Sunday, July 14th, 2002 - 9:45 PM All
Star Spectacular
Join
host Linda Simpson at a benefit for the Ali Forney House,
Entertainment
by the world famous BOB, the Glamazons,
"Cheap
charity" at only $5
Marion's Restaurant
& Lounge
Subways:
===========================
In 2000, the Center for Children and Families received $1,278,906 to
continue New York City's first system-wide housing assistance program for
homeless HIV and multiple diagnosed minority youth from 18 -24 years old.
Initiated under their 1997 Special Projects for National Significance award,
the Center's objective is to outreach to HIV and multiple-diagnosed homeless
youth in the Times Square area. An estimated 270 youth will be assisted
with overnight shelter and other support. This program involves the
operation of a number of specialized facilities, such as SafeSpace, a 24
hour drop in center, and using two mobile home units which canvass homeless
youth on the streets. Services include client-driven conflict management
resolution, day treatment programs, and overnight housing. The program
operates at four sites, with day treatment programs as SafeSpace, and shelter
provided at SafeHaven, a homeless youth facility for persons aged 16-24
years, Ali Forney House, a transitional housing program for homeless
gay and transgender males, and SafeHome, a transitional living residence
for homeless youth with multiple diagnoses.
A Life and Death on NYC Streets Associated Press, August 28, 1999
NEW YORK (AP) -- Dion Webster talked loud and laughed louder. He was a prankster, a kid who got things started. But late one cold November night, his laughter ceased. He was found dead on the street, a knife shoved into his head. Kevin Freeman was a quiet young man, an introvert with bright eyes. Six months after his friend Webster was murdered, Freeman' s body turned up in a park not far away with his skull nearly split in half. Few mourned these two young men: their fellow street people, some social workers. These were people passersby ignored; the type police rousted and arrested. They were homeless, addicted to crack cocaine, and stuck in a dead end of life before age 30. Besides, they lived in the hidden realm of the " transgendered, " men believing they should have been born female. They worked the streets. In a city that boasts its dropping crime rate and safer streets, their
murders barely registered. There were no news conferences,
"They were dead already to the world. When they were killed, it just made it official," said Carl Siciliano, a social worker who knew them. Police will not discuss the cases in depth. The murders remain unsolved. One man tried hard to find out what happened. He questioned people and fed information to police. He discovered that Freeman had been killed over a drug deal, Webster when a trick went bad. Ali Forney was a friend of the two, another young man sharing their netherworld." The three musketeers," a friend affectionately called them. A few months after Freeman' s killing and just blocks away from both murder scenes, Forney' s body was found, a single gunshot wound to the head. This is his story. Ali He'shun Forney was born in Charlotte, N.C., on April 12, 1975, his name reflecting his family's Muslim faith. As a child, he moved with his single mother to a housing project in Brooklyn. His mother, Treaver Forney, and her children don' t want to talk about Ali' s life or his death. But dozens of friends, social workers and street outreach workers speak of him, and hospital and court records and even personal writings and recorded interviews paint a vivid portrait: A boy who longed for a family, a singer who relished the spotlight, a young man with hard-earned street smarts who struggled with life, gave up, then struggled again. Ali's boyhood neighborhood of East New York is a world of poverty-blighted
high-rises, beat-up cars, stark store fronts and warehouses. It'
s not an easy place to be a child. The area ranks near the top of the charts
every year when it comes to violent crime. From an early age, Ali
knew he was different from other boys, preferring to play with dolls and
dress up in his mother' s
"It is frustrating trying to hide something you have to let out. I tried
for years. But my mother knew something was there ...," he
As he grew, he became a gangly thing, all arms and legs -- a favorite
target of the neighborhood's teen-age toughs and an
"Oh (expletive), Ali, that's you!" he recalled one brother saying. By then, Ali was acting up in school, getting into fights and stealing. He was 13 when he was sent to live in a group home for troubled youths, but ran away within months. That began a four-year cycle of bouncing between the streets and foster care. He lived in at least four homes, including a state mental institution because of "volatile behavior"; he had barricaded himself in a room after being belittled by other teens. He turned his first trick at 13. After pocketing $40, he recalled feeling wealthy -- " like Donald Trump."
But he was "throwing shade," covering the pain, says
In those years, Ali spent his days hanging out on street corners or at Coney Island, hustling or stealing. The nights he was on the lam from foster care, he rode the last car of the E train, a subway line known among New York's 15,000 to 20,000 homeless teens as a hotel on wheels. It' s a long ride, and at the last station you can get on the train going the other way without paying an extra fare. Sitting in a cramped office on the 22nd floor of a Manhattan high-rise, Inez Robledo stared across the Hudson River, tears welling up. It wasn' t the first time that kids who showed up at Streetwork later turned up dead. She had most of them committed to memory -- names, ages and faces. Especially their faces. "They are all such babies, you know," she said. "They grow up fast on
the street, learning how to get-over on people, stay alive
Ali was 17 when he walked through the door at Streetwork, a haven for homeless teens a stone' s throw from the West Village's meat-packing district -- a haunt of desperate kids used to making a few, quick bucks selling their bodies. At Streetwork, counselors helped Ali apply for a Social Security number and a medical card. He completed his high school equivalency exam. Video footage of a show at the drop-in center taken in 1993 shows a shy Ali peeking over the shoulder of another teen, his hand cupped over his mouth. He stared wide-eyed at the cross-dressing man in the sequined black gown belting out Chaka Khan' s "I'm Every Woman." "I saw myself," he later told Ms. Robledo. Soon the pants he wore turned into shorts, and the shorts into skirts. He found a more comfortable place to live, a group home for gay youths. He found some peace. His 18th birthday brought him a $10,000 settlement from a childhood traffic accident. Waiting for it, he talked of little except using the money to reunite with his family. "He'd say, 'I'm gonna get that money and go home, and everything's going to be good again,'" Ms. Robledo said. When he received the check, he bought gifts for his younger brothers.
