Street Kid: My Life on the Streets at Age 15

Squatters. Some of us are quite familiar with the term; some of us aren't. For those of us who aren't, in summary, it is a term used to describe an individual (or individuals) who settles upon land unlawfully and without a title.

In other words, someone who finds an abandoned building and moves in, without the legal rights to, without telling the owner, without paying rent.

This term, modernly, has also been applied to "street kids". "Street kids" is a modern term applied, by me and by people of my experience, to a group of people of all ages who choose or are forced to live on the streets. But in reality, these street kids are not living on the streets, they usually find parks or fields or woods to sleep in.

I was one of them, in San Francisco, at the age of 15.

The street kids that I am used to are usually aged 14-50. They listen mostly to indie music, different varieties of rock music usually. They had tattered, dirty, greasy clothes that they hadn't taken off or changed in weeks, if not months. These clothes had band patches hand-sewn onto them with dental floss. Their skin was blackened with soot from sleeping in the dirt and hopping trains. Their hair was dready and moppy, sometimes shaved into a mohawk.

They had big back packs, a lot of the time bought from army surplus stores, stuffed with everything they own and a sleeping bag. They'd spend their days sitting on Haight Street and begging for change to buy beer and pouches of tobacco to roll their own cigarettes with. After they made enough cash, they'd hit the liquor store and slink away into the shadows under the lush green trees of Golden Gate Park.

And this was my life, at 15.

I had first moved to San Francisco when I was almost 15. I was a spunky and punky young girl, with a teased mohawk, steel toe boots & a suit jacket with a Dead Kennedy's patch on it. I'd take the 1 California Bus to California St. and Presidio, and then the 43 Masonic to Masonic and Haight St. everyday from the apartment I shared with my father on Nob Hill.

The first "street kid" I met was a guy who called himself Jester. He was in his late 20s, early 30s, and barely had any teeth. He'd sit on the corner of Haight and Belvedere in front of Ben & Jerry's and sing punk rock songs, and I'd stand there with him and sing along. He'd roll me cigarettes and stand up for me against perverts.

He introduced me to other street kids, grungy punky kids with a variety of different names and sob stories. A lot of them had dogs. I felt bad for the dogs, some of them puppies just weaned from their mothers. They prided themselves on how well their dogs were taken care of, but the dogs were flea-ridden and malnourished, ribs showing and all.

Then, my friend from St. Petersburg, Florida, who went by a very vulgar name that I can not reveal here, introduced me to Johnny. He was tall, 24, very, very thin and muscular, had a goatee and a short little mohawk. Tattoos scrawled up and down his body.

At first glance, I didn't really like him. He was too skinny, too homeless. I had dreams, I wanted to be a fashion designer and a makeup artist/hairdresser (still do). But he REALLY liked me. He wouldn't leave me alone. Finally, I decided to date him. It was hard for a bit having a boyfriend who slept in a park while I slept in an apt. all the way across town.

I invited him over to my house, and he ended up moving in with me. Everything was good until my dad found out how old he was. My dad flipped out, and kicked him back out on the streets. But I was in love. I'd sneak out all the time to meet him at the beach, down the street, etc. Finally, I just packed my bags and ran away.

We slept in the bushes in Golden Gate Park for a few months. We laid down cardboard, and laid our sleeping bags out on top of it. We'd sleep at 11 PM, and wake at 8 AM to go to the Hayot (Haight Ashbury Youth Outreach Team) Drop-In and get breakfast and maybe watch a bit of TV.

We'd sit on the street with a cardboard sign begging for money, but unlike most street kids, we'd actually buy FOOD, instead of eating out of the dumpsters.

I was really looked down upon in the street kid community. They didn't know I was only 15-16, they thought I was 19. And boy, did I look it.

I was looked down upon because of my hygiene. I wasn't disgustingly dirty, I washed my face and shaved my legs and stuff every day in a McDonald's bathroom. I put on fresh makeup daily, and showered anywhere and any time I could. I guess the dirtier and more pathetic you are, the cooler you are in the street kid world.

Anyways, we met this cool African American punk kid who called himself Neo, and hitched down to San Luis Obispo with him. Surprisingly, about 13 kids we knew from San Francisco were also there, and all 16 of us slept together, cramped under a dirty bridge. Until one day, Neo got really drunk, and a bunch of the kids who didn't really like him convinced him to walk to Safeway and steal a huge bottle of Vodka. He never got to Safeway, he got to the bench outside of Safeway, and passed out drunk on it in his own vomit, covered in mud.

He was arrested, and taken back to Bakersfield, CA because he was a 17 year old runaway. So, Johnny and I took that as a good sign to leave town, and we headed to Santa Barbara.

We slept under some trees by the highway for a few nights with a guy who called himself "Smurf". He was this hippie kid who taught me how to tie hemp. But, we all got tickets for sleeping by the high way, and took that as another sign that we should leave town. We headed down to Santa Monica, where we found 2 kids we had met in San Luis Obispo.

