Black pawn, Author MichaelMaggs, (CC BY-SA 2.5 Generic)
“He who gives to the poor will not lack, But he who hides his eyes will have many curses” (Ps. 28: 27).
The summer after Aretha had her barbecue, Mayor John Street announced his Task Force on Homelessness had created a ten-year plan to end homelessness in the City of Philadelphia [1]. This garnered quite a bit of positive press.
At a City Hall news conference, the Mayor spoke of “a moral and legal obligation” to improve life for all.
The Mayor promised $10 million to fund some 600 new units of subsidized housing for homeless families, and 100 beds for homeless individuals. When pressed, however, he acknowledged at least $9 million would come from existing programs for the homeless.
The poor are pawns in the game of politics. Philadelphia mayors have promised to end poverty for forty years [2]. Homelessness though exists even amid the mansions on the Main Line, made famous by the film “The Philadelphia Story”. That area alone has between 700 and 900 homeless families.
There are stately Victorian homes, in and around Philadelphia, which have been converted to illegal multiple dwellings, some one-room apartments sharing kitchens or baths common to an entire floor.
One respected group for girls, I understand, created a special series of awards because of transience. These badges or pins can be earned at a single session, so that girls are not deprived of the sense of accomplishment, when they are not able to return a second time to the group.
The muckraking journalist, Lincoln Steffens, in the early 1900s branded Philadelphia a city “corrupt and contented”. Even to this, however, there must be some limit.
Homeless
Aretha, herself, became truly homeless for the first time in 2005. Until then, there was at least a relative with whom she could stay. But she was out of options…and endurance.
The problem of homelessness was so endemic in Philadelphia by 2005 that I was routinely handing out flyers on the limited number of shelters and food kitchens to the homeless men and women I encountered on the street.
Because of a break in her employment, Aretha had fallen several months behind in rent. She promised to pay the landlord a few dollars extra each month, when re-employed, to make up the deficiency.
Unfortunately, Aretha failed to get the landlord’s agreement to this amendment of her lease in writing. Once she had a paycheck coming in again, Aretha kept her promise. However, the landlord proceeded to court, and obtained an eviction for non-payment of rent, on the basis of the arrears.
I learned of this only after the fact. Aretha was by then bouncing from one relative to another. Apart from the clothes on her back, she had been able to take from the apartment only a second pair of slacks, and a few items of clothing for Jonathan. Still trying to hold down her job, Aretha washed out her blouse and underwear in the sink nightly.
The rest of Aretha’s clothing (and Jonathan’s), the food in her cupboards, her books, furniture, and appliances, the desktop computer she had been given but had yet to install, and Jonathan’s toys were all under lock and key at the apartment.
Aretha would be allowed back in only once, by pre-arrangement with the landlord, to remove them. With the clock ticking, she had yet to find affordable movers. Read more…
Representation of domestic violence victim, Author Commonperson, (CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication)
WARNING: Graphic Images
“He will redeem their life from oppression and violence; And precious shall be their blood in His sight” (Ps. 72: 14).
When years before the students in Aretha’s class were asked to imagine having lunch with three personalities of their choosing (living or dead), Aretha had named Oprah Winfrey, the Emmy winning talk show hostess; Johnnie Cochran, the criminal defense attorney renowned for his successful representation of OJ Simpson; and — of all people — me.
I most certainly did not belong in such exalted company. In part because the Philadelphia economy was imploding, in part because my health was failing, in part because I was spending more and more time on clinic-related matters, I was struggling to make ends meet.
Battered Women’s Shelter
I did on occasion speak to small groups of lawyers or lay people about the law. Several such instances found me at a North Philadelphia shelter for battered and abused women. I was deeply moved by the experience.
There are no reporters in such places, no paparazzi. Initially, I did not, myself, know what to expect. I assumed, if anything, that I would pity these women. That was not, however, the case.
Instead, I was in awe.
All Colors, Shapes, and Sizes
The women, themselves, came in all colors, shapes, and sizes. Those I met ranged in age from their early twenties to mid-sixties. Some were pretty and petite, others statuesque Amazons.
Some could barely make eye contact, were hesitant to speak. Others had acquired a hardened demeanor or false bravura to hide their pain.
All were deeply concerned for the welfare and safety of their children.
We spoke about the fact that as many as 40% – 60% of the victims of domestic violence are battered during pregnancy; that 25% of the women attempting suicide have been victims of domestic abuse [1][2].
We spoke about the fact that boys raised in abusive households are ten times more likely to become abusive men; that girls are six times more likely to be sexually abused (or, themselves, become involved with abusive partners) [3].
