The Masks of Tragedy and Comity
by Michael Tracy
Age 17
Las Vegas, Nevada
A good story always starts at the beginning; mine started with hunger. I wanted instant gratification food—not unusual on my way home from a long day at school. After having placed my order at the drive-through of McDonalds, I noticed a masked man standing behind the menu board. He was just standing there patiently, waiting; watching the cars pass him. A winter scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose, drew me to notice him. But it was by no means a cold day. He didn’t move toward me; though as I explored his curious face, we made eye contact. To my surprise, he still did not try to approach the car, yet his eyes sought an invitation—which I did not extend. As I pulled forward, however, I had an insatiable urge to purchase a gift card for him at the cashier’s window, which I did.
The Pavlovian scent of creature comfort filled my car, attempting to seduce my appetite. It held little interest for me now, though; so I parked my car and sought out the man in the mask.
When I approached him with my offering the man in the mask seemed surprised. Caught unprepared, his scarf dropped as he reached out to accept the card, and what I saw was tragic. Underneath his makeshift mask, fresh cigarette burns bored holes in his flesh; and deep cuts ravaged his jawline. The mask of tragedy was revealed: He was a victim. Quite clearly, he had suffered a horrific attack recently. It struck me that he must be burdened with many masks. Yet under them, and the blood, and the grime, there was a gentle, grateful man. One whose humanity was rarely seen--obscured by the most recognizable of homeless masks: The Mask of Invisibility. It is the one that allows us blind passage--unburdened by empathy for those who remind us of our own fragile fortune.
With a quick “thank you,” and a readjustment of his scarf, the man in the many layers of masks disappeared into McDonalds to embrace the precious moments awaiting him. I understood.
The man in the mask had just been given the golden ticket to basic needs. To the things we take for granted everyday: Water to cleanse his wounds, to wash himself of the layers of grime, and to cool his throat; a clean place to relieve himself; a feast of flavors to his taste—with enough in his pocket to last another day—or to burden his table with the weight of silk chocolate and fat-laden, salty sticks of goodness. Most importantly, he could sit amongst us, visible for a time, with a safe place to rest.
I would never find out the circumstance of the crime he had suffered; I would never see him again. But the man in the mask had left a lasting impression on me—one that would lead me to want to better understand the complicated path of justice, equal, for everyone under the law.
“There is a face beneath this mask, but it isn’t me. I'm no more that face than I am the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath that” (Moore, “V for Vendetta").
“Alex” isn’t sure if he should tell me his name, he keeps his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes averted. We are sitting together in the middle St. Vincent’s Dining Hall—part of the homeless service shelter he has lived in for the past year. It is not that he doesn’t want to talk, he tells me about how he has had trouble finding work. He tells me about how he’s bounced between shelters for the past few years, and the perpetual violence that shapes his reality.
Sitting with him, we began to strip away our layers of masks through mutual trust and common humanity. After some time, I began to see the desperateness—not the kind of desperateness I expected to find. Instead of discussing money, new clothes, or even a shower, our dialogue was consumed by his urgent longing for peace. He told me that if he had to wake up every morning with the sky as his roof, then he wished he didn’t have to wake up under it and be afraid.
In the 2014 report, Vulnerable to Hate, fourteen hundred incidents of violence against the homeless were reported. These incidents were all perpetrated by housed individuals, at least three hundred of which, resulted in death. The numbers become even more alarming with the knowledge that most attacks against homeless people go unreported. (Stoops 4)
“Alex” told me he could not name even one homeless individual who has neither been the victim of an attack, nor the witness to one. I asked him what he felt could be done to help; and his response was profound: “If only people weren’t so afraid of us, maybe they’d treat us better.”
As the conversation ended, I realized that we do fear homeless people. There is an uncomfortable sense, that beneath the day-to-day masks we wear, waiting just below our carefully curated veneers, are our own tragic stories ready to boil to the surface. “Alex” is the conduit for a mask we so desperately want to deny. There is a primal fear resides in all of us, that someday, we will become “them.” At the very least, “we” sentence the homeless to wear that Mask of Invisibility, so we don’t have to be reminded of this truth. In the extreme, there are those who walk among us with a self-loathing and a despicable nature, seething with violence against the most vulnerable men, women and children in our society—the homeless.
