It’s winter in New York City. The temperature is hovering around 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Large, slushy snowflakes are falling from the pewter sky.
You are already familiar with this woman; you had met her the previous Spring. No one is sure of her age, but she looks over 65 years old. She had said that she had immigrated to the US when she was in her 20s because she had a scholarship to a prestigious university. Something interrupted her schooling. She ultimately stopped attending classes and hitchhiked here. She’s been homeless on the streets of New York ever since.
She has never shared her date of birth for fear that the government would use that information against her. It’s not clear if her stated name is really her name. She’s a familiar figure in the neighborhood; people regularly give her styrofoam bowls steaming with hot soup, sandwiches wrapped in white butcher paper, shiny cans of soda, and cups of coffee. Some people have been giving her food for the past ten years. Upon receipt she murmurs, “Thank you,” and nods her head on her slender neck.
She never makes eye contact. The irises of her eyes have grey halos and her gaze is usually over your right shoulder. You’ve tried to learn more about her past, what led to her homelessness, and her interest in housing, but she usually ends the conversation and walks away. One time before bidding you good-bye she did comment, “The government secrets are safe with me.”
People in New York walk past her everyday while she sleeps and never realize it: She buries herself underneath black garbage bags stuffed with paper. What looks like a mountain of trash on the curb or underneath scaffolding is actually her private fort.
“The paper keeps me warm,” she has said. To prove her point while the autumn winds sent the dying leaves swirling through the air, she rolled up a sleeve of her parka to reveal wads of newspaper crumpled in her clothing. At times she donned a hat made out of a paper bag and stuffed it with newspaper to warm her head.
It is not yet 10am on this snowy morning and the weather forecasters predict that the storm will worsen as the day goes on. The snow is already sticking to the sidewalk. Over six inches are predicted to fall in the next few hours.
Today, the woman’s camp is underneath the short awning of the back door of a clothing boutique. Underneath her is a flattened cardboard box, the corners already beginning to darken and soften from the snow. On top of her are only four or five garbage bags, fewer than what usually covers her. Upon hearing you, she sits up and her face, as expected, does not show any expression.
Her parka is unbuttoned and underneath is a thin white shirt with a tattered collar. The skin of her neck is mottled and red.
“There’s a snowstorm coming through, it’s supposed to be pretty bad. Would you be willing to stay in a shelter until it’s done?” you ask.
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“It looks like you’re cold; you don’t have as many bags as you usually do and your skin is turning red. We don’t want you to be outside when it is this cold out,” you try again.
“I’m fine.”
“We worry that if you stay out here, you might get frostbite.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where have you gone in the past when there were big snowstorms?”
“I’m fine.”
Meanwhile, snow is beginning to collect on her coat, her bags, and in her hair. She makes no motion to move.
Does this woman have a mental illness? Does she need to be sent to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation? If she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, should she be forced to go to the hospital against her will?