We spoke about the spiritual issues faced by domestic abuse victims, and the practical means of making a new life. We spoke about rebuilding self-esteem, and the lure of false hope that the abusive partner might “change.”
Beaten, Stabbed, and Burned
But, most of all, we spoke about the lives of these women.
They had been beaten, stabbed, burned, locked in, tied up, and chained down. They had been criticized for being attractive and criticized for being unattractive, instructed what to wear, then punished for wearing it. They had been struck by tire irons, and thrown out windows.
They had suffered broken hearts, broken dishes, and broken bones. Read more…
“For You have been a strength to the poor, A strength to the needy in his distress…For the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall” (Isa. 25: 4).
Aretha called, upset. I had been expecting a call, but not like this. She was supposed to have started a new job.
The position was at a facility for the mentally handicapped. Aretha would be serving as an aide, assisting patients with meals, bathroom needs, and other daily activities. She was so happy to have landed the job.
Everything had looked positive, just a few days ago.
As it turned out, Aretha and a cousin had gone out to a club Sunday evening. The club was crowded. Somehow, an argument started up between Aretha’s cousin and another young woman there.
Perhaps one woman, by chance, bumped into the other. Perhaps a drink was spilled. Words were exchanged, and a fist-fight broke out, with several of the other woman’s friends joining in.
Aretha first attempted to break things up, then assisted her cousin in exiting the club. As the two waited in the street outside for their ride home, a car veered sharply toward them. Aretha managed to dodge. The car, however, struck Aretha’s cousin, dragging her several yards.
Police were called, and quickly arrived on the scene.
The woman who had started the altercation in the club was identified as the driver. Aretha’s cousin was taken by ambulance to the hospital, having sustained several severe fractures. Aretha and other witnesses were questioned into the early morning hours by police.
Because of all this, Aretha was unable to make it to work on time Monday. Evidently, her new employer did not view this as boding well, and let her go on the spot.
“What if I call your boss?”
“I don’ know.”
“Do you think that might help?”
“Maybe.”
“Does she know what happened?”
“I tol’ Rollie.”
“Who’s Rollie?”
“He works theah.”
“But did you tell the woman in charge, honey? He may not have explained the situation to her.”
“I was really tired. I didn’ think it would make any difference.””
We figured at this point it could not hurt for me to call, so I got the number and dialed.
“Ma’am, I’m an attorney calling on behalf of a new employee of yours. I understand you recently had a problem with her.”
“[Ahem.] Yes, we felt it prudent not to go forward with the employment arrangement.”
“I understand, Ma’am. I’m not calling to cause you any problems. I just want to make sure you have all the facts.”
“Facts?”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware. But Aretha was the subject of a vehicular assault last night. Police had to be called. Her cousin was hospitalized, seriously injured.”
“Oh, no! We did not know that. I hope she’s all right.”
“Thankfully, Aretha was not hurt. She was though detained most of the night by police for questioning. That’s the reason she was late for work. Of course, Aretha was in no way responsible for the assault. Ordinarily, she’s very dependable, and extremely motivated.”
“We didn’t realize that. Well, naturally, that puts a different light on things.”
“Would you consider giving Aretha another chance? It would mean a great deal to her.”
I sighed with relief, when I hung up the phone. The job had been saved. The daily commute would, however, take Aretha six hours – not exactly what I had in mind, when I first tried talking Aretha into taking a job outside the comfort of her immediate neighborhood.
At least Aretha had alerted me to the situation early enough, so that I could try and intervene. More often than not, I learned of such events too late. Aretha accepted them as the norm in her life.
There was, also, denial involved. In order to stay sane, Aretha would convince herself that situations anyone else would have seen as disastrous were still under her control.
Not having had anyone to call for help in the past, Aretha did not expect anyone to respond now. I was not deluded enough to view myself as any great “savior.” My attempts to assist Aretha were simply better than nothing. Read more…
Lawn at the Mann Center, Philadelphia, PA, Image courtesy of Manncenter.org
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, Because He has anointed Me To preach the gospel to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted…And…To set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4; 18).
Covering slightly over 4000 acres, Fairmount Park claims to be the largest landscaped park in America. Walking, biking, and bridle trails can be found throughout the park.
Flanking either side of the Schuykill River are Kelly and Martin Luther King, Jr. Drives, providing early morning commuters scenic glimpses of the river as they sit in traffic. Kelly Drive is host to numerous statues of notables and open air sculptures. A historic cemetery along the drive dates from the Civil War.