To begin to understand the homeless population is the first step to healing the fear. I believe education is key. But most of all, we need to decriminalize our perception of what it means to be homeless.
The condition of homelessness is fluidly defined. According to the Public Health Service Act, section 330(h)(5)(A): “A homeless person is an individual without permanent housing who may live on the streets; stay in a shelter, mission, single room occupancy facilities, abandoned building or vehicle; or in any other unstable or non-permanent situation” (Cornell 42 U.S.C., 254b).
The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development placed the homeless population in January 2015 at 564,708 in a given night (HUD 1). However, The National Center for Homelessness and Poverty places those numbers as high as 3.5 million, since individuals who have experienced bouts of homelessness within that same year have spent a night at a motel; have slept in a car, or have stayed with a friend, and do not qualify as “homeless,” within the statistically defined parameters (McElrath and Millican 1).
We have been conditioned with a certain image of a homeless person. Close your eyes; can you see that scraggly, long bearded man, sitting by a wall in a filthy, brown-patched jacket? Maybe he/she smells of urine and toxic sweat; however, this image is still just the mask. Rarely are we educated, or do we try to educate ourselves, to understand what lies beneath that mask.
In Nevada, for example, there are harsh laws targeting homeless individuals. The City of Las Vegas enacted Las Vegas Municipal Code (LVMC) 13.36.055(a)(6), which made feeding individuals in public parks illegal, and resulted in punishment for both parties involved in the “crime” (Lay 741). In addition, several raids on homeless encampments by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department—one taking place right before the holidays—landed Las Vegas as the 5th Meanest City for the Homeless, nationwide (NCH). If crimes against the homeless are disturbing, however, criminalizing the homeless is even more so.
In litigation brought against the LVMC, Deputy City Manager Orlando Sanchez argued that crime rates in and around a particular city park were higher during a period of time the park was open to the public, and subsequently lower when it was closed for remodeling. In response, a hearing, namely Sacco v. City of Las Vegas, challenged this perception: “However, [Deputy City Manager Orlando Sanchez] never provided evidence supporting the inference that even one homeless individual was to blame for the criminal activity in the neighborhoods surrounding Huntridge Circle Park” (Lay 760).
By contrast, Vulnerable to Hate reveals that every single year, crimes against the homeless rise. In the years from 1999 to 2013, there were 132 total hate crimes reported, nationwide. Within the same years, there were 375 reported attacks on homeless people. Some years showed five times the attacks on the homeless, then reported hate crimes (Stoops 7).
The homeless are an increasingly at-risk, distinct population, who are therefore more susceptible to violence than the average citizen. As such, it should be our obligation to offer them a unique status of protection under the federal law. To remove the Mask of Invisibility; and replace it with education against the criminalized stereotype; to unveil the mask of the unique and vulnerable victim would invest our homeless population with a minority status—a status, which would give them better protection from crimes and violence under the law. Under federal “hate crime” acknowledgement, the horrors of “bumfights,” and “joy killing” of the homeless “for fun,” might be better dissuaded.
While federal laws, such as the Civil Rights Act of 1968, the Violence Against Women Act of 1994, the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act and finally, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act of 2009, protect many minority populations; there are no such federal laws to protect our homeless citizens. A hate crime can be defined as “a criminal offense against a person or property motivated in whole or in part by an offender's bias against a race, religion, disability, sexual orientation, ethnicity, gender, or gender identity” (FBI).
Barring homeless populations from these protections is a flagrant violation of the Equal Protection Clause in the 14th amendment of the United States Constitution. The Constitution defines, “no state shall deny to any person within its jurisdiction equal protection of the law." Therefore, the only reasonable action would be to officially classify and define the homeless population of our nation as a minority entity, based on the existing legal definitions and existing characteristics possessed by other minorities.
