I'm staying the night in one of the three new Nicklesville "neighborhoods". Nicklesville is a democratic, self-run, tent city for men, women, children, dogs, cats, goats and chickens who are homeless by circumstance or choice. This is the second night that the Nickleodeons are sleeping at their new location, an overgrown asphalt lot twenty minutes outside Seattle, in a place called Skyway near Renton. Two days earlier they were kicked out by the city from their previous location of three years on Marginal Way, under threat of lawsuit for de-valuing surrounding properties. The bustling, well established, community of 100+ strong just days before, has now been split into three groups and dispersed amongst three new location in and outside of Seattle.
Shortly after 12:30am. Eight gunshots ring out loud, close and hollow, *pop pop* *pop pop*, and fade quickly as the vehicle they came from drives away. I've never heard bona fide gunfire that close before. It sounds fake, like a pop gun. Much to unreal to be the source of deadly bullets. I'm jolted from my sleep, but stay on the floor of our tent where I lie, evaluating what is happening in my head. I'm still in one piece. My boyfriend, and steadfast partner in unusual experiences, wraps his arm around me in a protective gesture, but without speaking, we both know there's nothing either of us could have done to keep each other safe. This is a feeling that reminds me of the dangers of the world, but also the importance of bearing witness and being a part of humanity's struggles, rather than sealing myself off in a blanket of financial security, comfort and self-centeredness.
There are a few moments of silence before tents and tarps begin to rustle, as the residents of Nicklesville wake from their second night of sleep as a fraction of the old community, and take stock. On our end of the grassy lot surrounded by chain-link, someone asks "Is everyone okay?". Someone from the other side of the lot follows, "Is everyone okay, did anyone get hit?". The answers are negative, everyone is, physically at least, unhurt. I lay my head on my boyfriend's chest, just to double-check that his heart is still beating. I wonder to myself how someone can throw around death with such wanton abandon. Satisfied, we hold each other close, and listen as raindrops begin to fall on our tent-fly, on what had been a perfectly clear night just hours before. I remember that the man a few feet away from us hasn't been able to rebuild his shanty shelter yet since the move. He's sleeping under the stars tonight, exposed on his air mattress. Barefoot, I unzip my tent and step out to help him throw a tarp over his bed and hope there are no needles in the grass here. Some Nicklesville residents seemed happy at the chance the move gave them to "barre" troublemakers and drug-users from the new locations. Maybe this'll be a positive point for the Nickleodeons, moving forward.
Ten minutes later, the rain passes. More hushed movement. I hear one of the little black kids crying, one of the five kids, who's family's tent is set up along the street side of the camp. The two oldest girls helped us pick up trash with trash-pickers two days ago, as we helped clean out old Nicklesville. Dogs bark at a long-gone enemy and things settle back down in the camp. As I try to soothe myself back into a troubled sleep, the reality sets in of the new situation and hardships that Nickleodeons face. New neighborhood, new camp, fewer people. The feeling of safety in numbers and infrastructure is gone.
We wake in the morning to a cool overcast day, the mood has lifted and the camp residents give off a vibe that is surprisingly positive, which helps me readjust my own attitude after a skeptical night. I'm inspired by the Nickleodeons resilience in the face of so many changes. We pack up our tent and belongings and move on the way only a couple of freedom-drunk gypsies can, with plans to roll back around to Nicklesville one day soon.
-LuLu Redder