"The Wall" and "Wacko". The Wall was a huge, 6'4 almost 300 lb. guy with a big van. Wacko was a spunky African American kid with a mohawk. They agreed to take the 3 of us to Arizona. But insanely, The Wall AND Smurf had been arrested for warrants in San Diego, and we never quite made it to Arizona with them.

Before we left San Diego, Johnny told me to wait on the beach for him with our heavy bags while he went to grab us some food. Little did I know, Johnny was sneaking out to where The Wall had parked his van before he went to jail. He broke into his van, stole almost $400 and about $300 worth of marijuana and 2 cartons of cigarettes. He didn't show me the money or the marijuana, just the cigarettes, and he told me some old man gave them to him on his way back from getting us food. Silly me, I believed him.

We hitch hiked to Tucson, and ended up sleeping in some bushes with some old homeless guys by the railroad tracks. The trains kept us up all night, and we were constantly harassed by the cops. We met this girl named Hailey let us stay in her apartment for a week. That is where Johnny tattooed me. My first tattoos. He put 2 nautical stars on my chest, with a banner in the middle that said LIVE FAST. Original, right? And the profile of a skull with a mohawk on my right arm. Also, original.

Miserably, and unhappily, we hitch hiked to his insane aunt's house in Anthem, AZ. She kicked us out, and my mom bought us plane tickets from Phoenix to Ohio. There is where he told me about the cash and the marijuana, which he sold before we left.

We had, what I thought was, a pretty good relationship in Ohio. I had tons of pet rats and a huge sewing set up to keep me happy, and he had a Playstation 2 and all the video games he could hope for to keep HIM happy. My mom had even bought us a little red Toyota and put it in Johnny's name. We were getting along fine, so I thought. Other than the fact that he beat me and cheated on me, we were getting along fine.

Johnny went and put in an application at a temp agency in Findlay, Ohio (where we were living with my mom) after living their for 9 months rent-free without any income. I was happy as can be! The next day, he told me he was going in to work at the temp place. He grabbed his bright green steel toe boots, and told me they were for work.

He left, and I spent the day sewing and cleaning and working on line. 7 PM came around the corner, and I was making his favorite dish for dinner, so it'd be nice and hot when he got home. Chicken enchiladas. I took them out of the oven, and set them on the counter to cool.

The clock kept ticking, and ticking, and ticking. No sign from Johnny.

10:30 PM rolled around, and I was worried. Extremely worried. I called almost every hospital in the state, and most of the jails. No luck. I called everyone we knew in town. I called my mom, I called my sister, I called my aunts, I called EVERYONE. Nothing.

I was crying, sobbing, praying to God that something bad hadn't happened to this man I was in love with, who I thought was in love with me. Midnight came around, and I had calmed down a little bit.

I went to get my pajamas out of my dresser, and I noticed something. All of Johnny's clothes were gone. All of his belongings were gone. Everything was GONE.

And all of the sudden, my sanity was gone as well.

This man, I thought I loved him. I had almost ruined my relationship with my father because of him. I had been homeless because of him. I'd been arrested because of him. I had brought him into my mother's home, moved away from the city I loved for him. And if only I knew at that point that it was going to get worse.

I called my mom, who had been in Delaware the entire time visiting friends, and she informed me that someone had taken $1400 out of her bank account that morning. My heart sank. Of course, at this point we didn't know who or why or what, so my mom requested the records. We couldn't get them until 3 days after my mom got back.

My mom received a scan of a check. It was in Johnny's handwriting, and he had forged her name on it. But he had forged it so well, the cops didn't believe that she didn't write it.

So, he stole the car my mom had paid $1000 for, not including $300 insurance, forged her name on a check for $1400 and left town. That is $2700 that this man, who I thought I loved, had robbed my family of. I was broken. How could I have let this happen? God, it was all my fault. I felt like my mom hated me.

I never spoke to him again, until I had moved to Virginia to be with my fiance, Greg, who I love very much. Johnny wrote me on myspace, begging my forgiveness, begging me to be his friend, telling me he was still in love with me. I hated him. I blew him off, I never wanted to hear from him again. I wanted to forget he existed. He wrote me one last message saying if I ever showed my face again in "his city" (San Francisco) he would "kick my fat @#%" out of town.

Right. LOL.

And then, I began my path to total recovery.

I had met Greg on Myspace. I have always been a fool, a boy crazy girl who made rash decisions. I moved from Arizona to Virginia for this man I had never met. But it was the best decision I have ever made.

Greg is perfect for me. He is 5'9, spiky black hair, beautiful, deep hazel eyes with long eyelashes. He is thin, but soft. I love the way he smells, I love the way he tastes, I love him more than anything.

Greg and I now have our own apartment in Flagstaff, AZ. We are going to get married. We have 4 wonderful pet rats, a cat and one hell of a relationship.

Most importantly, we have fun together. We watch corny TV and cuddle on the couch. We listen to music until 8 in the morning. We lay in bed and laugh and tickle each other.

And I never want to lose that. And I never will.