Because hate crime legislation is aimed at protecting the most clearly vulnerable citizens of the United States, to exclude the homeless as a minority with equal right to this designation is simply unjust. Opponents suggest that federal hate crime Acts, such as those mentioned above are enough to protect the homeless through overlapping attributes making another federal law redundant (McGough 1). Yet, if considered a unique minority population, the need for a federal law specific to their circumstance could arguably be warranted. Federal hate crime laws for targeting women were not dismissed as unnecessary because the Civil Rights Act of 1968 already existed.
“A mask tells us more than a face” (Oscar Wilde).
And then there was “Ben.” He caught me with my guard down, and brought to life the lesson I had learned of Maslow’s Pyramid in my psychology class. In Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Needs,” safety follows physiological needs. Once these are met, attention turns to the need for love and belonging. Again, while at St. Vincent’s dining hall, I was enlightened by yet another man with a simple request.
Serving food, I stumbled across “Ben” who, instead of digging into his bounty, just sat on the bench staring at it. He sat alone. The rest of the volunteers passed him by, one even tried to collect his plate to which he adamantly refused. Clearly he wanted the food, but something was preventing him from eating it.
Eventually, curiosity overcame my hesitance, and I approached “Ben” to find out if there was anything I could do to make him more comfortable. He looked up at me startled, and simply said, “Will you cut up my food?”
This simple, childlike request took me by surprise. Surely he was capable of cutting up food for himself. He had no physical disability; but as I looked into “Ben’s” face, I saw a tragic mask of pain and longing. Tragedy was seeking comity that day. So the mask of comity is what I wore for him.
As I sat with “Ben” cutting up his meat, it occurred to me that he was starving, but not for food. He longed for a nurturer. He just wanted someone to take care about him, if just for a few moments. Being cared for is an elusive feeling that isn’t always found by being in a safe place, or having a full stomach. It is the “someone” hiding with you under your blankets as a child, the “someone” to protect you from your demons in the dark.
“Ben” longed for someone to care for him. There was no arrogance to his request. His, face seemed to soften and he finally dug into his food with a hardy appetite. “Ben’s” tragic mask showed me the pain of wounds that can’t be hidden by a scarf—the wounds made invisible by the Mask of Invisibility we force the homeless to endure.
Throughout the history of the United State, we have had many growing pains, and in each instance, we have matured and mended our transgressions. As a nation, it is time for us to grow again, and see our homeless citizens as the minority group they are, facing greater rates of violence and discrimination then the average American. We must unmask those who would do harm to our homeless citizens through tougher “hate” crime legislation; and strip them of their power through education. We must send a clear message that to attack the most powerless of us, will bring the full weight of the most powerful laws we can create.
I continue to wonder what happened to the man in the mask, who I first met at McDonalds. He is no longer invisible to me. The Mask of Invisibility taken away, the mask of the victim revealed, with the mask of grime, blood, tears and humanity “no more that face than…the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath that” (Moore, “V for Vendetta").
For him, I fear his story ends with one last mask: A death mask. I envision a nameless, cold, man laying in the gutter, reported on late-night news—still invisible to most—claimed by no one because beneath the mask of death there is nothing left, but to gaze into a mirror that reveals the masks we choose to wear as a nation. Peer into the mirror, and we will be forced to see the reflection of our own humanity, for good and for bad.
It is we, who wear the Mask of Tragedy when we make the choice to turn away from the mirror. I will choose to pursue the Mask of Comity, because to varying degrees, we all wake up with the sky as our roofs—a little afraid.
Bibliography
Age 17
Las Vegas, Nevada
A good story always starts at the beginning; mine started with hunger. I wanted instant gratification food—not unusual on my way home from a long day at school. After having placed my order at the drive-through of McDonalds, I noticed a masked man standing behind the menu board. He was just standing there patiently, waiting; watching the cars pass him. A winter scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose, drew me to notice him. But it was by no means a cold day. He didn’t move toward me; though as I explored his curious face, we made eye contact. To my surprise, he still did not try to approach the car, yet his eyes sought an invitation—which I did not extend. As I pulled forward, however, I had an insatiable urge to purchase a gift card for him at the cashier’s window, which I did.
