Once indoors, their pasts resurfaced
On a Friday afternoon in mid-September, Big Mama and Top Shelf stood in wonder and disbelief in the courtyard of the apartment building. They had finally arrived.
“Wow!” Big Mama exclaimed after finding her mailbox.
She took a deep breath, raised her arms and let them fall, her knees slightly buckling. Weeks spent waiting, years spent wondering slipped away.
“I’m speechless right now,” she said, sobbing. She covered her face with a tissue and wept.
Hours earlier, the two women had gotten the phone call they had nearly given up on. Their case manager said they could move into their apartments. They were stunned and wasted little time.
Laughing and joking together, they hopped on a southbound bus. They couldn’t get away from their tents fast enough. Ahead lay their new homes with hot water, bathrooms, kitchens full of appliances.
Big Mama, 51, had been living on that sidewalk for nine years. She and Top Shelf, 46, were friends and neighbors, looking out for each other on the street.
Both women had been told months earlier that city and county agencies were trying to clear out encampments in the neighborhoods around Broadway Place and Leimert Park. They thought they would be moving in June. Some of their neighbors had gotten their units in August.
But their housing subsidies were delayed by a building inspection. Now with the summer almost over, their time had come. At 2 p.m., Big Mama and Top Shelf met with property management and opened their “Welcome Home” packets. Keys in hand, they dabbed their eyes and danced.
In the courtyard, they gazed up at their new apartment building.
They went to Top Shelf ’s unit first. It was cool and dark. Steel chairs were pulled up to the kitchen table. “It’s cute,” she said.
She opened every door: bathroom, refrigerator and closet.
Even as Top Shelf seemed uncertain — as if this were too good to
be true — she nodded. “This will work out just fine.” Big Mama’s unit was next. “Hold the elevator,” she called out, touching her eyes with a tissue. She rang her doorbell as if it belonged to someone else.
Then she took a breath, exhaled and pushed her key into the lock.
She opened the door. The room was dark, the blinds pulled shut. She raced across to let in the light.
“Ahhh,” she said. She waved her arms over her head.
Big Mama explored the kitchen, then the bedroom, then the bathroom. Everything around her smelled new: the untouched walls, the plump sofa, the cabinets in the kitchen. It was spare, but clean.
She started to unpack her bedding, then remembered: They still had to sign their leases. She turned to head out, but stopped.
She dropped to her knees. Light from a window poured in around her and reflected off the bare floor.
She clasped her hands on a coffee table and bowed her head. There was a lot to pray for.
The building manager had made the rules clear: No smoking. No visitors for longer than 14 days. No drugs, including marijuana (federal regulations prohibit the use of cannabis — even for medical reasons and even in states where it is legal — in any federal housing program like Section 8). Violations led to warnings, and three warnings could lead to eviction.
Tears on her face, she thanked God and asked for help.
To make apartment living easier for Big Mama and her neighbors, the People Concern and another private agency, LifeSTEPS, were on site to provide counseling and other services. Their primary goal was to make sure no resident ended up on the street again.
After months, even years, of sleeping on the sidewalks, in tents or in cars, for some residents learning to live in an apartment was not as simple as unlocking a door and stepping inside. It meant living on someone else’s terms. It meant paying bills, cleaning, remembering keys when they stepped out.
Leaving the streets also meant abandoning the past and imagining the future, which could be a challenge for anyone whose focus had been hour to hour.
To ease confusion and loneliness, residents invited friends over who were still homeless. Some found it hard to accept that they had been given housing and others had not. Guilt could sabotage good fortune, trigger old behaviors.
A visit could turn into an overnight, then a few days, then a few weeks, and weeks would lead to eviction. Visitors had nothing to lose by behaving badly. In their jealousy, they didn’t care about lease agreements. Nor did they care that they were being watched to see if rules were being broken.
Residents were responsible not only for managing their visitors, but they also had to pay 30% of their income toward rent and utilities. Federal or county housing subsides covered the balance, and for those whose sole income was general relief from the county — $221 a month — getting by week to week remained a problem.
Food stamps paid for groceries, but for those unaccustomed to cooking, even eating fast food could add up. Some residents held back on purchases: a phone, new clothes, cleaning supplies. Getting around town on public transportation could be pricey, and paying for a car was nearly impossible.
And if residents found a job and their income increased, they would have to pay more for their apartment. As a result, some held off finding work — or, if they landed something, made sure they were paid under the table.
One young man took public transportation to Van Nuys to sell his blood plasma — five visits, $300 — to get through the month. One resident arranged with a market in Venice a weekly donation of fruit, vegetables and expired packaged goods for the building.
Lurking beneath these struggles of life and routine were many unresolved causes of homelessness. New residents still had to fight addictions, heal illnesses, overcome trauma and look for jobs. They needed to think of themselves differently, no longer homeless, to find purpose and meaning in their lives lest boredom drive them into the streets again.
“Homelessness is like that car,” said Wendy, a vocational nurse who had lived on the street with Horace Lackey. Pointing to her aging Chrysler, she explained: “You can tow it, but you’ve got to open the hood to see why it’s not running.”
Two days after getting her key, Big Mama returned to Broadway Place to take down her tent and collect her recyclables. Walking from the bus stop, she saw what remained of the encampment.
“Oh, no! Look what they’ve done!” she yelled.
In the short time she had been away, someone had slashed her tent and stolen her collection of aluminum cans. Soiled clothing, knotted plastic bags and fast-food containers were clogging the gut