My name is Jessy.  I’m 23 years old and last night I stayed at a pretty slummy apartment.  It’s my first apartment which is awesome.  

Unfortunately they don’t care very much for your rights there. 

When I was 17 I had fallen in love with a gentleman who later was killed for being a homosexual and that sent me pretty reeling.  Early in childhood my mom slept like 20 hours per day.  I didn’t have much for family or friends at all so it was nice to have somebody there who cared, who made me feel I was cared for. 

When he passed his family had called me and told me it was my fault their son was a homosexual and was beaten to death.  It affected me pretty bad.  I went from my home as I knew it, to the nut hut, to the street, to whatever drug I could manage to pile in front of me.  It set me off pretty bad and a few years later I kind of realized that he wouldn’t want me to be as hurt and lonely as I am, being that I was staying underneath bridges or abandoned buildings or whatever I could manage to find. 

I realize that you know although I’ve been through some pretty traumatic stuff I’ve had the ability to learn a lot from it and utilize it to the best I can to show other people it’s not the way it has to be, it’s not the way it should be.  It’s easy to feel forgotten, but I always try and light a candle for those who’ve been forgotten.  Those who don’t have people to remember them.  There’s always somebody out there.  There is always, always, always somebody out there.