Two portraits of Lakewood’s tent denizens. Photos are by Sherry Rubel.
Paula Neilly
Paula Neilly sees us. Rushes forward. Asks Brigham if the tent is for her. We have two tents, could use a half dozen. Neilly is 48. Maybe five-six. Grew up in Lakewood, chased to the woods by gentrification. Rapid redevelopment. Turnover.
She lived in Pennsylvania for a year. Near the Ohio border. Had to come back.
She stayed with friends. Family. But “sometimes you're not allowed to stay in there, you can only have so many people in the house and the people that are on the lease or whatever,.”
“Or they want you to babysit their kids for free or they say you're not welcome. So I'd rather not do that.”
She lived in Western Pennsylvania for a year. “I knew racism before, but never on that level.”
“It seemed like the world was coming to an end one day but it wasn't an important thing right now. I was in recovery or whatever and I'm walking down the street and I don't know that have like a levee or a dam or something. But it broke and it started raining. And all of a sudden these guys with guns, they just start running after me. From out of nowhere.”
“I didn’t know why they would take me, and I call 911 on my phone.” She ran to the police station and said three guys with guns were chasing her. They didn’t believe her. “How come you called 911 they said to me. They tell me it didn't happen that way.” They held her for 12 hours. Public intoxication. She was clean. In recovery. “And like they will they put me in his chair and they would electrocute me out of sleep.”
“I was like. ‘God, you said you’d never leave me nor forsake me,’ and I never prayed so hard in my life. I was afraid that the guy would ask his lieutenant or sergeant. ‘Let me just shoot her in the head.’ He said, ‘because nobody knows her. She just came here. She won't even be listened to not even by your minister.”
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Rashon Harris
Rashon Harris is wiry. Small. A proud Black man living in the woods. A blur of constant movement. Dances. A fluid motion, all legs and arms swirling. Raps a little. Sings. He’s maybe five-six. Five-seven. In sunglass. Black mask pulled below his mouth. Wear mismatched tights. So he can move, he says. Flow.
“I'm the happiest man in America. I'm the best man in America. God has put me in the best position to be successful. I have to be there's no other way. Oh, I have to be. I tell you that I have to be successful. There is no way out. There's no other option. I tell you, God, he's gonna be in my life. I'm an artist. I'm already a preacher, a minister, Rabbi. I just speak to any culture. I'm very diverse. I'm a chameleon.”
Harris tells me he’s waiting for a tent. New tent. Brigham says he’ll have one for him. Points to a spot between two tents.
“Right there. I'll be quiet. I can't wait.”
“God bless you for coming here,” he tells us. “I needed to see you today. I needed to see some positivity today. A lot of things in my life are not positive. I can't tell you with the art, because it's confidential. I think God has put me through going through this to realize when it does get better. I'm gonna be, I'm gonna sit down and do some coffee. And I'm gonna sit down and drink a tall lemonade. I want some lemonade in the shade.
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