Why I’ve Spent Nearly 5 Years Helping Homeless Women in NYC — Mickey Z.

Mickey Z. — World News Trust

June 21, 2021

In mid-June, I made a post on Facebook — asking for article suggestions. A handful of the replies related to why I started Helping Homeless Women - NYC, my project of nearly five years. Since I’ve written a fair amount about it in the past, I thought I’d combine some of that writing into the following mash-up of sorts.

It was a cold morning in January 2017 when I crossed paths with a black woman who was perhaps in her mid-60s. I introduced myself and asked if she'd like a bag of supplies. Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh my," she said in a Deep South accent, "you're an angel to do this." I was immediately disarmed and entranced by her positive energy.

I told her I was just trying to help and I asked if I could typically find her in that spot. She said yes so I asked if there was anything particular I could bring her. She replied: "I'll take what you bring me, angel. It's just so nice of you."

She did a curtsy of sorts as we made our introductions. She was Lilly Mae. I told her my name but she said again: "I'll just call you angel. I met an angel today." I was utterly flabbergasted by her kind words, shook her hand, and urged her to be extra careful. I promised her I look for her again and Lilly Mae just waved and said, "Goodbye angel, and thank you again!"

I’m no angel. As the incredible Dorothy Day once remarked, “Don't call me a saint. I don't want to be dismissed so easily.” Simply put, I once fell hard for the “activism” trap and now I wanna focus my skills and gifts more productively. So, to follow are some details about my efforts along with some stories about my experiences.

(Mickey Z.)

(Donate to the Helping Homeless Women - NYC GoFundMe here)

Why homeless women? Why did you go from being a non-stop, high-profile activist to this one-man, direct action mission? 

For my entire adult life, I’ve tried to help homeless people. For years, I wrote for Street News — a once-popular advocacy newspaper mostly produced and sold by homeless people in New York City. I’ve spoken at rallies in support of homeless people from coast to coast. Mostly, I never left my house without a pocket full of change to give out a little something to every homeless person I encountered — always making eye contact and wishing them luck.

In activism, we like to imagine we’re standing up for the oppressed. Of course, we’re not above pretending we are the oppressed. Usually, we just end up speaking for the oppressed as we perform for each other. 

Finally, in 2016, I decided to directly ask the most oppressed group in the world — women — what they want and need and how I can help. And I’ve done my best to deliver. I can’t end poverty. I can’t end patriarchy. But I can make a small difference in the daily lives of some of the most fierce and amazing women you’ll ever meet. I’ve never felt more useful or more motivated.

How did you start? 

It was October 2016. I attended a table reading of my best friend's play, GYNX (you can watch the 2017 production here). She had purchased a bunch of snacks for the actors — but we ended up with plenty of leftovers. As she and I entered the Union Square subway station afterward, we encountered a very pregnant homeless woman. I later got to know her as Christina but this first time, all I saw was a very vulnerable woman panhandling for some food money. My friend and I immediately handed Christina all the leftover snacks. Watching her mood shift for a few minutes was the final push I needed. Within a week, I had created the GoFundMe and I've never looked back. 

***

 (Mickey Z.) 

(Commit to a monthly pledge on the Helping Homeless Women - NYC Patreon)

I hadn’t seen J. in more than a week and that was concerning. It always worries me when one of my “regulars” vanishes. Often, this situation has resulted in me eventually encountering them and getting updates about illnesses, hospital visits, and/or surgeries. When your mission is to help New York City’s homeless women, you quickly learn to accept an erratic routine.

As for J, she’s Latina and probably in her 60s (FYI: half of the homeless people nationwide are over the age of 50). I most often find her on subway platform benches — sitting alone, listening to her old-school transistor radio. Initially, it took a while for me to approach her. I just couldn’t gauge her vibe. I’m glad I stayed with it and we eventually connected.

The first time we spoke, J. asked me if I was from Italy. I nodded my head yes. She smiled with palpable pride and declared: “I can always tell!” We shared a laugh, a bond was created, and I promised to keep checking on her. I’ve kept my promise.

Maybe a week or so later, I found J. and handed her a bag of mostly food and snacks. As I do with women who are comfortable with conversation, I asked if she needed/wanted something specific. She replied in her very low voice: "I'd really love a cup of coffee." 

