Institutionalized Lives

by Anna Morrow

It’s Thursday, May 23rd, in San Francisco. I’ve lived here all my life, so I know that, weather-wise, this could mean anything. It’s almost noon, and the sky is so clear blue that the buildings around Market Street look like those three-dimensional holographic images. I’m hurrying over to the Homeless Prenatal Program (HPP) for a meeting on the Transitional Housing Misconduct Act of 1992. It’s the year 2000, which means this act has been on the books for 8 years. So why has it never been used in court; why has no one ever heard of it.

I'm cutting across the UN Plaza, acutely aware of my attire: black dress slacks, button-up, sheer, embroidered shirt, gold earrings, necklace and ring. I’m walking fast, hoping no one will pick me out of the crowd and solicit me for money or cigarettes. I’ve been homeless for 6 months, but I clean up pretty well. I still can’t decide if it is a compliment, or a nuisance, or just down right offensive to be approached by strangers who have mistaken me for someone who is financially stable. All of the above maybe, depending on my mood or the current status of my intimate relationship with homelessness.

I duck inside the narrow building and let the darkness of the small corridor protect me for a moment while I wait for the elevator. The building is old, and the elevator is small with one of those grill gates. I press number 10. Once upstairs I walk out onto a yellowing and gray mosaic tile hallway at the end of which, just to the right, is HPP. There are two swinging fake wood paneled doors with a big chip out of the corner of one side and a diaper pail just to the right of the bottom hinge. Inside I find a room with 7 chairs and a huge window that displays a magnificent northwest gaze across Market Street. There is no fog today to impede the view past the top of City Hall, all the way to the "sleeping lady" mountain in Marin. The sight of this local landmark brings me a secret sense of well-being: I am happy to see that she, at least, still has her home.

Back in the room I see the woman I am here to meet. Her name is Falechia. I met her while my son and I were staying at the shelter. She facilitated weekly support groups for women there every Thursday night. Now she is talking to a woman who is holding a small child. They're discussing groceries and best buys for your budget from what I can tell without trying to listen. The little girl is content, no fussing, wearing rolled up overalls and a T-shirt that says, 'Shit Happens' and little flower hair clips that say 'Jesus saves’. As their conversation ends and Falechia passes me towards the door, I re-introduce myself and she turns quickly to greet me.

"Hi Anna! How are you? I'm glad you could make it. We're running a little late. Let me take you upstairs."

I follow her up the stairs, past the diaper pail, and she tells me about the agenda for the meeting and who she expects to be here: Rebecca Vilcomerson from HPP, Arnett Watson, a client advocate, Allison Lum from Coalition on Homelessness, and various shelter and Transitional Housing ex-residents who will be giving their testimonials about having to leave abruptly. As we’re walking down the hallway, I'm thinking about my own shelter experience and how hard it was to live in that environment. I used to lovingly refer to it as "Anna and Jesse's Grand Adventure"( Jesse is my 14 year old son), like it was our version of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But the sense of "grand adventure" wore off after about five months. By that time I had lost my job and our application for Transitional Housing had been denied. Both of these events occurred within a week of each other. I was stunned, after two lengthy and optimistic interviews with the housing program, to receive the denial letter. Apparently, from their perspective, I was not homeless enough.

I was feeling beyond hopeless at that point, which is somewhere my head goes when I've done everything I can think to do and can't conceive of the next steps. I'm feeling electrocuted by fear and "what-ifs": What if I can't get a job in time? What if we have to live on the street? What if I just have a nervous break down? and then, What if Child Protective Services takes my son?

Right about this time I'm staying sane by reading things like The Bell Jar, Girl Interrupted, Little Altars Everywhere and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. My final claim to sanity came with the self-appointed title of "Hagatha the Shelter Hag." It was a title which was respected by my loyal subjects because it represented my lengthy tenure at the shelter; my high seniority as it were. This was a fun little game I played with my dormitory bunkmates. It included things like re-writing the words to show tunes to fit our current circumstance. To the best of our abilities (which never exceeded our enthusiasm!), we belted out our own lyrics to songs from Oliver, Rent, Fiddler on the Roof. Our songs were usually about us overcoming the odds despite our deplorable conditions. The game was more comic relief therapy than one might think. It was meant to keep us afloat in the turbulent sea of rules, regulations and the power differential which permeated our institutionalized lives. At every turn we were reminded that the we were not authorized to run even the most minute details of our lives. This fact manifested itself in situations like my having to eat cough drops for lunch for an entire week because no staff member would fix me lunch and, of course, I was not allowed into the kitchen.

When I left, I bestowed the title of Shelter Hag to my friend Gaia who had played the game most willingly with me. I gave her my shelter-rat mascot (a stuffed toy) and instructed her to carry on the reign of my position. She still calls me Haggie though, when she sees me. It took two more lengthy interviews and a complete redirect of my life to be accepted as a Transitional Housing participant. I was so happy to be saved from the jaws of "what-if's" that the reality and uncertainty of being in such a program had not yet sunk in.

The images of these crossroads are floating across my mind’s eye as Falechia gestures me into a big room, one entire side of which is windows. She tells me pizza will be here soon and then she leaves to go get sodas. I wander over to the window and take in a second amazing view. This one spans all the way down Market Street to the ferries, out over the bay and across the bridge. The sky is still pristine blue. My eyes skip over smoke stacks and tarred roofs and land on the side of a building painted in huge white letters that spell out:

I work for a guy called myself.

