David Ambroz

“We trudge along the uneven streets until Alex, who’s running ahead, directs us to a pile of good trash. It looks like someone was evicted—the contents of their whole apartment have been dumped on the street to be picked over, just as ours will be one day soon. Black plastic bags are piled into treasure mounds studded with bulky items too big for the bags. We are early, and most of the bags are still tied so we know the pickings are good, but we aren’t the only lookers. Other people are passing by, hoping for good finds, and some grab specialty items, like electronics or materials that they can resell, but we recognize the ones who are like us, whole families here to look for necessities they would otherwise go without. They are our primary competition, so we quickly divide and conquer to get the best stuff. I spot potential around the corner and hurry toward a box of books. Up close, they turn out to be old books with leather bindings. Mom has taught us all to read. Sometimes she makes us read to her for long stretches without stopping. I can’t always follow the story, but I like how it calms her. I want all of the books, but we need to save room in the cart for practical items, so I settle for one…I know better than to get too excited about any find, and we never get attached. We went through this back in January, and a few months before that. When we move again, we will leave our treasures behind. The book in the cart might prove interesting or be so mildewed that it’s unreadable, but the one thing I know for sure is that I won’t get to keep it.”
― David Ambroz, A Place Called Home

“We’ve just arrived home…and are in the lot of our building when I hear someone yell, “Fucking piece of white trash. Are all those kids yours?…
“Go inside, right now. Go!” Mom whispers urgently.
I’ve seen drunk men in uniform before. Sometimes it’s the police, sometimes it’s firemen. On weekend nights, they stumble past sloppily, shouting curses, dirty words, and racial slurs, whatever they can think of, “fuck you this, fuck you that.” They hate us and all our neighbors because we’re poor. I’m ashamed because they’re right—we’re dirty and helpless. But I’m also angry because I already know I don’t want this to be who I am, but I have no power to do anything about it. Can’t they see that?
“Go now. Hugh, take them inside. Go!” Mom hisses again. But Jessica, Alex, and I stay where we are. We don’t want to leave her. We’re a pack, and packs stick together.”
― David Ambroz, A Place Called Home