Now there was a request well within my skill set! Off I went back out to street level to buy my friend a cup of joe. However, an unlimited Metrocard won't let you swipe right back into the same subway station (cruelly designed to prevent people from sharing the card). So, I had to stand just outside the turnstiles and wait for the pre-determined 18 minutes to pass before swiping back in and finding J. — hoping the coffee didn’t get cold and she didn't get on a train. 

But there she was, really savoring the peanut butter cracker sandwiches I’d given her. Her facial expression appeared to be a genuine surprise that I truly meant it when I told her I'd bring her coffee. J. waved me closer and asked: "What organization are you with?" 

"No organization," I replied. "I'm out here on my own." She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Well, thank you." 

My day was made and I hope I brought a little glimmer of light into J.'s life, too. This brings me back to not seeing her for more than a week. I found her again on a ridiculously warm Easter Sunday. 

“How have you been?” I asked. 

“I’m listening to my radio,” she calmly replied.

But she was so happy to see me. In fact, she had me lean closer so she could touch the top of my head as if giving me a blessing. A few seconds later, I was grateful to have worn my trademark bandanna because I could see she had a bad skin condition. Her right foot was elevated and the skin on her calf/shin looked mighty angry. J. also showed me what looked like hives all across her chest.

(Studies show 73 percent of homeless individuals have at least one unmet, typically chronic health need. This may include any or all of the following: medical, surgical, mental health, vision, dental care, and unfilled prescription needs.)

Back to J.: She speaks roughly 75 percent Spanish/25 percent English to me. I understand (on a good day) 10 percent Spanish/90 percent English. I could see the palpable frustration on her face and hear the genuine exasperation in her voice. And why not?

How often she must have prayed for divine intervention. Her eyes silently exclaimed: “Really, God? This guy seems sincere but, seriously?” After some back and forth, I ascertained that J. needed some clean shirts and a new supply of cortisone cream. I knew I’d get both to her ASAP but… my eyes welled up as I walked away, pondering her vulnerability.

After a few days of looking for her, I finally found J. that Wednesday. She was sleeping on a subway platform bench with a fair amount of people standing around — pretending they didn’t see her. I inched closer and softly said, “Excuse me?” No luck, so I said it again but louder. This woke J. up and it also got the full attention of everyone in the general vicinity. New Yorkers interact so rarely with homeless people that I garner some looks of astonishment.

J. saw it was me and exclaimed such a loud and happy “hello.” Now the onlookers were intrigued, a few even smiling. I gave her some new shirts, a towel, a bottle of water, and a tube of cortisone. She was ecstatic! J. and I chatted a bit before I moved on. As I walked away, she yelled out: “Thank you!” Everywhere I looked, I was greeted with shocked faces. Three women, in particular, were gaping at me with their jaws hanging. One of them was tearing up. This is why I ordered business cards so I can hand ‘em out in such situations. I don’t seek admiration but I do seek and need your donations. Even better, I hope onlookers will be inspired to speak with homeless women and ask them what they need. 

***

(Mickey Z.)

(Order gifts cards from the Helping Homeless Women - NYC wishlist here)

Why did you start your own program?

Let me first say, I'm using my own program as an example here not because it's perfect. Obviously, it's not and never will be. But it is the only project I can speak about with authority and experience.

That said, I’ll ask you to consider how common and relatively easy it is to find an established project and volunteer for a day. A far, far bigger — and more meaningful — commitment is to start your own program. As I just said above, it doesn't have to be for the homeless, of course. You might write letters to and visit prisoners. Or perhaps you bring toys to children stuck inside domestic violence shelters. You could feed all the stray cats in your neighborhood on a daily basis. Ask yourself: What lights you up? What keeps you up at night? Where does your deepest passion lie? What unique gifts and skills do you possess?

By creating your own program, you have no choice but to do most or all of the physical and emotional labor yourself. The fundraising, bookkeeping, everything is your responsibility. This reality forces you to commit, to hold yourself accountable, to inhabit this project 24 hours a day, and to keep going even during those times when you just don't feel like it. Yes, that happens. It’s not a weakness to get tired or to need a break. Self-care is crucial. But when you are the sole driving force behind a mission, you will not allow yourself to waver. Homelessness is only going to keep getting worse. Hence, helpers must keep getting better.

