The Invisible Student

Ambrose reported to football practice the day after he arrived back in Minneapolis. He also found a job bagging groceries and stocking shelves at Project Solo on the North Side. He knew he needed money to buy food and warm clothes, to pay his bus fare and football fees. He never ate at friends’ houses, because he didn’t want to take from them. Nor did he want to tell them about his situation. The pride burned too brightly inside of him. He ate junk food from the grocery store, cheap stuff he could buy himself. Between workdays, he bought himself snacks at Cub or Target.

At night, the hunt began for a place to sleep. He was too embarrassed to ask his football teammates if he could stay with them. He crashed in sheds in strangers’ yards and garages he found unlocked. Some nights, he snuck onto a friend’s porch. He found the empty house, new construction not yet inhabited, where he crashed off and on for a couple of weeks. August gave way to autumn, and the nights grew steadily colder. In low moments, he wondered if he should go back to his sister’s house, but he chased that thought away. No way he wanted her bossing him again. He also feared she might ship him back to his mom in Iowa.

Ambrose recognized that school could give him a chance to improve his situation, but homework became a problem. He wanted to do it, but didn’t know that places like the public library had computers anyone could use. And he didn’t ask anyone. After school and football practice, he was tired and the priority was to find a place to sleep. “Wandering around trying to find a bed was making me seasick,” he says. More often than not, the homework stayed in his backpack without getting done.

The nights were getting too cold to stay in places without heat. In a roundabout way—not wanting to let on about his situation—Ambrose asked one of the football coaches if he knew of shelters where kids could sleep. The coach said no—told him to ask some of the other kids. Ambrose felt blown off.

He managed to pass all of his classes except one and stayed eligible for football. He didn’t miss a day of practice. He was starting jayvee as a running back, seeing a little action late in varsity games, but was still shy of his dream of starting varsity. He wrenched his groin and banged up his elbow so bad he couldn’t lift his arm above his head. He had to ask his teammates to help him take off his jersey and shoulder pads.

One afternoon in late October, he sprained his ankle in practice. The coaches suggested he have the team trainer look at it. No, Ambrose said. “I’ll let it heal on my own.” He didn’t trust the coaches. Didn’t believe they cared.

About that time, he learned from another kid about The Bridge, a shelter on 22nd and Emerson Avenue South for runaway youth. Ambrose checked in. When counselors saw him icing his swollen ankle, they sent him to Hennepin County Medical Center. He left without the doctor examining him because he didn’t want to have to answer prying questions about his background. “That was for a therapist,” he says. “She was just a doctor.”

Football ended. Ambrose left The Bridge, paid rent to stay with a friend, but couldn’t keep that up. He stayed for a while at Avenues, an emergency shelter in North Minneapolis for youth. He returned to The Bridge shortly before Christmas.

Ambrose acknowledges that his situation is constantly with him, that there are daily reminders of the family and home others have that he doesn’t. He feels isolated, that he’s the only person he can talk to. Walking down the street, he sings R & B songs to cheer himself up. But that doesn’t always work.

Sometimes—like after he’s talked to his cousins in Iowa or he thinks too hard about his situation—the pain becomes too heavy. He breaks down and the tears flow. “You roam the world freely once you’re out on your own, but at the same time, you’re still sad because you don’t get to spend time with family members,” Ambrose says. “After a while, it does get to you. You get that crying baby feeling. You’re still a kid. You want someone to wrap their arms around you and treat you like a kid and care for you.”