Invisible Child: Poverty, Survival, and Hope in an American City

by Andrea Elliott

Finding a way to do homework is the hardest assignment of all. With no desk or chair—just a maze of mattresses—the children study crouched on sheets stamped PROP. OF THE DEPT. OF HOMELESS SERVICES. “Your spot is on your bed,” says Dasani. “So when you walk in the door, you put your stuff down, straighten up a little bit, you get a snack from the fridge, and you sit on your bed and do your homework. Or do whatever you gotta do. And you stay on that spot—you don’t get up.” When the lights are off, Room 449 assumes a gray aura. Sometimes the children hear noises. Five-year-old Papa thinks he saw a ghost. None of the siblings will venture into the bathroom after dark. This is why they relieve themselves in what Dasani calls “the piss bucket.” Privacy is a luxury. Dasani carves out small, sacred spaces: an upturned crate by the window, a portion of the floor at mealtime, a stall in the scary bathroom. She sits here alone, the toilet lid closed beneath her. Sometimes she reads, or just closes her eyes. Her mind feels crowded elsewhere.