested adequately and now only seek laundry and shower in preparation for a day of typing columns and letters composed during a night of peace and grace under the watchful eye of Police Service Specialist Tall-with-Slight-Potbelly-and-Hot-Legs, Badge Number _____.

Thank you, LBPD and the City of Long Beach; you continue to strive in caring for your homeless population and I for one dedicate this column to all in the State of California who pursue the work of keeping we homeless warm and safe and dry.

Why? Because joy is our birthright, homeless or no. Be well, Long Beach — perhaps more appropriately Strong Beach. Until again…

Dr. Ni is an unpaid columnist, yet she is committed to ending homelessness in Long Beach.  If you would like to aid in ending homelessness, please click here.  If you work to assist the homeless in Long Beach, please click here and use the email form present there to request to be interviewed.