Driving down Lee Street yesterday, running the Tate Street lunch choices through my mind and thinking about who I should call to join me.
A sudden and not-uncommon swarm of blue lights and black uniforms commandeers the sidewalk and right lane. Men are detained, mouths move, heads shake, worlds collide, viewed through my windshield, just another day…
And then I saw her. Just ahead. On the sidewalk. Walking fast.
I had to smile because I realized that I’d turned in the wrong direction and I was headed away from lunch and Tate Street, and maybe there was a reason that I was in this place at this time on this day.
I pulled over to the curb and honked and hoped that whole squad of cops a half a block behind me was too busy to notice and get the wrong impression and come over to ask questions.
She looked surprised but happy to see me, and she jumped right in. “Do you need a ride?” “Yeah, I don’t have to be there for an hour and half but I thought it’d take that long to walk.” “Want to go eat lunch with me?” Her whole face lit up. She has a beautiful face. It made me happy.
She wanted cheesesteak so we went to Manhattan. (I ate my usual turkey. Best in the world. I don’t have to order anymore. They just know.) We talked about nothing for a while but then that changed. The fragilty that edges her toughness was more apparent than usual this day, and she wanted to say more.
She talked about her family, how much she misses them. How they love her, in a hard way, “not unconditionally,” but still, it’s love, and she holds on to it. She talked about surviving on the street and wanting to get off and kick the stuff that’s kicking her.
She talked about Hannah’s Haven, the place our friend is working to open. First it was going to be February, now maybe March. Her lip trembled when she said “March” out loud, and she looked away and wiped her eyes. March is a long way from January when every day is a war that you’re fighting to survive.
She says God is keeping her alive, and I believe that. She’s said she’s ready to be off these streets and I believe that, too.
She talked about the job she’s been working. A real job. Not the streets. They paid her $6.00 an hour and she said she knows it’s not much and she made more on the street, but it wasn’t the money, it was the way the job made her feel. A real job. She was part of a team. She had a uniform. She had dignity. She had self-respect. But then she lost the job.
She had stayed in the shelter for a while, but there was some commotion going on and it bothered her nerves, so one night she just didn’t go back. Then she stayed in a halfway house, but the girls fought too much for her, and once again, she left. She can’t be around fighting, she can’t take it. So she went from place to place, paying folks to let her stay on the couch or the floor.
This last place, she was late giving them money and they threw her out, threw her things in the street. She had nowhere to sleep, nowhere to shower, nowhere to wash her uniform. She couldn’t go to work dirty. So she didn’t go.
The day before, her ride had been an hour late. The two days before that she’d had trouble getting rides and been late to work. So with a few days late and no place to stay she just didn’t bother showing up for work. And she didn’t call. She loved that job. She craved that dignity. But she stayed away.
“So they didn’t fire you? You just never called? Why didn’t you call him? Why didn’t you tell him what happened? Maybe he would have understood?” “I couldn’t.” There were tears in her eyes again. She joked that the people around us were getting a good show while we talked, because she kept crying. “Were you embarassed to tell him?” “I was ashamed.” I think my heart would have broken then if it hadn’t already gone numb from all the pain she’d shared, much more than I can reveal. And if I didn’t already know that this happens every day to people in this city, and in this state, and in this nation, and in this world.
I drove her to get her last paycheck. I waited outside. I told her to just be honest. Tell him what happened. The worst he could do is not give her the job back. But maybe… just maybe. And he needed to hear just how much that job meant to her. He needed to know.
She came out smiling. Free soda in hand. “What happened? Did you tell him?” “Yeah, I told him.” “What did he say?” “He said they’re changing managers. He’s gonna tell the new manager and he wants me to come back and re-apply.” “Are you going to?” “Yeah.” She had her happy face back on. I couldn’t read her anymore. I couldn’t tell how she was feeling.
I dropped her off at the store where she gets her checks cashed. She said she could walk from there. We hugged and said “I love you” at the same time, and grinned. As she got out, I thought about how everybody thinks she’s so tough, but how it seems to me like she’s really made of glass and might break at any minute. I thought about how much her family must worry about her and how hard it must be for them to love her but not know how to help her. I thought about how some people look down on those who work minimum wage jobs. But what they don’t know is that dignity is priceless.
