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Former police officer transforming old jail into new shelter
Graffiti still decorates some of the cells at the old Jackson County Jail, and much of the structure is still a maze of cold, stark metal. The foyer, however, is cheery and inviting, having already been converted to serve as the administrative offices of the White River Women’s Shelter.
Bridget Hendrix, executive director, looks forward to summer, when the entire facility will be renovated, comfortable and ready to welcome clients who are escaping domestic violence.
“That’s what I saw when I walked in the door and it was a hot mess,” she said. “I never saw the mess.”
FROM CELLS TO SAFETY
Hendrix joined the shelter in January 2016. The current location is kept secret, she said, but its position near a levee and a highway means the facility is not difficult for abusers to find. The run-down, two-story structure also poses mobility barriers, she added.
“When I walked into the shelter, I saw how dilapidated [it is] and how it needed a lot of repair,” she said. “I often wondered, if I had to leave due to domestic violence, would this be a place that I would find comfortable? And my answer was no.”
With the help of shelter director Theresa Aasen, who joined the team in April 2016, Hendrix hatched a plan for a safer, more modern establishment.
“We decided at that point, we were going to dream real big,” Hendrix said. “If your dream doesn’t scare you, it’s not big enough.”
Finding a new facility was at the top of her to-do list, she said, adding that she was floored when Jackson County Sheriff David Lucas donated the former jail, a $864,000 building, to the shelter.
The structure is ideal because of its location near the Newport Police Department, as well as built-in security features such as keypad entryways, a barbed-wire perimeter and more than 40 cameras used to monitor communal areas and the exterior.
“It meant everything to me that we got this building,” she said. “It was the perfect setup for exactly what we need — safety. And I don’t have to hide the location anymore.”
Most people look at [shelters] as a handout or a temporary fix, when we’re looking at it as a long-term fix to empower and to also give [clients] a hand-up, to teach them that they don’t have to rely on someone else to make it in life.” — Bridget Hendrix, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF THE WHITE RIVER WOMEN’S SHELTER
DREAMING BIG
Although the shelter then had a new building, there was a long way to go before the structure was ready to shelter guests. Hendrix and Aasen spent much of 2017 huddled in a small room near the front of the facility, writing grants.
A $200,000 Community Development Block Grant will fund the bulk of the renovations, but Hendrix and Aasen acquired a number of other grants, including a Victims of Crime Act grant that allowed them to grow the shelter’s staff from six to 21 employees, including a mental-health advocate, a sexual-assault-victim advocate and a children’s advocate.
The shelter brought in $2 million last year, including grants and the jail itself, Hendrix said. Perhaps more importantly, Hendrix has also expanded the shelter’s networking capabilities.
“We were divorced from the community,” Aasen said, adding that Hendrix mustered support from the entire city. “She’s a force to be reckoned with. She works tirelessly, and she has re-established those contacts.”
Hendrix, who grew up in Newport, said she met many community members during her years as an officer with the Newport Police Department, during which time she also coached peewee basketball. Not only has she rallied local support; she has also helped connect the shelter with other resources throughout Arkansas and surrounding states, which allows the organization to provide more support to its clients.
“Being able to take that melting pot of resources and having that at your disposal, whether you come into the shelter or you use it as outreach — it will empower you, and getting your power back is how you get your confidence back,” Hendrix said. “What we want people to understand is this is not a handout; this is a hand-up.”
BAR NONE
The new facility will allow the shelter to double its current capacity of 16. The shelter, which currently only allows for temporary emergency stays, will also add transition services. The structure will be split completely in two, with one wing for those fleeing domestic violence and another wing for clients needing an extended stay while they transition out of the shelter, as well as people experiencing homelessness.
The transition wing will be named Momma Jean’s House in honor of Hendrix’s late mother, Jean Hendrix, who was a member of the band Jeannie and the Guys. The shelter’s annual fundraiser, the Momma Jean’s House Music Jamboree, was also named in her honor.
“Everybody in this town knows Momma Jean, and they knew that she always gave. If you were hungry, she’d go home, cook you a hot dog and bring it to you,” Bridget Hendrix said. “I felt it was only fitting for a transition shelter to have that name because it would mean something to the community.”
The jail’s old cells will be converted into bedrooms for women and children, as well as larger family rooms, men’s rooms and a room for guests who identify as gay or transgender. Hendrix said the separate LGBTQ room and shower are necessary to ensure the safety and privacy of guests who might face embarrassment or even abuse when using communal showers.
“If you come in here to [the] domestic violence [wing], you’ve already been victimized enough,” she added.
Clients can also bring their pets to the shelter, which will include three dog runs and six cat kennels on each side. Abusers may harm or kills pets to control their victims, Aasen said, adding that victims may not come to the shelter if they have to leave their animals behind.
