OK. Now I've gone and done it. I just had to unlock the memory box and now they are tumbling out. My plan, such as it is, is to record these stories as I think of them, in no particular order.
I'm not certain why I start with Jane except for the fact that it's a good story.
In two respects her story was not typical. For one, she did not have children. For another, most women we dealt with did not have visible injuries. It is amazing the different ways there are to hurt a person without leaving marks.
She arrived at the shelter at a point when I was employed there and had some experience under my belt. We had a big dry erase board in the office on which we would write the names of the residents and in which room they were staying. The shelter was (theoretically) staffed 24 hours a day. Part of the morning routine was checking the board for new intakes from the previous night.
It's important to point out that this was a group living situation, thus a certain amount of regimentation was necessary to assure the smooth running of the place. The families did not just hang around doing nothing. There really wasn't time for that. The house itself needed to be maintained, so there was a rotating chore list for cooking meals, doing dishes, and cleaning bathrooms. There really is no escape from housework! The women also had a limited amount of time, 30 days, to figure out what to do and where to live.
The full-time staffer I worked with, Wendy, was the daughter of a state trooper and an enforcer of the rules. She came in that morning and noted that the new resident was not yet up and about, so she sent me upstairs to rouse her.
That's when I met Jane.
She was awake, but still cowered under her blanket. She had two of the worst looking black eyes I think I have ever seen. With her small frame and swollen face she bore an uncanny resemblance to ET. I'm hoping that I remember correctly that I didn't have the heart to make her get out of bed. Once Wendy saw her I think she agreed.
Jane was a ghost of a person. Petite and soft-spoken with a gentle southern drawl. I swear she trembled all the time.
But the clock was running. She had to move forward in putting a life back together.
A rite of passage for coming to the shelter was applying for Welfare (aka Aid to Dependent Children (ADC), now known as TANF (Temporary Aid to Needy Families)). It was a simple equation. Women in the shelter were classified as homeless. Unless you had the money to hire a civil attorney, or good grounds for an arrest, you were not going to be returning to the home you came from. The shelter only received funding for each resident for a 30 day stay. In that time these women, most of whom didn't work, had to come up with a regular income and enough money for a deposit, first month's rent, and utilities. Welfare, for all its headaches, took care of that.
I took Jane to the Welfare office. Imagine your most stereotypical image of the place and I'm sure this place was worse. The building it used to be housed in, it has since relocated, was an old school which had not been remodeled very well. It retained a certain oppressive, dusty, institutional atmosphere. The long waiting room had no windows, just big overhead fluorescent lights. The walls were painted a color that must have been called "Bureaucratic Dinge" on the paint swatch. I also used to joke that the receptionists were raised on a special farm. They were large women parked behind the glass who, I swear, absolutely never cracked a smile. Not rude, exactly, but any attempts at pleasantry made no impact on their demeanor.
This was torturous for Jane. Not only was it humiliating to have to apply for public assistance, but she was convinced that everyone was staring at her. Truth be told she was right.
I don't think she stayed at the shelter very long. She was too fragile and returned home. This happened a lot. Unless the resident had been a complete nightmare to work with, and some were, we always let the women know that they were welcome to call or come back to us if needed.
Fast forward about a year.
Sharon came back, and it was amazing. She was a new woman. I think it happened that she was returning home from shopping one day, and, aside from the grilling she was sure to receive about where she had been and what she'd been doing, she'd realized that she'd forgotten to buy her husband's cigarettes. She knew she was probably headed for a beating and something in her just snapped. She never went home. She left with only the clothes on her back.
And she came back a new woman infused with strength and energy. It had finally broken through for her that she didn't need to take it anymore, and she preached this gospel to her fellow residents. She was happy. She was funny. Now that her face was back to normal she was cute as a button.
She wound up relocating, and, sweet person that she was, she even sent us a letter to let us know that she was okay. Still happy that she had left. Told us, though, that one day she was walking in high heels, slipped on a slick floor and fell, banging her nose against a doorknob on her way down.
Yep. Once again she had two black eyes.
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