David Ambroz - A Place Called Home

Note to Readers: What I have written here is true to what I believe happened. Names and identifying characteristics of individuals and place-names have been changed to protect the privacy of others. In places, I have reconstructed the chronology to the best of my recollection, and to aid the narrative I have combined the sequence of some events. Where dialogue appears, my intention was to re-create the essence of conversations rather than verbatim quotes. Others who were present might recall things differently, but this is a true story.

Copyright 2022 by David Ambroz
Cover design by Anna Morrison.

Cover copyright 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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First Edition: September 2022

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ambroz, David, author.
Title: A place called home : a memoir / David Ambroz.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Legacy Lit, 2022. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2022019466 | ISBN 9780306903540 (hardcover) | ISBN
9780306875212 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Ambroz, David. | Homeless childrenNew York (State)New
YorkBiography. | Foster childrenNew York (State)New YorkBiography.
Classification: LCC HV4506.N6 A43 2022 | DDC 362.7/75692092 [B]dc23/eng/20220511
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022019466

ISBNs: 978-0-3069-0354-0 (hardcover); 978-0-3068-7521-2 (ebook)

E3-20220818-DA-PC-ORI

To my mother, who taught me to understand and forgiveto conquer one impossible thing at a time.

To my brother, Alex, and sister, Jessica. My left and right, forward and backward. Their lives inspire me to reach further than I think I might.

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illegitimi non carborundum

I M HUNGRY. IVE WAITED AS long as I can, and now I scoot past my siblings to tug on my mothers jacket. She swats me away.

Walk straight, Mom commands, her voice deep and robotic, the voice of a stranger.

If we stop walking, we will freeze to death. Its Christmas in Manhattan, and the Midtown department store windows glow, each one a framed fantasy. My neck swivels as I pass, entranced by the rich golds, reds, and greens. My eyes fix on a display with an electric train chugging in a circle around a tree. It weaves through snowy heaps of presents, some wrapped, some with pictures of toys on the outside. Im only five, and all I know about Christmas is the stories Ive heard at the churches where we go for free mealsand that in December music drifts from the doorway of every store, and their windows fill with magic. I want, more than anything, to get my hands on that train.

A man crosses between me and my brother, bags brimming with gifts hanging from both arms, his pale face flushed with cold. He steps into the street and hails a taxi. I watch for a moment as he gets in, feeling a longing I dont understand. I want to be part of his life, to be his child, to be him, to be blissfully unaware of the luxury of a warm taxi.

I pull my eyes away, returning them to the backs of my mother and siblings. From behind, Moms jacket looks like a puffy sleeping bag with arms. The three of us follow her like ducklings, eyes locked on that jacket. Jessica, the oldest, is right behind Mom. Shes seven and sometimes holds my hand when the streets arent so crowded. Then comes Alex. Hes six, one year older than me, and balances on curbs and jumps up against walls when its not so cold. Then theres me.

Tourists shove in all directions, still warm from wherever they got their last hot chocolates, the winter air bringing a holiday pink to their cheeks. I dodge them without pausing. No matter how alluring that window is, the most important thing is not to lose my family.

On the fringes of this shiny holiday wonderland, in the dark alcoves and corners of the night, are people like us, passing like ghosts around and through the bright, clean tourists. We drift in circles, making our home everywhere and nowhere. We hunker down in the colorless crevices of the city, in the gray shadows of gray buildings where the gray snow is piled; we are gray people fading to nothing.

We head farther uptown, and as Times Square bleeds into the Upper West Side, neighborhoods shift in character. I know this area by its sidewalks. My favorite, they are embedded with mica, sparkling like diamonds. The sun sets over the apartment buildings, and darkness begins to spread over Manhattan. Night is the worst time to be outside without a home. My mother stares straight ahead into the eve of the night, lost in her own thoughts. Its cold, getting colder, and we dont have a destination.

Mom. I try to get her attention, but its futile when shes in this mood. She flatly repeats her refrain: Walk straight.

Hours pass and the temperature drops. Every puddle has a skin of ice. The snow heaped on either side of the shoveled sidewalk is hard as rock. The city is frozen solid. My feet are stubs. I stare down at them to make sure theyre still there. My dirty sneakers, plucked from the trash, are clownishly large. The laces are wrapped once around the sole, then tied in a bow on top to help them stay on. Each time I take a step, my foot floats up in the shoe, then reconnects with the sole and the pavement. I count as high as I can to pass the timeforty-one, forty-twobut I keep losing track of my count and switch to songs and stories. Last night we had dinner at a churchmacaroni and a sermon on the side. We heard the story of the three kings bringing gifts to the baby Jesus. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They walked all night, too, following a star. We need a star. Instead, our homelessness stretches on forever, in all directions, studded with temporary refugesa bus station, a subway car, a shelter, a hospital waiting room, a Bowery slum. Im angling for one of those now.

Mom, how about there? Ive spotted a subway vent and can see steam rising from the familiar metal grid.

Its unclear whether she hears me. Regardless, she doesnt answer. Her eyes dart left and right behind her fogged, red-framed drugstore glasses. Shes checking to see if anyone is following us. This time, in spite of her suspicion, she stops, and we know this means were allowed to pause above the grate. Warm air seeps out. My exposed hands feel it first, then my body, and finally my toes start to prick back to life. This must be what it felt like when the three wise men found the manger.