The Pavlovian scent of creature comfort filled my car, attempting to seduce my appetite. It held little interest for me now, though; so I parked my car and sought out the man in the mask.
When I approached him with my offering the man in the mask seemed surprised. Caught unprepared, his scarf dropped as he reached out to accept the card, and what I saw was tragic. Underneath his makeshift mask, fresh cigarette burns bored holes in his flesh; and deep cuts ravaged his jawline. The mask of tragedy was revealed: He was a victim. Quite clearly, he had suffered a horrific attack recently. It struck me that he must be burdened with many masks. Yet under them, and the blood, and the grime, there was a gentle, grateful man. One whose humanity was rarely seen--obscured by the most recognizable of homeless masks: The Mask of Invisibility. It is the one that allows us blind passage--unburdened by empathy for those who remind us of our own fragile fortune.
With a quick “thank you,” and a readjustment of his scarf, the man in the many layers of masks disappeared into McDonalds to embrace the precious moments awaiting him. I understood.
The man in the mask had just been given the golden ticket to basic needs. To the things we take for granted everyday: Water to cleanse his wounds, to wash himself of the layers of grime, and to cool his throat; a clean place to relieve himself; a feast of flavors to his taste—with enough in his pocket to last another day—or to burden his table with the weight of silk chocolate and fat-laden, salty sticks of goodness. Most importantly, he could sit amongst us, visible for a time, with a safe place to rest.
I would never find out the circumstance of the crime he had suffered; I would never see him again. But the man in the mask had left a lasting impression on me—one that would lead me to want to better understand the complicated path of justice, equal, for everyone under the law.
“There is a face beneath this mask, but it isn’t me. I'm no more that face than I am the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath that” (Moore, “V for Vendetta").
“Alex” isn’t sure if he should tell me his name, he keeps his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes averted. We are sitting together in the middle St. Vincent’s Dining Hall—part of the homeless service shelter he has lived in for the past year. It is not that he doesn’t want to talk, he tells me about how he has had trouble finding work. He tells me about how he’s bounced between shelters for the past few years, and the perpetual violence that shapes his reality.
Sitting with him, we began to strip away our layers of masks through mutual trust and common humanity. After some time, I began to see the desperateness—not the kind of desperateness I expected to find. Instead of discussing money, new clothes, or even a shower, our dialogue was consumed by his urgent longing for peace. He told me that if he had to wake up every morning with the sky as his roof, then he wished he didn’t have to wake up under it and be afraid.
In the 2014 report, Vulnerable to Hate, fourteen hundred incidents of violence against the homeless were reported. These incidents were all perpetrated by housed individuals, at least three hundred of which, resulted in death. The numbers become even more alarming with the knowledge that most attacks against homeless people go unreported. (Stoops 4)
“Alex” told me he could not name even one homeless individual who has neither been the victim of an attack, nor the witness to one. I asked him what he felt could be done to help; and his response was profound: “If only people weren’t so afraid of us, maybe they’d treat us better.”
As the conversation ended, I realized that we do fear homeless people. There is an uncomfortable sense, that beneath the day-to-day masks we wear, waiting just below our carefully curated veneers, are our own tragic stories ready to boil to the surface. “Alex” is the conduit for a mask we so desperately want to deny. There is a primal fear resides in all of us, that someday, we will become “them.” At the very least, “we” sentence the homeless to wear that Mask of Invisibility, so we don’t have to be reminded of this truth. In the extreme, there are those who walk among us with a self-loathing and a despicable nature, seething with violence against the most vulnerable men, women and children in our society—the homeless.
To begin to understand the homeless population is the first step to healing the fear. I believe education is key. But most of all, we need to decriminalize our perception of what it means to be homeless.