Jonathan saw his first goose at Fairmount Park. Canada geese are frequent visitors. Aretha and I stood guard from a few feet away, as Jonathan toddled sturdily forward, the goose very nearly larger than he was.
Aretha pulled out juice and cereal for Jonathan to snack on. Unlike some other young mothers, she was careful to avoid falling back on candy to relieve the boy’s hunger.
We had driven to the park in search of tranquility. The weather had only recently warmed, but scullers from nearby Boathouse Row could already be seen on the river, much as Thomas Eakins had memorialized them on canvas a hundred years earlier.
Both Aretha and I knew that the park could be treacherous. Purse snatchings, drug deals, assaults, even rapes had occurred there. Like Philadelphia – like America, herself – the park is an amalgam of contradictions.
“Wha’ ch’u thinkin’ ?” Aretha asked. My thoughts were on Jonathan’s future, his place in this world, his chances. “Nothing,” I replied, not wanting to spoil the moment. Read more…
“If one of your brethren becomes poor, and falls into poverty…then you shall help him, like a stranger or a sojourner, that he may live with you” (Lev. 25: 35).
Aretha had problems keeping a roof over her head. After leaving the group home, Aretha lived alternately with her sister, at least one aunt, her mother, and in apartments Aretha rented, herself.
There were difficulties with each of these arrangements. Aretha’s sister, Shantice, had since purchased a house in West Philadelphia she shared with her husband. Though the marriage did not last, the two continued to live together. There were, also, now four children.
The real issue was not space or even upheaval in the marriage. Aretha’s brother-in-law had made advances toward her. She kept this to herself, but did not feel entirely safe around him.
Both Aretha’s mother and the aunt on whose couch Aretha slept could be volatile personalities, likely as not to ask her to leave on a moment’s notice. Aretha wanted a stable place to raise her son. The house Aretha’s mother owned when I first met her was later condemned as uninhabitable.
Section 8 Housing
This left Aretha with the option of Section 8 housing, more formally known as the Housing Choice Voucher Program. The term “Section 8” refers to the US Housing Act under which this federal assistance program is authorized.
Administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), the program subsidizes low-income housing, with tenants paying about 30% of their own rent, and federal funds the remainder.
While a state’s Public Housing Authority can link a portion of tenant vouchers to specific apartment complexes (in my day known as “the projects”), the program allows eligible families to lease in privately-held buildings, as well. Participating landlords are subject to a rental cap determined by HUD for Section 8 tenants, and must meet federal housing quality standards.
That, at any rate, is the theory.
In practice, many inner city landlords do not adhere to the mandatory housing standards unless or until taken to court. Some view the resulting fines as a mere cost of doing business. Tenants, also, at times damage these apartments, though they can be evicted for doing so.
Despite this, the waiting list for Section 8 housing in most areas of the country is thousands of families long. The delay for vouchers can easily run three to five years.
Aretha experienced this first-hand. Though she searched hard for livable conditions, Aretha occupied apartments that had serious plumbing and electrical problems, sometimes lacked heat, were all without air conditioning.
Aretha fought cockroaches, rats, mold, garbage accumulation, chronic leaks, and the stench of backed up sewage. She lived with drafty windows in winter, and the sweltering heat of Philadelphia summers.
Finding my way to Aretha’s various addresses was a constant challenge for me. One night, I headed out without directions, sure I would remember the way to her latest apartment, having already been there several times. Instead, I wound up lost in West Philadelphia.
Again, I had no phone on me, and no chance of locating one. I drove haplessly up one deserted street and down another, praying something would look familiar.
Finally, at a total loss, I pulled over and stopped altogether. “Well, God,” I thought, “this is up to You. I can’t find it, for the life of me. Unless Your angels drive, I’m not getting there tonight!”
At that point, for no reason I can explain, I turned the car around and drove directly to Aretha’s door. I guess the angels knew her address, even if I didn’t. Aretha and I laughed about it later, over cake. Read more…
Anterior view of human heart, Source/Author Patrick Lynch, medical illustrator (CC BY-SA 2.5 Generic)
“A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart brings forth evil” (Luke 6: 45).
Not many are familiar with Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. It is a heart rhythm disorder, effecting fewer than 200,000 people in the US population.
In a normal heart, electrical signals use a single pathway as they move through the heart from its upper to lower chambers. In Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome, one or more additional, abnormal pathways exist between the upper chambers (“atria”) and lower chambers (“ventricles”) of the heart, causing the electrical signal to reach the ventricles too soon and be routed back into the atria. Very fast heart rates can develop as the electrical signal ricochets back and forth.
