A Life On The Streets Were Happy Out Here

"Ive had Luigi for 11 years, and Im never giving him up," said Tony Antinelli, affectionately known among her street companions as "Mom."
Of all those companions, Luigi, a 90-pound Rottweiler, has been the most steadfast in his dedication to Tony, and she bristles at the thought of losing the animal a certainty in New York Citys overcrowded shelter system.
The pair have made the streets of Ozone Park their home for the past few years, but the frigid temperatures of recent weeks have put their future on those streets in doubt, as homeless outreach teams sweep neighborhoods across the city to enforce "cold emergency" requirements.
A month ago, Ray Carrero of the mayors community assistance unit (CAU) found Antinelli and a group of homeless men sleeping in an encampment under the abandoned tracks of the Atlantic railway. He offered them shelter, and they turned him down.
Last week, The Queens Courier reported on Carreros efforts to bring the homeless inside, prompting Antinelli to contact the paper.
"Ray is a sweetheart, and hes just doing his job," she said in her gruff, smokers voice. "But the shelters suck."
Although the 55-year-old has never spent a night in a city shelter, she has heard stories that make the streets appear welcoming in comparison.
"Im a little white woman. You think Im going to make it in a shelter? You think Im not going to get my stuff stolen?"
Indeed, Antinelli and her group Gillie, Pat, Mark, Mike, Rob, and Johnny Boy defy the dominant demographic trends within the citys extensive homeless population. According to a Coalition for the Homeless report, 90% of homeless New Yorkers are black or Latino, yet the Ozone Park group is entirely white.
They do, however, mirror another significant trend among the homeless; most have battled, and continue to battle, crippling drug and alcohol addictions.
"We all had homes and good jobs, but we just fell on hard times."
For Antinelli, Luigi has been the only constant in a turbulent life. Her daughter, Carolyn, is a doctor in Buffalo. She does not know that her mother lives on the streets.
"Ill never tell her. My mother was a burden on me, and I dont want to be a burden on my daughter. Shes already got three kids."
Antinelli is a hard, streetwise woman but she is also proud, boisterous and accepting of her place in life. During an interview with The Queens Courier, she sat on the floor of a friends house, stroking Luigis short, black coat of hair, recounting her experiences in a frantic, almost manic burst of energy.
"Were happy out here," she said, the chiseled lines on her weathered face themselves an archive of untold stories. "I wake up when I want to get up, push my cart around and make my money for the day.
"I worked for over 30 years. Im tired, and I want to retire."
Antinelli, an only child, has always lived in Ozone Park, a major reason she refuses to consider going anywhere else. Her adopted parents named her Carol Ann. Her father was a sanitation worker, diligently saving his money and providing for the family.
Antinelli attended John Adams High School, but never graduated, instead earning a commercial diploma from a technical school. She worked as a receptionist at a law firm on Madison Avenue, gradually making her way up to a bookkeeping position.
But when her parents both fell ill, she had to settle for jobs closer to home in local fast food chain stores, like Burger King and Pizza Hut.
By the time her father died in the early 1990s, her mother was already in the advanced stages of Alzheimers, needing continuous support.
As life became more demanding, Antinelli started to succumb to the temptations of drugs and alcohol. She turned to crack, the poison of the streets that gripped New York during the 1980s.
Her father had left her a sizeable amount of money, but it quickly disappeared.
"Crack was my ruination," she said. "I was doing $500 a day."
After her mother died in the mid-1990s, she soon found herself without a home for the first time. Initially, she took refuge in the weeds behind the abandoned Saint Anthonys Church on Woodhaven Boulevard.
Looking back now, she laughs at her own early ignorance about the streets.
"I didnt know where to go."
She soon became familiar with the mostly male homeless around the Saint Anthonys site, and they took to her warm personality, dubbing her with the title "Mom."
A friend eventually found Antinelli a place to live and a new job at a factory in Farmingdale. However, her good fortune did not last long. The landlord for the property, on 101st Street in Ozone Park, foreclosed in July 2001, leaving her homeless once again. Without a place to live, she had to give up the job.
At this point in her life, Antinelli has come to see the streets as something of a true home. Each day, she collects cans for recycling, and she can make up to $25. If she does not earn enough, the local churches will provide hot meals.
When asked about her battle with drug addiction, Antinelli smiles and lets out a bellowing laugh. "If you throw me a hit, Im not going to say no. But Im not going to buy it. For 50 cents, Ill take a beer."
After a few seconds, she shifts her head slightly, and a look of reflection comes over her face. "I dont want that stuff anymore."
Before the latest cold spell, Antinelli had noticed quite a few new faces on the streets of Ozone Park, but many of those homeless are already gone, having accepted city shelter as the only way to deal with the freezing weather.
Antinellis group was content with the encampment under the concrete support structures of the Atlantic railway, out of sight from the commercial strip along Atlantic Avenue.
"We had it hooked," she said emphatically, as if a rare gem had been taken from her. "This spot had a roof, and with the walls, we had the wind out. It was like we were camping."
The police would occasionally come by, but they never bothered the group, only asking for tips on different investigations.
Antinelli insists that their presence under the tracks should bother no one.
"Alright, we were trespassing on city property, but who was using those tracks? We werent an eye-sore nobody could see us back there."
But after Ray Carrero found them, a team from the Volunteers of America soon followed, telling Antinelli and the others that if they did not go to a shelter, they would go to prison.
The group immediately packed up and found another place to stay. The new encampment, she says, is a far cry from their one-time home under the tracks.
"Its the wind that kills you. Im freezing every night."
Antinelli admits that she has had trouble dealing with the unusually low temperatures this winter.
"If I didnt have Luigi, I might go into a shelter its that cold."
That, however, is a big "if" for the street veteran. No homeless shelters will accept clients with animals.
"Luigi is my heart. How can I live without my heart?"
Despite the cold, the daily uncertainties of homelessness, and the new pressure from the city, Antinelli is consistently upbeat.
"Its either that, or I roll over and die. Good times will happen again."