***

(Donate to the Helping Homeless Women - NYC GoFundMe here)

B lost both her legs in a subway accident. When I met her, she was living in a medical homeless shelter and panhandling daily in a wheelchair. B has four kids who, for a while, were living with her ex. It was not a good scenario. Very long story short: The State eventually took the kids away from him and temporarily placed them with B’s mother.

As I got to know B, I genuinely cared for her as a friend. We both looked forward to chatting whenever I’d bring packages full of supplies geared to fit her specific needs. I bore witness to B’s journey and encouraged her as she dealt with mean-spirited passers-by (some actually screamed for her to “get a job”) and with a mountain of obstacles, e.g. housing, child services, medical bureaucracy, lawyers, etc.

One year, just before the holidays, B learned she was finally going to get housing in upstate New York and (wait for it) get her kids back! She was so excited to have Christmas with all of them for the first time in many years

I knew I had to do something special to commemorate B’s holiday reunion with her kids and to say goodbye. So, I rallied the support of some online donors and friends to raise money for gift certificates. After ensuring that all the establishments — including an art supplies store for B’s oldest, who dreamed of becoming an artist — were wheelchair accessible, I proudly presented the donations to B. She opened the envelope, saw nearly $200 in gift cards, and burst into tears — waving me in for a hug. We stayed that way, both of us weeping, for quite a while. She whispered to me, over and over, “You’re my angel.”

When I tell you that I felt pure euphoria at that moment, I’m not exaggerating. I wasn’t the one getting the gifts. I wasn’t the one who was now ready for an epic Christmas reunion. But I was as happy as I’d ever been in my life.

***

(Mickey Z.)

(Order gifts cards from the Helping Homeless Women - NYC wishlist here)

I’m afraid some homeless women will use my money on drugs. 

I have a HUGE request: Keep those assumptions to yourself. There is absolutely no need to loudly verbalize that you think a homeless woman has a substance abuse problem. If it’s true, your comment will change nothing. If it’s not true, you’re basically kicking someone while they’re down. As one homeless woman told me: “Do people think their insults will help me in any way? I’m at the lowest point of my life. Comments like that only make me feel worse.” Once you give any type of gift to anyone, you must relinquish control over the use of that gift. If you don’t, it’s not a gift. It’s a transaction.

On a related note, I can report that when I watch a homeless woman’s belongings while she finds a bathroom, passersby often assume I’m homeless. It’s quite educational to watch the people passing and how they react. And yes, I have had a few sneers and wisecracks aimed at me. Suggestion: Refrain from voicing your negative opinions to homeless women and instead, find another way to use your skills and resources to help other humans or non-humans in need. 

I can’t always give something. How else can I show support?

You can still smile, nod, or do something (nice) to remove the veil of invisibility. Paying attention to a homeless woman (or anyone) is a priceless gift. To borrow from Mary Oliver, “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” 

By paying attention over the past five years, I've heard incredible stories and shared moments I never would've had the opportunity to share. I've comforted a woman who still blames herself for the death of her child many years ago. I've defended women against harassers on the street (those stories may become their own article). I’ve shared uproarious laughter and tears of utter despair. I've been told over and over again some version of this: “It's just so nice to know someone is out there thinking about me.” I’ve given birthday hugs, gotten to know non-human companions, and protected belongings when women needed to find a bathroom.

***

(Mickey Z.)

(Commit to a monthly pledge on the Helping Homeless Women - NYC Patreon)

It was a Sunday in early December 2016 when I noticed a homeless woman on the downtown platform of a cavernous NYC subway station. She was standing directly in front of an empty wooden bench, apparently facing the bench with a massive plastic bag over her hair (I assumed she had dreads beneath). 

It was difficult to ascertain precisely in which direction she was looking but she was clearly rocking, as if in prayer or meditation. Passersby gave no impression that they noticed or even saw her. I inched closer and barely whispered, “Excuse me?” 

Her head snapped up in an instant. Not startled or angry. It felt more like she was expecting me. Her eyes sparkled and her smile illuminated the dank underground environs. Her features are what you might call delicate. She maintained direct eye contact with me but remained silent. I felt a sense of absolute calm.

