There’s a man to my right that I notice. Sitting in a foldable chair, tablet out, earphones in. He’s bundled in a blanket, excitedly reacting to the device in his hands. We’re under the same library in separate worlds, undoubtedly here for the same reason: a reliable internet connection. While I’m poorly attempting to distract myself from the world with a little drag race therapy (#TeamJaida), my attention is pulled from my screen and towards this man. He’s so carefree and comfortable. The only commonality between us was our home: the very parking lot we sat in. The man was visibly content, whereas I audibly fought tears. I couldn’t help but be reminded of my predicament. How can I survive this? It wasn’t until a friend found me and offered their bedroom floor that I was compelled to acknowledge the truth: I’m homeless.

Imagine being in the streets, unsheltered, with an unforeseeable virus killing hundreds of thousands of people, infiltrating and violating. Ironically, this isn’t our first encounter with a virus of the sort. Not even 50 years ago, the world was hit with the AIDS epidemic. Unfortunately, it was regarded as a “gay disease” and left poorly treated, just as we are seeing with COVID-19 today.

Being queer and black myself, being without a home during this crisis felt like history repeating itself. “He has HIV. What if he brings COVID into my home,” my mother tells the officers outside her door. This wasn’t our first “problem.” My mom prides herself on how much verbal abuse she could dish in a single day.  I stand next to the officers after calling for their support, assuming that something so obviously ignorant, callous, and wrong could be easily disputed. But (surprise!) they didn’t care… The officers fulfilled their righteous duty and said, “Well, looks like you’re evicted kid.” And in that moment, that’s exactly how I felt: like a kid. A child, naïve and small, about to throw a worse tantrum than a fact-checked Trump.

I walked away that day with my tail between my legs. No home. Zero of my belongings. Half a paycheck from cut hours… I was hopeless. My physical health wasn’t a concern, as I‘m not at high risk of contracting our modern-day plague, despite what some may think. My mental health, however, has always been a struggle. I mean, look at our society today and try to tell me you wouldn’t sign up for therapy, too! I’ve always believed a strong mind would bring a strong life, but with recent misfortunate, I couldn’t keep it together for much longer. My first semester of classes toward my degree was just cancelled, almost in an instant. As if it couldn’t get worse, I lost a family member. My grandfather passed early into the lockdown. Not being able to fly out for his funeral was already a punch in the chest, but to be “evicted” just a month later felt like the finishing blow. Two weeks I went without a home. Two weeks I went with little to no food, but an abundance of tears. For two weeks, I was at a higher risk of infection than ever before. Only 14 days, but in quarantine, became an eternity.

In that time, I did everything I could to see justice was met; just to feel anything other than unbridled rage. I called local hotlines and information centers. I researched sites and sources for hours on end. Hell, I even instituted a lawsuit against multiple factions (yes, including my own mother!) Nevertheless, no matter how many laws I looked up, vengeance was ultimately what I was after… and the law wasn’t going to satisfy my craving. Someone put me in this dark place, but I was the one keeping myself there, harping on microaggressions and dwindling my energy. A realization grew that focusing on pain was not going to bring me comfort or provide motivation to cure my current circumstance. All my friends and I have been saying, “We can’t live in the crisis, we have to live through it.” Do what we’ve been doing since the 80’s and long before then: survive, then thrive. Breathe, then move. Those words hit like music to my ears, inspiring me. I redirected my energy from others to myself, and, eventually, found my current home in Koreatown! A great home, with fun roommates in a city I would’ve never imagined for myself so young and so soon. 

Looking back on it all, a month later, I could say I was more fortunate than most, and even go as far to say a blessing in disguise; but, in the moment, it felt like all of hell was gunning for me. I’ve realized my experience goes far beyond me and my feelings. This is, undoubtedly, happening to many people around the world; specifically, queer youth unable to quarantine anywhere else but with their abusive families. If nothing else is taken from my experience, I want people like me, young, queer, and of color, to know you’re not alone. You’re not a risk to the world, but quite the opposite. You have the beauty and potential of bringing joy to the world during a state of depression. If you experience domestic violence while in quarantine, know your rights before things escalate. Research and reach out to your local resource centers for the best advice pertaining to your area. If you’re experiencing domestic abuse and seeking direction, call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at: 1-800-799-7233. For feared evictions and need of direction, I suggest calling the Non-Emergency Division of your local county’s police department. And, most pertinent of all, persist. Fight every storm as if there’s a rainbow at the end of it, because I can guarantee there’s one every single time.

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