Patients with Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome may experience heart palpitations, dizziness, and fainting. The syndrome can lead to cardiac arrest, even death.
Aretha first began experiencing symptoms around age eleven. Her heart would flutter, beating faster and faster, till she had difficulty catching her breath.
Aretha reported these symptoms, but they were initially dismissed, then variously attributed to over-exertion, high blood pressure, and stress.
Since her symptoms persisted, there were several electrocardiograms performed over the years. These were read as normal, though extra electrical pathways should have been visible on EKG. This is not surprising, since poverty is directly correlated with poor health outcomes [1].
Finally, after Aretha had fainted repeatedly in high school, the disorder was diagnosed. When medication did not relieve her rapid heartbeat, Aretha was scheduled for surgery. A flexible tube would be guided into place in her heart, and portions of tissue destroyed by radio frequency, eliminating the abnormal electrical pathways.
Aretha did not place great faith in this surgery. She had been told it would correct her condition. But Aretha had been so often unheard or disbelieved – and so often misdiagnosed – that the surgery seemed just another venture. Read more…
:max_bytes(150000):strip_icc():format(webp)/Parents-GettyImages-1369926465-8b27f61d03cc4cc1889d6d8919c37c16.jpg)
Mother with sick child,
Copyright © Good Boy Picture Company/Getty Image,
Courtesy of Parents Magazine https://www.parents.com
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills — From whence comes my help?” (Ps. 121: 1).
Jonathan lay listlessly on the bed, his skin hot and dry to the touch. Aretha and I sat concerned on either side of the baby boy, the bedspread rumpled, the bed virtually the only piece of furniture in the small, third floor walk-up.
“I think you should call the doctor, Aretha. He’s very hot.”
“I called the docta’ befo’.”
“What did he say?”
“Babies can get high temp’achu’s.”
“Maybe you should try bathing him in some cool water to bring the temperature down.”
No response.
“Didn’t the doctor prescribe anything?”
“No.”
“Can you give Jonathan something over the counter for babies?”
“I aw’ ready did.”
“I think you should try calling again. Or take him to an emergency room.”
Aretha found her cell phone, and redialed. Thankfully, Jonathan recovered.
Racial bias can play a role in the evaluation and treatment of medical conditions among the poor [1]. Whether that was the case here, I do not know. But the evidence for such bias existed long before the distorted views of critical race theory or Woke ideology were ever popularized [2][3A].
A Good Mother Without Support
Aretha did not need me to tell her how to be a good mother. She held the baby, and rocked him. She nursed him when he was hungry. She took him for his shots, and comforted him afterwards. She read and sang to him.
She sat alone in the apartment with him for endless hours, gazing out into the street.
What Aretha needed was a support system. Her own mother, drawn to the excitement and volatility of street life, would disappear for days, and could not be relied on for child care in these early years of Jonathan’s life.
Aretha was, as a result, trapped. She might take the baby to the grocery store with her, but could not leave him to attend classes or find work.
Some mothers in the same position would party through the night, in search of escape, leaving their children alone or handing them off to any willing neighbor. Aretha refused to do that.
Unable to afford a vehicle, Aretha had to take public transportation. That could mean waiting an hour for the next street car, if she missed her intended one, all the while huddling against the cold, holding the baby in a carrier in her arms.
I tried to help Aretha find child care. Several Christian organizations had put together a directory of community services. Aretha found these still beyond her means, to the extent she had the energy to inquire.
The situation drained Aretha. She was no longer the girl I had known, full of sparkle and life. A photo of Aretha in yellow cap and gown, still stood on my desk. But I rarely saw that smile any more. Read more…
Shofuso Japanese House and Garden, Philadelphia, PA, Author 松風荘 (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
“Teach me to do Your will, For You are my God…” (Ps. 143: 10).
“May education and learning be central to their lives and work, and move them forward to lives of personal and academic fulfillment.”
–Rae Alexander-Minter, EdD, at the dedication of Penn Alexander School
A new grammar school has been built in West Philadelphia since Aretha’s day. Named for African American lawyer and civil rights pioneer, Sadie Tanner Mossell Alexander, the $19 million building perches like a great white bird amid the rubble of its surroundings.
Regrettably, the school was built too late for Aretha. She spent her last matriculated year at West Philadelphia High School, without text books the entire time.
Situated at 48th Street and Locust Avenue, West Philadelphia High School is overwhelmingly African American with approximately 86% of its over 1700 pupils from low-income families. The school when last reported had two guidance counselors, fewer than ten teacher’s aides. Some 30% of students are absent on any given day.
