“Homeless are the scum of the earth.” A squatter
Savannah, GA, 2009


Full moon hangs over the outside bar
My feet are up on the chair in a semi-fetal position as I share the table
With my couchsurfing host for the night,
a film school student who grew up all over south/central America
who recently completed a film about the murder of a dissident
A fellow couchsurfer,
A CA philosophy and feminist studies student
exploring the south for the first time
who says:
“I read plenty of white old men, so I need a balance with
angry black women.”

And a squatter

I’m fascinated by the squatter
“I’m really cleaned up right now,” he says
He is clean-shaved, with a collared shirt peeking from a hip sweater
Yet I’d still never trust his shifting eyes
Although his perfect teeth either represent a comfy upbringing or fabulous genes

He has been hanging with feminist boy

So he naturally chats with us

“There are endless flavors of homeless,”
He continues explaining where to squat in New Orleans
“So you’re a squatter?” I ask
“Yea.”
“But that’s different from being homeless?” I’m unsure of the variations of flavors
After all, I too, am homeless

“Yea, homeless are the scum of the earth.” He is clear about this.
“May I then ask, what is a squatter?” I’m gentle, I want him to trust me
He pauses, takes a few drags off a cigarette that has gone out
He relights it
“Squatting is a culture.  We’re self-sufficient.  We can take care of ourselves.  The homeless are always trying to use you, scam you, rob you.  We don’t do any of that.  We keep to ourselves.  We only panhandle for booze or drugs, but they panhandle for food.  We find our food, going through dumpsters.”

He seems proud of this

I wonder how he'd categorize me
Would I be homeless to him?
To me
I am homefree.
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