“I thought perhaps you could use some of what’s in this bag,” I whispered as I held out a small cloth bag filled with food and supplies. She took the bag and gazed at it as if it were a gift from the heavens. Then she spoke, in a gentle Island accent.

“Thank you,” she said as she returned her gaze to mine. “You! You understand the message. H-E-L-P. It should be broadcast everywhere. It should be playing in all the theaters. Everyone must hear it. It’s our only chance. The only thing we can do (pause) until God returns.”

I felt myself overflowing with emotions as I stared at her. She held the bag up, smiled, and repeated: “Thank you.”

“Oh no,” I stammered, “thank you!” Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I began to back away but not before adding: “Please be safe out here.”

“I am safe and will remain safe,” she replied in a clear, confident voice, before offering a blessing that gave me goosebumps: “As will you.”

After my first meeting with a homeless witch prophet, I began looking for her as I made my rounds. And soon enough — on yet another Sunday — as I was walking through another labyrinthine subway station, there she was! She was standing nearing a staircase, one level up from the trains. Again: leaning forward, gently rocking, plastic bag on her head. Again: passersby gave no impression that they noticed or even saw her. 

I subdued my excitement so I could approach slowly and respectfully. When I got within a couple of feet, I could see that the plastic bag was slightly askew and thus revealed what appeared to be the roots of her dreads. I unexpectedly discovered that her hair is what we might call “salt and pepper.” I don’t know how old I believed her to be, but she appeared ageless in our initial encounter.

“Excuse me?”

Again, her head snapped up. When she saw me, she clasped her hands together in front of her heart and an almost imperceptible “oh” slipped from her mouth.

“Hi!” I exclaimed, no longer attempting to hide my excitement.

She pointed at me. “I knew you’d come back!”

“I brought this for you!” I declared, handing her a small handbag of supplies. 

She smiled and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, her eyes were wide and vibrant. “I feel God’s love here,” she stated. With her right hand, she reached up and made a motion like pulling the string to turn on a light. “I can feel God’s love here between us. Do you?”

“Yes, I certainly can,” I replied. She smiled and looked into my eyes. Once again, I felt as if we were somehow alone in the frenetic train station.

“I’m happy to see you,” I said. “I’ve looked for you.” 

“Look for me again on the 29th,” she responded.

“I promise I will. (pause) I’m Mickey. What’s your name?”

“I am Theodora.”

She reached out her hand as did I. I again choked up as I felt the wise energy in her touch.

“I’ll see you on the 29th,” I promised as I inched away.

Theodora held up the bag and said: “Thank you, Mickey.”

(Side note: Theodora means “god’s gift.”)

I looked and looked for Theodora on December 29, 2016 (and again on that date in 2017). I covered every inch of the two subway stations at which we spoke. I did not see her. I even had a special gift for her: a beautiful, colorful, decorative scarf. I still carry it with me every single day, hoping to see my inscrutable friend — although I must admit I sometimes wonder if she was more apparition than flesh and bone. Who knows if I will ever cross paths with Theodora again?

Either way, I often think of her. And I can still feel the connection that was somehow there between two random strangers in a random malodorous and teeming subway station on a random Sunday in a random December. And I feel divinely blessed.

***

(Donate to the Helping Homeless Women - NYC GoFundMe here)

It sounds like your efforts are very appreciated.

I’m glad you mentioned this. Many (most?) homeless women are victims of domestic abuse and/or sexual violence. They are living on the street or in a shelter and have become even more vulnerable. Don’t expect effusive displays of gratitude or long conversations. This may happen but the goal isn’t to boost our egos. We’re here to help and not set parameters on how that help must be accepted (or accepted at all). 

I’ve been ignored and shooed away by some homeless women. In other instances, my efforts elicit a quick “thank you” and zero eye contact. I do not take this personally or allow it to color my future interactions with such women. I can never understand their struggle so my aim is to be useful… not praised. This brings us full circle — back to the Dorothy Day quote I used up top. There is another way to look at everyday sainthood. Consider this from Kurt Vonnegut: “I define a saint as a person who behaves decently in an indecent society.” I'd say we could all be a little more decent than we have been lately and the world could use a few more saints.

Mickey Z. can be found here. He is also the founder of Helping Homeless Women - NYC, offering direct relief to women on New York City streets. To help him grow this project, CLICK HERE and donate right now. And please spread the word!