He also took out a life insurance policy, naming his
He left Streetwork full of hope. But days later he was back, despondent, Ms. Robledo recalled. It hadn't worked out was all he would say. Ali met Dion Webster and Kevin Freeman at Streetwork. Webster was tough, smart-mouthed, quick to anger and wise beyond his years. He had been on the streets more than half of his life, he told people. He was 18. Freeman was the reserved one, distant, sharing little with people. He was 19. Together, they formed a family of outcasts. "They didn't have a family of their own, so they created one for themselves,"
said Siciliano, director of Safe Space, another
And together the three worked the streets. By day, East Harlem's Marcus Garvey Park is a breath of fresh air in a concrete jungle of housing projects; by night, it is a blanket of darkness with pools of hard light from street lamps. But it was convenient to their new part-time home -- a shack built out of discarded aluminum siding, rubber tires and bricks. It became a home of last resort after their eligibility for New York's youth shelters ended at age 19. It was then Ali' s drug use escalated, his drug of choice crack cocaine, $5 to $10 a vial. The drug eased the degradation and fear of selling himself, he said in the AIDS coalition interviews. Life was closing in: In 2 1/2 years, Ali was arrested 42 times. Jumping
subway turnstiles. Possession of drugs. Prostitution. He
With outreach workers, Ali pounded the pavement. "I approach the drug
dealers and (say), 'I'm buying some drugs, you want
"If he saw a future for himself, this was it, " Ms. Robledo said. He stood before a crowd, recounting his story. Afterward, many congratulated him. But no one offered him a job. The corner of East Harlem' s Third Avenue and 122nd Street is quiet, except for the sound of high heels striking concrete. The garages and stores are shuttered. Christina Devoe steps out from behind a tree, wearing a red minidress, walks toward a car and leans in. "Forty dollars." The man behind the wheel shakes his head and drives off. Devoe, a 35-year-old transgender whose real name is Christopher, has
worked these streets for more than a decade. This is
"They were sweet kids. It shouldn't have happened like that," Devoe said, recalling one cold night: Nov. 4, 1996. Ali stood on the street corner shivering, pleading with Webster to call it a night. Freeman had already left. "I promise we'll leave after this one, " Webster said. "This is one of my regulars." It was the last time they ever spoke. When Webster didn' t return, Ali headed home -- a spot on the floor of Devoe' s apartment that he shared with Webster. When he awoke hours later, word was already out among the transgendered
prostitutes that one of their own was dead --
Ali hit the streets nightly for weeks after the murder, working the
same area, hoping to glimpse the killer. Weeks turned into
"After that, Ali just went downhill," said Ms. Robledo. "In his eyes, he had lost the only family he had ever had." Ali cursed the police. Once, in a meeting at the AIDS coalition, he wondered aloud when he would join Webster. He attempted suicide twice, with overdoses. His drug use increased. He dropped weight. He got into fights. He was kicked out of outreach programs. Although Ali and Freeman still hung out sometimes, Webster' s death, for whatever reason, had driven a wedge between them. By spring 1997, shortly before his 21st birthday, Ali was trying to
put the death behind him. He moved in with a friend who
Meanwhile, Freeman was getting into trouble. He was making deals with
drug dealers, promising to pay later -- with interest --
The Safe Space Talent Show is a favorite among street kids. It's one
night when they can dress up and show off for an
In 1997, Ali took to the stage one last time. His song prophetic: "Though the storms keep on raging in my life,
The telephone call came the morning of Dec. 5, 1997. The police officer said he had a John Doe at Harlem Hospital. Ali, Siciliano thought. Just four days earlier, he had talked with him. Ali was sitting in the 49th Street subway station. "I haven' t seen you in a while," Siciliano said. "I've been away," Ali told him, explaining he'd been in jail for drugs. Siciliano remembered asking him what he was doing. Ali told him he had a date, meaning prostitution. "Be careful," he said. Later that night, Devoe saw Ali and remembered him saying he had something
he had to take care of: He had taken drugs from
"Yes," she said. "That's Ali Forney." Siciliano had sent Ms. Norville, a coworker, to identify the body. "He
looked like he was sleeping," she said. The bedding was
A woman stood at the bedside, crying. She introduced herself as Ali's mother. "Mother?" Ms. Norville thought. She couldn't bring herself to tell the woman that Ali told everybody she was dead. Then Ms. Robledo arrived. "He looked like that boy who I had first met,"
she said. "It' s like all those years and experiences
When homeless teens die in New York City, a memorial service is held at a Times Square church. Ordinarily, it is in a small sanctuary. But when 75 people -- street kids, outreach workers and the Forney family -- showed up, Ali' s memorial was moved into the church' s main sanctuary. One by one, people paid tribute to Ali. Some called him Luscious. Ms. Robledo, who still keeps Ali' s lapsed life insurance policy in
her desk, said some words. So did friends from Safe Space,
The year of his death, Ali had closed the talent show singing, "God
loves everybody for who they are." At the service, Siciliano
Associated Press, August 28, 1999 <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
SALAAM is a not-for-profit professional theatre company celebrating South Asian American artistic excellence through creative risk-taking and experimentation that challenges all boundaries, connects all peoples and links all the arts.
for web-related inquiries, please email: webmaster@salaamtheatre.org Copyright © SALAAM. All rights reserved. |