The condition of homelessness is fluidly defined. According to the Public Health Service Act, section 330(h)(5)(A): “A homeless person is an individual without permanent housing who may live on the streets; stay in a shelter, mission, single room occupancy facilities, abandoned building or vehicle; or in any other unstable or non-permanent situation” (Cornell 42 U.S.C., 254b).
The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development placed the homeless population in January 2015 at 564,708 in a given night (HUD 1). However, The National Center for Homelessness and Poverty places those numbers as high as 3.5 million, since individuals who have experienced bouts of homelessness within that same year have spent a night at a motel; have slept in a car, or have stayed with a friend, and do not qualify as “homeless,” within the statistically defined parameters (McElrath and Millican 1).
We have been conditioned with a certain image of a homeless person. Close your eyes; can you see that scraggly, long bearded man, sitting by a wall in a filthy, brown-patched jacket? Maybe he/she smells of urine and toxic sweat; however, this image is still just the mask. Rarely are we educated, or do we try to educate ourselves, to understand what lies beneath that mask.
In Nevada, for example, there are harsh laws targeting homeless individuals. The City of Las Vegas enacted Las Vegas Municipal Code (LVMC) 13.36.055(a)(6), which made feeding individuals in public parks illegal, and resulted in punishment for both parties involved in the “crime” (Lay 741). In addition, several raids on homeless encampments by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department—one taking place right before the holidays—landed Las Vegas as the 5th Meanest City for the Homeless, nationwide (NCH). If crimes against the homeless are disturbing, however, criminalizing the homeless is even more so.
In litigation brought against the LVMC, Deputy City Manager Orlando Sanchez argued that crime rates in and around a particular city park were higher during a period of time the park was open to the public, and subsequently lower when it was closed for remodeling. In response, a hearing, namely Sacco v. City of Las Vegas, challenged this perception: “However, [Deputy City Manager Orlando Sanchez] never provided evidence supporting the inference that even one homeless individual was to blame for the criminal activity in the neighborhoods surrounding Huntridge Circle Park” (Lay 760).
By contrast, Vulnerable to Hate reveals that every single year, crimes against the homeless rise. In the years from 1999 to 2013, there were 132 total hate crimes reported, nationwide. Within the same years, there were 375 reported attacks on homeless people. Some years showed five times the attacks on the homeless, then reported hate crimes (Stoops 7).
The homeless are an increasingly at-risk, distinct population, who are therefore more susceptible to violence than the average citizen. As such, it should be our obligation to offer them a unique status of protection under the federal law. To remove the Mask of Invisibility; and replace it with education against the criminalized stereotype; to unveil the mask of the unique and vulnerable victim would invest our homeless population with a minority status—a status, which would give them better protection from crimes and violence under the law. Under federal “hate crime” acknowledgement, the horrors of “bumfights,” and “joy killing” of the homeless “for fun,” might be better dissuaded.
While federal laws, such as the Civil Rights Act of 1968, the Violence Against Women Act of 1994, the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act and finally, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act of 2009, protect many minority populations; there are no such federal laws to protect our homeless citizens. A hate crime can be defined as “a criminal offense against a person or property motivated in whole or in part by an offender's bias against a race, religion, disability, sexual orientation, ethnicity, gender, or gender identity” (FBI).
Barring homeless populations from these protections is a flagrant violation of the Equal Protection Clause in the 14th amendment of the United States Constitution. The Constitution defines, “no state shall deny to any person within its jurisdiction equal protection of the law." Therefore, the only reasonable action would be to officially classify and define the homeless population of our nation as a minority entity, based on the existing legal definitions and existing characteristics possessed by other minorities.
Because hate crime legislation is aimed at protecting the most clearly vulnerable citizens of the United States, to exclude the homeless as a minority with equal right to this designation is simply unjust. Opponents suggest that federal hate crime Acts, such as those mentioned above are enough to protect the homeless through overlapping attributes making another federal law redundant (McGough 1). Yet, if considered a unique minority population, the need for a federal law specific to their circumstance could arguably be warranted. Federal hate crime laws for targeting women were not dismissed as unnecessary because the Civil Rights Act of 1968 already existed.
