Like Rain on Parked Cars, Chapter 3 – So the Poor Have Hope

86th Street Subway Station, New York City, Author Daniel Schwen (GFDL)

“But He saves the needy from the sword, From the mouth of the mighty, And from their hand.  So the poor have hope, And injustice shuts her mouth” (Job 5: 15-16).

The poverty in America is not, of course, confined to Philadelphia.

Poverty, Drugs, and Homelessness

I had grown up in a working class neighborhood of the Bronx, a short ten minute drive from the nearest public housing project.  The high-rise apartments there were monoliths, devoid of any hint of humanity other than graffiti and the occasional Christmas lights draped from a balcony, twenty stories up.

My parents for years owned a small delicatessen in Harlem.  My mother dealt daily with the working poor, barefoot children, prostitutes, drug addicts, and the homeless.  It was one of the happiest and most difficult times of her life.

As an adult, a personal injury lawyer, I had interviewed the victims of rape and mayhem in projects with lofty names like the Polo Grounds Houses.  The irony was not lost on me.

Children amused themselves by skateboarding against the elevator doors, for the clanging sound that made.  A special police squad investigated the paralyses and deaths which resulted when the doors gave way, and children disappeared down the shaft.

Behind the desk of one project manager, I noticed a jar of what seemed to be multi-colored marbles. He pulled the jar forward to reveal empty “crack” cocaine vials.  “This is what I’m up against,” he said to me, somberly.  “This is just a week’s worth from one of the stairwells.”

The Subway

I rode the subway at all hours.  Legless veterans would regularly roll through the train cars, flush with the floor, begging for spare change.

One frail young woman pushed a stroller along, calling out, “Milk for the baby!  Milk for the baby!” as she pleaded for coins.  Whether the money she collected went to the baby or her drug habit, I do not know.

A scrap of conversation stays with me from those subway rides.  Three middle-aged, African American women sat across from me, talking over the roar of the train, one gesturing in an animated fashion.  I could not help but overhear her distress.  “An Uzi!?  I sez to him, ‘An Uzi?  Why can’ ya jus’ get a reg’la’ gun?’ ”

Flee or Engage

I had gone into the law for idealistic reasons, believing I could make a difference.  This constant barrage of pain and sadness wore on me.  Yet I could not turn away.

A high school teacher of mine had said perhaps the most profound thing I ever heard in class.  “There will come a time when each of you will have to choose.  Either run from the cities or save them.”  Flee or engage.

Almost against my will, I found myself running toward the flames.

Christian Legal Aid

In 2001 I was approached by a national organization of Christian attorneys with the idea of starting a legal clinic in inner city Philadelphia.

The prospect was daunting and irresistible.  Without thought of reward, a handful of volunteer attorneys, law students, and paralegals would seek to serve an underprivileged population, in the name of Christ.

With no resources but a Desk Book researched by our law students, we saw our first client in West Philadelphia.  The doors have been open ever since.  Two years later, we started a second clinic in North Philadelphia, an equally depressed area of the city, with a primarily Hispanic population.

The pastor at the faith based non-profit which housed our first clinic had been raised in West Philadelphia, by a single mother.  A tall and imposing African American man with a booming laugh, he regularly walks the neighborhood praying with and for the residents there.

The first time I accompanied the pastor, I noticed that he shifted continually from my left to right side, as we crossed the various streets.  “I’m not trying to be chauvinistic,” the pastor said.  “But men here like to protect women against drive-bys.  We walk on the outside, nearer the street.  It’s a habit.”

I have had incandescent experiences at the clinic, along with heart wrenching ones.  It is an enormous privilege to serve those in need.

A young woman inquires how to file income tax returns with her husband incarcerated.  An illegal immigrant, supporting a mother and young siblings in Mexico, is falsely charged with robbery, then incarcerated for months unable to make bail.  A woman seeks child support.  An elderly man with epilepsy is at a loss how to file for government benefits.

One woman seeks to regain custody of her child from foster care.  Another is falsely accused of having assaulted her mother, then barred from her own home while strangers fraudulently transfer title.

A hotel clerk, laid off when business slowed, finds his former employer now contesting unemployment benefits, claiming the man was discharged for cause.  An elderly woman seeks help with credit problems.  A second hopes to secure adequate care for her out of state son, a veteran.  Yet a third requires assistance in obtaining a refund for shoddy car repairs.

The torn fabric of the American dream is all too clearly visible.

A Child of West Philadelphia

It was in such circumstances, I would learn, that Aretha was raised.

She was a child of West Philadelphia, the middle of five children, her father absent and her mother a long-term addict.  With an older brother and sister each married and out of the house, Aretha was by age ten left alone for days to feed and look after her younger brother and sister.

It was because she missed school to accomplish this that the dire nature of the situation eventually came to light, and custody of the children was ultimately removed.  The younger ones were adopted out.  Aretha was relegated to foster care.

She did not often speak of this early time in her life.  I pieced it together gradually, through bits of information from Ruth, hints and inferences Aretha would let drop in casual conversation, as she came to know and trust me.

Aretha, herself, said she could not remember large portions of her childhood.  This was due to dissociation amnesia, often a result of childhood trauma or abuse [1].

Though at times embarrassed by her situation or threadbare surroundings, Aretha was always matter of fact, never self-pitying in speaking of her life.  It was that remarkable courage that first struck me about her.

How many other children were there, in how many other cold and empty apartments, struggling to survive?  I asked myself that frequently after meeting Aretha.  And why did we, as a nation, allow this?

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[1]  Mayo Clinic, “Dissociative disorders”, https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/dissociative-disorders/symptoms-causes/syc-20355215.

Copyright © 2010 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.

Originally posted 12/6/15 as Flee or Engage

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