Somehow this message encourages me; I take itin with a hint of amusement and turn back tothe room. Six folding tables have been pushedtogether to make one giant table in the middle.There are three separate doors opposite thewindowed wall, which also has tables the fulllength of it. They’re crowded with papers andplants and assorted stacks of books. I ventureover to the big table and choose a seat near thefar end of the room. I'm guessing this is thehead of the table, as there is a flip chart closebehind and a TV-video resting on a chair nearby.The wall is crowded with posters and signsleaning against a mail bucket filled with manilafolders and paperwork. In the very back is awhite-board with no tell tale signs of writingfrom previous meetings, presumably because it’stoo hard to get to. By now other people aregathering around, joining me in the room: themother with the baby from downstairs andFalechia, who is talking to a co-worker. SoonAllison comes in and we are ready to begin.

As we are going around the table introducingourselves, I Iearn how it is that these peoplecame to be here and how they are related to thesubject at hand: the Transitional HousingMisconduct Act. "It is a moral issue," Falechiasays firmly. She would repeat this statementthroughout the meeting. Falechia goes on to tellus of her own experience, one in which havingcompleted a Transitional Housing Program ingood standing (meaning she accomplished allshe had set out to do and did not get into anytrouble along the way), she is then told that shecan not stay past her exit date. The staff at theTransitional Program, who had spent theprevious months portraying themselves as herallies, had suddenly become strangers who werekicking her out on the street. Her newapartment was not yet ready for her to move in,so there would be a 2 week lapse of housing forherself and her children. She fought their rulesand won, but she carries a permanent woundfrom feeling forsaken by people who instantlychanged from caring and supportive toindifferent and unyielding the moment herprogram clock ran out. The sense of disbelief andbetrayal is still evident in her voice, though sheis recounting an incident from nearly 2 yearsprevious.

Next we heard from Allison Lum. She works atthe Coalition on Homelessness. She says thatshe periodically gets phone calls from currentshelter and Transitional Housing residents whoare been forced out of their living arrangementswith no place to go and no where to turn forrecourse. She recounts a day when such a phonecall came in as she was simultaneously staringdown at a document on her desk titledTransitional Housing Misconduct Act of 1992.This coincidence prompted her to call Rebecca atHomeless Prenatal Program in search of moreinformation.

Rebecca spoke next. She continues Allison’sstory and says that she too had been at a loss forhow to advise clients who were going throughsimilar difficulties in SF shelter and Housingprograms. She reviewed the Act and drafted asummary which she passes out and readsthrough for us. The most significant piece ofinformation for me was that it is illegal forprogram residents to be excluded (a termequivalent to evicted, for housing residents)without due process, although this is clearlywhat is taking place. The second piece of vitalinformation for me was a clarification made byArnett Watson.

Arnett introduces herself as a client advocate. Iremember her name from an information boardat the shelter. Her name and number whereposted for representation during grievanceprocedures. I have yet to be given anyinformation at my current Transitional Housingprogram about who to contact for grievanceprocedures requiring third party mediation. As itturns out, there is none. What Arnett Watsonsays is that there are only two ways for aprogram resident to be excluded from a program:one is unlawful detainer and the second ismisconduct act. No one can just be thrown outon the streets without due process. Again myhead is searching for understanding. So why isthis happening? I am still trying to comprehendwhy no one running these programs iseducating the people they are supposed to behelping about their rights.

Arnett goes on to explain that interestinglyenough, the act originated as a way for programsto speed up the "eviction" process by offering aless time consuming legal procedure. Anotherinteresting point made by Arnett is that the pieceof paper which I, and all other participants in myprogram, were made to sign in which we gaveaway our rights as tenants was not worth thepaper it was written on. The fact that we signedit is meaningless because LEGALLY there areonly two ways which a person can be made toleave - even if you are still within your 30 dayprobationary period. Well, this is very differentfrom the message I was given. I was led tobelieve that just as it was up to them to decide ifI would be allowed into the program, it would betheir decision if I was to be put out of theprogram. They would have the final say, andthey would always be right because they makethe rules. What I was hearing today, however,led me to believe otherwise. Arnett said, "Peopledon't know that they can get help, they don'tknow they have rights." I am feeling exhilaratedat hearing this and reach for extra flyers todistribute when I get "home".

At this point the woman with the childintroduced herself. She has 2 more children athome. She says she had recently been put outfrom a Transitional Program. It is the same onethat I am currently at. She tells her story of beinggiven 15 minutes to gather her things and go, ofall of her belongings being left in the hallway, ofher sons new jacket disappearing during theshuffle. It is when she is at the peak of her anger,strongly declaring the injustices she hasendured, that I realize a startling and alarmingfact: This woman sitting beside me is the womanwhose room I now occupy. When she is donespeaking, I reach over to give her a hug. Shethinks, perhaps, that I am showing my supportor empathy. With my arms are around her Iwhisper in her ear, "I think I 'm staying in yourroom."

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Legally, you can not be made to leave from a

Transitional Housing Program without due process, i.e. ,

Unlawful Detainer or Transitional Housing Misconduct Act.

Either of theses methods will buy you time, at least 5 days.

For more information or a copy of this act you may contact

Homeless Prenatal Program at 546 - 6756.

Ask for Falechia at x23 or Rebecca at x12.

If you believe that you have been, or are going to be, unlawfully excluded from a program, please call Arnett Watson, client advocate, at mn346 - 3740.

These people are ready to go to court to fight for your rights !