“A mask tells us more than a face” (Oscar Wilde).
And then there was “Ben.” He caught me with my guard down, and brought to life the lesson I had learned of Maslow’s Pyramid in my psychology class. In Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Needs,” safety follows physiological needs. Once these are met, attention turns to the need for love and belonging. Again, while at St. Vincent’s dining hall, I was enlightened by yet another man with a simple request.
Serving food, I stumbled across “Ben” who, instead of digging into his bounty, just sat on the bench staring at it. He sat alone. The rest of the volunteers passed him by, one even tried to collect his plate to which he adamantly refused. Clearly he wanted the food, but something was preventing him from eating it.
Eventually, curiosity overcame my hesitance, and I approached “Ben” to find out if there was anything I could do to make him more comfortable. He looked up at me startled, and simply said, “Will you cut up my food?”
This simple, childlike request took me by surprise. Surely he was capable of cutting up food for himself. He had no physical disability; but as I looked into “Ben’s” face, I saw a tragic mask of pain and longing. Tragedy was seeking comity that day. So the mask of comity is what I wore for him.
As I sat with “Ben” cutting up his meat, it occurred to me that he was starving, but not for food. He longed for a nurturer. He just wanted someone to take care about him, if just for a few moments. Being cared for is an elusive feeling that isn’t always found by being in a safe place, or having a full stomach. It is the “someone” hiding with you under your blankets as a child, the “someone” to protect you from your demons in the dark.
“Ben” longed for someone to care for him. There was no arrogance to his request. His, face seemed to soften and he finally dug into his food with a hardy appetite. “Ben’s” tragic mask showed me the pain of wounds that can’t be hidden by a scarf—the wounds made invisible by the Mask of Invisibility we force the homeless to endure.
Throughout the history of the United State, we have had many growing pains, and in each instance, we have matured and mended our transgressions. As a nation, it is time for us to grow again, and see our homeless citizens as the minority group they are, facing greater rates of violence and discrimination then the average American. We must unmask those who would do harm to our homeless citizens through tougher “hate” crime legislation; and strip them of their power through education. We must send a clear message that to attack the most powerless of us, will bring the full weight of the most powerful laws we can create.
I continue to wonder what happened to the man in the mask, who I first met at McDonalds. He is no longer invisible to me. The Mask of Invisibility taken away, the mask of the victim revealed, with the mask of grime, blood, tears and humanity “no more that face than…the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath that” (Moore, “V for Vendetta").
For him, I fear his story ends with one last mask: A death mask. I envision a nameless, cold, man laying in the gutter, reported on late-night news—still invisible to most—claimed by no one because beneath the mask of death there is nothing left, but to gaze into a mirror that reveals the masks we choose to wear as a nation. Peer into the mirror, and we will be forced to see the reflection of our own humanity, for good and for bad.
It is we, who wear the Mask of Tragedy when we make the choice to turn away from the mirror. I will choose to pursue the Mask of Comity, because to varying degrees, we all wake up with the sky as our roofs—a little afraid.
Bibliography
- Cornell University. “Section 330 of the Public Health Service Act (42 U.S.C., 254b).” Legal Information Institute, Cornell University Law School. Web. Current. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- FBI. “Defining a Hate Crime.” What We Investigate. Web. Accessed 20 May 2017.
- Goldberg, Eleanor. “States Classify Attacks Against Homeless As ‘Hate Crimes’ to Curb Rising Violence.” The Huffington Post, thehuffingtonpost.com, 29 Aug. 2014. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- “Homeless Liaison Community Relations Program.” LVMPD Flyer. Web. http://canduitink.com/canduitinkold/Portfolio/Homeless%20Brochure.pdf. Accessed 30 January 2017.