Truancy
In Philadelphia as a whole, there are over 12,000 children truant on any given day. Single mothers battle the streets for their children’s souls.
Though young people are required to attend school through age 17, truancy officers in West Philadelphia rarely stop those on the street during school hours. Perhaps the volume is overwhelming. Either that or the lives of these children are already viewed as expendable.
West Philadelphia High School, in fact, boasts an Electric Vehicle Team which builds functional and award winning hybrid electric cars getting 50-60 miles per gallon. But verbal and math college board test scores have averaged 600, out of a possible 1600. The dropout rate has been as high as 18%.
In 2006, there were 74 incidents at the school characterized as “serious” (89 incidents, the last year Aretha attended there). These included disorderly conduct, drug and alcohol offenses, altercations between students, vandalism, weapons charges, thefts, and assaults on teachers. One teacher had his jaw broken.
It is not unusual for arson fires to be set in student lockers, further disrupting classroom time. Read more…
Pregnant woman, Image courtesy of Adobe
“Then she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees; for she said, ‘Have I also here seen Him who sees me?‘” (Gen. 16: 13).
I had parked outside Aretha’s West Philadelphia apartment (her aunt’s actually). The windshield wipers swept rhythmically back and forth, the streetlight casting its thin rays out into the wet street. Cars passed by, raising a spray against the door, without regard to us.
Aretha sat beside me on the front seat. Hands clasped in her lap, she squeezed out a few halting words at a time, tears in her voice.
“I don’ know what to do.”
“About what? What’s happened, honey?”
“They’re all yellin’ at me.”
“Who’s yelling at you? Why?”
“Ever’body has an opinion. No one’ll listen to me.”
“Tell me what’s happened. Maybe I can help.”
“Well, I’m expectin’ now. My aunt wants me to get rid of the baby.”
I caught my breath. A baby.
“Is that what you want?”
“I wanna keep it. I thought…I thought about, you know, ending things.”
I struggled to remain calm.
“You mean suicide? Oh, honey, you can’t do that! Don’t even think that.”
“I can’ go on like this, bein’ pulled in all differen’ directions.”
“We’ll find a way. Whatever it is you want to do, we’ll find a way.”
“I knew you’d un’erstan’.”
I did not, however, understand.
Oh, I understood why Aretha wanted the child – someone all her own to love her unconditionally. But I had heard Aretha say a thousand times she did not want children. I had heard her deplore the fact that so many young women she knew were becoming mothers at a tender age.
I had worried she might forego the great pleasure of motherhood entirely, in a misguided effort to further her career.
Aretha had never been “boy crazy.” She had dated little. Now, there was another life in the mix. Aretha’s life was no longer entirely her own. Read more…
Friendship bracelets, Image courtesy of Cultural Fashion or Adornment, Tanzania, Author Maryam Mgonja, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
“And above all things have fervent love for one another, for ‘love will cover a multitude of sins‘” (1 Peter 4: 8).
I could have ended our relationship when Aretha left the program. Since she was a ward of the state, not yet emancipated, her status was now technically that of an unsupervised minor. I did not, in fact, know how to reach her.
Aretha had spoken of other girls leaving the group home. She kept to herself, so as not to make attachments that would not last.
Ruth had warned me that a high proportion of girls leave the program early, that the gravitational pull of their old lives is simply too great. The chaos to which they have been accustomed leaves them so scarred it is not possible for them to accept the schedules, the rules and regulations, that provide the structure for an ordinary life [1].
Though essential, love alone is not enough. Self-discipline (and patience) are two critical characteristics the girls lack. Structure helps teach these things, but only for those willing to stay with the program.
While Aretha had been discontented, I had not expected this. I wrestled with what I would say, if she called. My first concern was for her welfare. However, by leaving the program, Aretha had, also, foregone the tremendous educational opportunities associated with it. Not only would she be back at an inner city high school. She would now have to finance college on her own.
In situations such as this one, the relief organization encouraged its volunteers to continue mentor relationships – albeit without formal guidance – if the child expressed an interest.
When Aretha did call from her aunt’s, I offered to go on with her as we had before. Aretha took for granted that our relationship would continue.
We were, after all, friends.
—
[1] National Institutes of Health (NIH), National Library of Medicine, “The role of chaos in poverty and children’s socioemotional adjustment” by Gary Evans, et al, July 2005, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/16008790/.
Copyright © 2010 – Present Anna Waldherr. All rights reserved.
READERS CAN FIND MY VIEWS ON ABUSE AND ABUSE-RELATED ISSUES AT ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse
https://avoicereclaimed.com
A Lawyer's Prayers 