Story Of A Homeless Woman

As Greg blew into his saxophone, the sad song wafted out into the auditorium. He began to remember his past, his parents dying, him becoming homeless and finding a saxophone on the street and learning how to play it without no help, people throwing money in the bucket when Greg’s playing the saxophone. Thanking the man who heard him playing the instrument on the street and made him an artist, and making him the man he is today, the life he never expected. Going through all the incidents he went through his life, the bad times of him sleeping on the streets, no food, begging on the streets playing the saxophone. Greg is 45 today, it is Greg’s last concert and his birthday, he is dressed up in a black suit with a red tie, his bald head shining

The girl was in her Senior year of high school. She knew how to keep herself safe now. Her peers would look upon her as overly protective due to never letting any of her friends walk home alone at night. Her brother would let out exasperated sighs as she would be the last person after practice or volunteering, making sure all of the girls were picked up by their parents. She almost never went anywhere alone. After having two drunk college students scream profanities at her when she ignored their advances, she never went to grocery stores at night. After having a homeless man try to touch her when recycling cans, she never did the chore without the presence of a friend or sibling. She carried a rape whistle to school, after hearing about a

As a consequence of the government’s extreme funding cut and ignorance of social responsibility, the UN Committee has suggested that Canada should consider homelessness as a “national emergency” (Giles, 3). To examine the implications of neoliberalism on the issue of homeless mothers in Canada, Giles uses the technique of misrepresentation and concealment; which is one of the Shore and Trnka’s peripheral vision techniques, requiring critical eyes to capture the hegemonic curtains and the concealed matters (Shore and Trnka, 31).

Homeless written by Anna Quindlen is an essay describing the problem of homelessness in New York City. Quindlen writes about a homeless woman named Ann that she had met at a bus terminal. Quindlen was in the process of writing a story about homeless people and was very interested in Ann’s situation. Ann on the other hand did not believe she was homeless and showed Quindlen a picture of a yellow house she kept in her tote that had no exact location. Quindlen understood that Ann was trying to teach her that no matter where you are in life, you are your own home and that today we really don’t think that way. We think of home as our possessions and not as a place with memories and that many people don’t understand what it’s like to have their own

As a kid I had always lived in well diversified areas. I didn't care who you were or what you looked like, I was raised to treat everyone the same. I wasn't personally exposed to the idea of inequality until I was in middle school. I had always imagined that everyone just had jobs and lived their daily lives. I didn't quite grasp the extent of the idea that people can die, be homeless, be criminals, or racists. I also didn't grasp how great the people of our society can be. That was until my parents told me about the first times they had in America coming from Mexico. I don't remember what I said or did to provoke these stories, but they were surely eye opening.

As I walk down the streets of my city on a warm summer morning, I see a variety of people. Every step I take I see a different person and with each person comes a different story. During my walk, I see a group of kids younger than me smoking on the corner. I couple minutes later I see a mother and her child sitting on a bench in the park. Both the mother and child have bruises on them. Finally, just before reaching my destination, I see a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk and he is asking others for money so that he can buy some food. I walk into my house and sit down on my sofa and as I am sitting there, all I can think of were the different people I saw on my walk. What are their stories? Why are those kids smoking? Why are that woman and child covered in bruises? What happened in that poor man's life? How did he hit rock bottom?

As a kid, I never really paid attention to what blessings were, in fact, it didn't even cross my mind. I grew up in a small house, with my parents and my sister. We loved to walk around a lot and most of the time we would come across homeless people. It was like a routine of ours that we would always give back to the people less fortunate. I remember as I was walking one day with my mom, we came across an old homeless lady and my mom gave her 20 dollars. We were lucky enough to have that much change left after shopping for food and we decided it would be kind to give it to someone else, but this lady was very different from most homeless people. She had bright neon pink nails, gray hair that would create an ombré effect almost as if she got it done, she took the money we gave

There was a little girl named Tionne. She was 23 years old.She was a quiet and stayed to her self type of person. Tionne was a homeless girl.She had no family and she lived by the railroad tracks. Tionne's mom and dad fought alot ,one day Tionne's mom left Tionne at the park and never came back in carolina. Tionne is from Miami, Florida, a long way from carolina.

If there has been some obstacle or bump in the road in your academic or personal life, please explain the circumstances.

Women being homelessness is a problem that persist in my community. I just move to Washington DC, and every time that I work on my way back home, I saw many women sitting on the bench with many bags around them. I cannot imagine myself going through that situation, and it bothers me a lot, especially now with this cold weather. Those women not only have to run store after store in order to use the bathroom, and shelter after shelter in order to get some clothes and somethings to eat, but also they have to stay in the cold and being expose to illness. Those women have not only difficulty to take their bath during the day, but also they are depressed, unhappy and have lost the pleasure of life. In addition, these women have difficulty to find

There’s no need for a rubbish introduction to start with. I hate my bus, full stop. No strings attached. To be totally honest, there are no positives at all in this presentation. So if you are one of those people who think that there is a good in everything, I suggest that you stop reading this and continue with your life. Goodbye!

Once upon a time there was a wizard that disguised himself as a homeless man. After he disguised himself, he would beg from house to house, and lied to each house saying that he needed money or food. Inside every house he went to there was beautiful girls. He would capture every single one of the girls, and take them away somewhere that no one knew, even none of the girls ever returned. One day, he came to the door of the man who everyone knew had three gorgeous daughters. Before he went to knock on the door, he made sure he looked truly poor, weaker, and he also carried magical pack basket on his back as it looked like he wanted to collect some kindhearted offerings in it.

¨Homeless¨ is about Anna Quindlen doing a story on homeless people but meets a woman named Ann; who claims she is not homeless. Ann ends up showing Quindlen a photograph of a yellow house. Quindlen soon understands that a home can not just be replaced by a shelter but a home is where the heart is. We are reminded that the homeless are not just people without homes but they are just rootless.

My friends often describe me as a cynic and a pessimist. For the most part, they're right. Sentiment loses value when it permeates one's attitudes and behavior just as the value of a commodity decreases as it becomes ubiquitous, so as a rule I reserve expressing sentiment for rare occasions that I deem worthy. Fortunately, even the harshest cynics are surprised sometimes.

I hear them get closer and closer as the porch creaks every step to the door. My heart feels like its pounding through my chest, and sweat is pouring off my face as I sprint in a panic. I hear the key turning and the door opening just as I jump out the window.