- HUD/U.S. “The 2015 Annual Homeless Assessment Report (AHAR) to Congress.” Web. Nov. 2015. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- Lay, D. Matthew. "Do Not feed the Homeless: One of the Meanest Cities for the Homeless Unconstitutionally Punishes the So-Called "Enablers"," Nevada Law Journal: Vol. 8: Iss. 2, 2008, pp 740 – 764.
- Levin, Brian, J.D. and Jack Levin, Ph.D. “In a Season of Compassion, Let’s Stop Hate Killing of the Homeless.” The Blog. Huffington Post, 31 Dec. 2009. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- McElrath, KJ and Scott Millican. “3.5 Million Americans Are Homeless. 18.6 Million Homes Are Empty. WHAT’s WRONG?” The Ring of Fire Network, Web. 21 July 2015. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- McGough, Michael. “Opinion: Should Attacks on the Homeless Be Classified as Hate Crimes?” Los Angeles Times, TRONC. 27 June 2014. Web. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- Moore, Stephen. V for Vendetta. New York: Pocket Star Books, Simon and Schuster, 2005.
- NCH. “A Dream Denied: The Criminalization of Homelessness in U.S. Cities. Narrative of the Meanest Cities.” National Coalition for the Homeless, A Report by The National Coalition for the Homeless and The National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty. Jan. 2016. Web. Accessed 15 April 2017
- Saimani, Srinivasan. “Hate Crimes Against Vulnerable Sections of the Society.” Electronic Journal, http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.1471251 Web. June 2014. Accessed 15 April 2017.
- Stoops, Michael, ed. “Vulnerable to Hate: A Survey of Hate Crimes and Violence Committed Against Homeless People in 2013.” National Coalition for the Homeless. Web. Accessed 30 Jan. 2017.
- “What is the Official Definition of Homelessness?” National Health Care for the Homeless Council, Web. Accessed 20 May 2017.
- Wilde, Oscar. Good Reads Famous Quotes. Web. Accessed 15 April 2017.
About the Author
Michael Tracy is currently a law major at Advanced Technologies Academy in Las Vegas, Nevada. When not immersed in his schoolwork, he is a Senior Peer Counselor for the Clark County Law Foundation’s Trial by Peers program. Working under licensed volunteer attorneys, Michael represents either the State or first-time teen offenders in court proceedings for the juvenile justice system.
He is also a 4th degree black belt in Kenpo Karate with fourteen years of experience. Now serving as a Senior Kenpo Instructor, Michael teaches preschool to adult students in studio, and local Parks and Rec programs. In addition, he volunteers many hours through the Young Men’s Service League to causes of anti-bully advocacy, safe shelter for homeless and abused women and children, teen pregnancy, homeless teens within the school district, veteran’s programs and services to the general homeless population in his community.
Along with a passion for writing, Michael is in the process of developing an anti-bully program for latchkey children, and a campus safety and self-defense program for university students. At nearly 1000 hours of total service to the non-profits and children of Clark County during his time in high school, Michael believes involvement in his local community will always be a priority. Looking toward the future, he plans to continue serving the greater good through federal or international law, and diplomacy.
Inspired by this essay contest, Michael is extremely interested in pursuing a bill to protect the homeless from hate crimes at a state-level.
He is also a 4th degree black belt in Kenpo Karate with fourteen years of experience. Now serving as a Senior Kenpo Instructor, Michael teaches preschool to adult students in studio, and local Parks and Rec programs. In addition, he volunteers many hours through the Young Men’s Service League to causes of anti-bully advocacy, safe shelter for homeless and abused women and children, teen pregnancy, homeless teens within the school district, veteran’s programs and services to the general homeless population in his community.
Along with a passion for writing, Michael is in the process of developing an anti-bully program for latchkey children, and a campus safety and self-defense program for university students. At nearly 1000 hours of total service to the non-profits and children of Clark County during his time in high school, Michael believes involvement in his local community will always be a priority. Looking toward the future, he plans to continue serving the greater good through federal or international law, and diplomacy.
Inspired by this essay contest, Michael is extremely interested in pursuing a bill to protect the homeless from hate crimes at a state-level.