One of her first discoveries was the Museum of Natural History, where the bathroom stalls were conveniently narrow. Rarely sleeping more than four hours a night, she was constantly looking for opportunities to close her eyes. She watched drunken tourists shout foolish things as they searched for cabs, and enjoyed knowing that, comparatively, she had her bearings. Her favorite time was just before dawn, when the bars let out. She survived her first days in New York, she said, by “acting like I was in some sort of spy novel.”įor hours every day, she wandered around the city, memorizing street names and bus routes, observing how the neighborhoods changed depending on the time of day. She avoided thoughts of danger by embellishing them, imagining that her absence was of central concern to the police. More than any noise, she feared the buzz of police radios. Using her backpack as a pillow, she slept lightly, alert to the sound of footsteps. She kept an open book by her side so that anyone passing by would assume she was a student who had drifted off. She wore the cargo pants, steel-toed Brahma work boots, and blue hoodie that she had left home in. Samantha spent her first few nights in Central Park, sleeping under a pine tree. Samantha’s parents came home six hours after she left and found a note on her bed: “I’m not coming back for a long time. . . .
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Then he drove her to Walmart, where she bought a durable backpack, a roll of duct tape, protein bars, multivitamins, a box of garbage bags, a canteen, and a jar of peanut butter. He helped her break into her father’s safe so that she could take her birth certificate. Her brother, who had always treated her with reverence, agreed not to tell her parents where she was going. He expressed concern about her being homeless, but she reassured him. (She has asked me not to use her legal name.) Her parents were away for the day, visiting friends, and she told her thirteen-year-old brother that she was leaving for New York. On September 5, 2009, she bought a Greyhound bus ticket using the name Samantha Green. She hoped that if she mentioned the photographer’s name she would be “accepted by the underground society.” Her most detailed entry was a description of an abandoned train tunnel in Harlem and the name of a photographer who had taken pictures of the homeless people who lived in it. Under the heading “known homeless encampments,” she wrote down all the parks, boardwalks, and tunnels where she could sleep and the subway line she’d take to get there.
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She listed the locations of soup kitchens, public libraries, bottle-return vending machines, thrift stores, and public sports clubs, where she could slip in for free showers. In a purple spiral-bound notebook, she created a guide for life on the streets. Then she would begin the rest of her life: getting a job, finding an apartment, and saving for college. Samantha planned to live on the streets for several weeks, until her eighteenth birthday. She wanted nothing to do with her parents, who, she believed, hadn’t taken her complaints of sexual abuse seriously her mother suggested it was a hallucination. She learned that if she went to a homeless shelter before she was eighteen social workers would be required to contact her family. Throughout the summer of 2009, Samantha researched the logistics of being homeless in New York, reading all the articles she could find online, no matter how outdated. “In my fifty-millionth Vomit, I spaced out and wrote, ‘I’m a lesbian and no one knows,’ ” she told me.
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Her English teacher at the time had the students spend five minutes every day on an exercise called Vomit, in which they wrote down every phrase that occurred to them. Then, at fifteen, she watched “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider” and was uncomfortably captivated by Angelina Jolie. She found it trivial and unbecoming when girls at school pined over their crushes. Samantha enjoyed reading about botany and had long assumed that, like some plants, she was asexual, a self-sustaining organism.
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She wanted to go to Manhattan, which she’d never visited, because it seemed like a good place to meet other lesbians. The only other option, she decided, was to flee. Samantha had got A’s in high school and had planned to escape to college, until she realized she couldn’t afford it. Reclining in her chair in the brightly lit garage, she closed her eyes and thought, Is this going to be my life? She went to class stoned and wrote suicidal poems about the shame of being molested by a family friend: “why try when there is no hope / for my dirty soul there is no soap.” The thought of remaining in her home town, in central Florida, made her feel ill. She had just graduated from high school, where she had few friends, and felt invisible. Samantha was sitting on a lawn chair in her parents’ garage, smoking a joint, when she decided to run away.