Hendrix has also taken steps to extend the shelter’s outreach to men.
Asking about male victims was almost a taboo when Hendrix became executive director, she said, adding that the
shelter housed male victims in hotel rooms if needed. However, she said, she made it a priority to both hire and shelter men because her years in law enforcement taught her that men can be victims, too.
“I wanted to give the women a place to go and the children a place to go, but I also saw the men being abused,” she said. “They had too much pride to ask for the support group or too much pride to leave their home and come to the shelter because they were the man of the house. Those things broke my heart, and I saw there was a need for it.”
THE SELF-EMPOWERMENT MODEL
Anywhere from 115 to 200 people visit the White River Women’s Shelter each year, Hendrix said, and Aasen estimated that the hot line receives about 60 calls per month. Despite the need, however, the stigma surrounding shelters may prevent people from seeking help, Hendrix said.
“Most people look at it as a handout or a temporary fix, when we’re looking at it as a long-term fix to empower and to also give them a hand-up, to teach them that they don’t have to rely on someone else to make it in life,” she added.
Those seeking help can call the shelter’s hot line if they require information, have a crisis or simply need to vent. People who decide to stay at the shelter go through an intake process in which advocates evaluate the clients’ needs, the ways in which they’ve been victimized and their support systems.
Clients then set their own goals, and advocates provide them with the tools they need to reach those objectives. Often, the first goal is getting a driver’s license, a birth certificate or other necessary documents, since abusers will often destroy the victim’s records as a form of control, Aasen said. Other goals might include earning a GED, finding housing or finding work.
“We’re trying to empower them by letting them make their decisions for their life. It’s not our opinion that matters; it’s theirs,” Hendrix said. “We have a completion date on all of those goals to make sure they’re reaching everything at full potential before they leave so we can help them get empowered and motivated to do it on their own without depending on someone and repeating the cycle. Repeating that cycle is what keeps people in these shelters.”
The self-empowerment model is key to the shelter’s work, Aasen said, because many victims have not been allowed to make any decisions, even simple choices like when to eat or shower. She added that some victims have not been allowed to parent their children. Allowing clients to set and meet their own goals can be essential to rebuilding their self-confidence.
“We lay out the options and the resources for them in a caring, supportive environment,” Aasen said. “They decide what route they want to go, and whatever they choose, we help them.”
Even if the client decides to return to the abuser, she said, advocates will help them develop a safety plan and assure them that they can call the shelter at any time. Victims of domestic violence return to their abusers seven to 10 times on average, she added.
When speaking about victims of domestic violence, the question Hendrix and Aasen hear most often is, “Why don’t they just leave?” A number of complex problems, including poverty, keep people in abusive relationships, the two said, adding that friends and family may stop helping victims, believing that they will never leave their abusers for good.
“That is a misconception, because his or her belly will get full one day, and they will leave,” Hendrix said. “That’s what we have got to be here for, because that support system is already exhausted.”
FINDING PURPOSE
The dynamics of abuse are complicated, and Hendrix has experienced those complexities firsthand. Beginning in early childhood, she said, she witnessed abuse of someone close to her.
“I was helpless. I couldn’t help her,” she said, adding that those experiences motivated her to specialize in domestic violence during her time in law enforcement. “That was the thing that I guess was just in there that had brewed for so long — seeing that and living in that environment — that I see it in the faces of the children. I see it in the faces of the women.”
She said she has also experienced intimate-partner violence, which brought her to the doors of the White River Women’s Shelter many years before she became executive director. An advocate helped provide Hendrix with resources and assured her that the abuse was not her fault, she said.
“Her advocating for me, helping me sort through my muck, gave me the self-esteem back that I needed,” she said. “It gave me the empowerment to go clean my house and say, ‘It’s time for you to go. I own this house.’ So it kind of came back full circle.”
After serving the community for years with the Newport Police Department, Hendrix said, she left Newport, not really planning to return. She said the shelter asked her to apply for executive director several times in 2015, but she declined.
“I told them flat out, ‘No. I’m empty. I don’t have anything to give, and if I can’t give it my all, I don’t want to be a part of it,’” Hendrix said.
She said she was devastated by the death of her mother in 2014. To add to that frustration, she could not place her mother’s tombstone until the next year. When Hendrix returned to the grave to finish the memorial, she had an epiphany.
“I could not get to the office fast enough to talk to that executive director and put my application in because I knew then that I was supposed to do this,” she said. “I finally felt purpose, and it all came together.”
Described by Aasen as humble, Hendrix said she considers herself to be a small part of a larger plan, one that would not come together without help from her community and the shelter team.
“I always had a relationship with God, and I know that this entire growth is a God thing,” she said. “I’m just lucky enough to get to ride this wave and be a part of this plan that was his plan from the beginning.”