Today I raced a dragon boat down the Cumberland River. I’ve watched the Dragon Boat Festival almost every year since I moved to Nashville, so it was fun to finally participate with the greatest team ever, “Trogdor the Contribunator” aka the great folks at The Contributor, Nashville’s street newspaper. I hadn’t paddled a boat in about 10 years and most of my teammates were in the same boat (heh, heh), so I went in expecting it to be fun, but a giant fail. We struggled through the first race and landed last in our heat, but we did beat several other teams overall by time. The second race we fell into sync, shaved 15 seconds off our time and actually beat a team in our heat. We only missed 2nd place by one second. Triumph. 

I left after our races were over, but apparently at the end of the day we were awarded the Spirit Award for most improved time of any team, which is awesome, though I can’t help but think it had more to do with our team spontaneously breaking into dance during “Rocky Top.”

alifeunchosen:

When I first met Pat Fisher she told me about an article she had written in the Contributor. She said she would get a copy for me to read. I was very excited about this. After a couple of weeks of trying to catch her during her vending shifts I finally met up with her. She had so kindly kept the article with her at all times until I came to get it. She is a sweet and wonderful person that you can’t help but love. I would like to share her article.

We All Have a Story

By Pat Fisher
Homeless Writer
thecontributorstaff@gmail.com

I have a spot on West End where I sell papers. While standing there for what is sometimes hours on end, I have plenty of time to study people as they drive by. You can almost read their minds as they look down their noses at you in disgust. I’m sure they’re thinking “she’s homeless and in this position because she’s either a drug addict or an alcoholic.” Well I am here to tell you: you’re wrong! It’s wrong to stereotype, categorize, or pigeonhole any group of people. We’re all homeless for a variety of reasons. I for one am a survivor of domestic violence. I chose to flee an abusive situation; I needed to live on the streets to be safe and not worry when the next beating would come. Although I have never been a drinker, I had the misfortune of getting involved with one.

In October of last year he started drinking early in the day, as he often did. I watched him progress from a little bit tipsy to rip-roaring drunk. He was not only rude and obnoxious but verbally abusive. Then, to make matters worse, he began to torment and terrorize my little Chihuahua.

I endured hours of this, so it’s not surprising that when he got right up in my face to voice his disappointment in me, I snapped. With a closed fist I hit him in the chest. The next thing I know I’m splayed out, flat on my back on the ground. I had little bits of dirt and gravel in the cuts and scratches all over my back, arms and legs. I also had a knot the size of a golf ball on the back of my head. Then, before I know it, he has his hand on my neck, squeezing. Just before I lost consciousness he let go, walked to his van and drove away. Thinking he may come back, I ran, making my way to the safety of the emergency room. They cleaned me up, called the police, then documented and photographed my injuries. It was suggested I file a report, then go to a women’s shelter. I was later given a protective order. The shelter was wonderful; they gave me emotional and moral support and helped me through the trauma I’d endured.

I made it a point to get to know his parole officer. I learned through the rumor mill that he told his friends that when I put my hands on him that I had put myself in a man’s place and was treated accordingly. My weight was between 135 and 140 lbs. This man weighed 270 lbs. (How’s that for warped logic.) I learned my abuser had a pretty extensive criminal history, and to my utter shock I discovered he had done this before, years earlier, to another woman. After these facts came to light, the P.O. decided he had violated his parole and sent him back to prison. I was told that he could only be sent back for six months and with good behavior, and that with prison overflowing, he could be out sooner. You see, in Arkansas, as in many other states, you are only charged with a misdemeanor for domestic abuse. It’s a felony only if he caused permanent damage or death.

Hence, my arrival in Nashville. I made it through so many difficult situations, only to be stronger when I got there. I know that with my belief in the Lord I will pull myself up again­—and I’ll be a better, stronger woman for it.

A Life Unchosen is an amazing blog that shines the spotlight on Nashville’s The Contributor (the homeless newspaper) vendors as beautiful individuals. I dare you to not think about homelessness differently after reading through a few posts.