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Institutionalized Lives

Homeless single mother reports on the Transitional Housing Misconduct Act

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:

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I work for a guy called myself.

Somehow this message encourages me; I take it in with a hint of amusement and turn back to the room. Six folding tables have been pushed together to make one giant table in the middle. There are three separate doors opposite the windowed wall, which also has tables the full length of it. They’re crowded with papers and plants and assorted stacks of books. I venture over to the big table and choose a seat near the far end of the room. I'm guessing this is the head of the table, as there is a flip chart close behind and a TV-video resting on a chair nearby. The wall is crowded with posters and signs leaning against a mail bucket filled with manila folders and paperwork. In the very back is a white-board with no tell tale signs of writing from previous meetings, presumably because it’s too hard to get to. By now other people are gathering around, joining me in the room: the mother with the baby from downstairs and Falechia, who is talking to a co-worker. Soon Allison comes in and we are ready to begin.

As we are going around the table introducing ourselves, I Iearn how it is that these people came to be here and how they are related to the subject at hand: the Transitional Housing Misconduct Act. "It is a moral issue," Falechia says firmly. She would repeat this statement throughout the meeting. Falechia goes on to tell us of her own experience, one in which having completed a Transitional Housing Program in good standing (meaning she accomplished all she had set out to do and did not get into any trouble along the way), she is then told that she can not stay past her exit date. The staff at the Transitional Program, who had spent the previous months portraying themselves as her allies, had suddenly become strangers who were kicking her out on the street. Her new apartment was not yet ready for her to move in, so there would be a 2 week lapse of housing for herself and her children. She fought their rules and won, but she carries a permanent wound from feeling forsaken by people who instantly changed from caring and supportive to indifferent and unyielding the moment her program clock ran out. The sense of disbelief and betrayal is still evident in her voice, though she is recounting an incident from nearly 2 years previous.

Next we heard from Allison Lum. She works at the Coalition on Homelessness. She says that she periodically gets phone calls from current shelter and Transitional Housing residents who are been forced out of their living arrangements with no place to go and no where to turn for recourse. She recounts a day when such a phone call came in as she was simultaneously staring down at a document on her desk titled Transitional Housing Misconduct Act of 1992. This coincidence prompted her to call Rebecca at Homeless Prenatal Program in search of more information.

Rebecca spoke next. She continues Allison’s story and says that she too had been at a loss for how to advise clients who were going through similar difficulties in SF shelter and Housing programs. She reviewed the Act and drafted a summary which she passes out and reads through for us. The most significant piece of information for me was that it is illegal for program residents to be excluded (a term equivalent to evicted, for housing residents) without due process, although this is clearly what is taking place. The second piece of vital information for me was a clarification made by Arnett Watson.

Arnett introduces herself as a client advocate. I remember her name from an information board at the shelter. Her name and number where posted for representation during grievance procedures. I have yet to be given any information at my current Transitional Housing program about who to contact for grievance procedures requiring third party mediation. As it turns out, there is none. What Arnett Watson says is that there are only two ways for a program resident to be excluded from a program: one is unlawful detainer and the second is misconduct act. No one can just be thrown out on the streets without due process. Again my head is searching for understanding. So why is this happening? I am still trying to comprehend why no one running these programs is educating the people they are supposed to be helping about their rights.

Arnett goes on to explain that interestingly enough, the act originated as a way for programs to speed up the "eviction" process by offering a less time consuming legal procedure. Another interesting point made by Arnett is that the piece of paper which I, and all other participants in my program, were made to sign in which we gave away our rights as tenants was not worth the paper it was written on. The fact that we signed it is meaningless because LEGALLY there are only two ways which a person can be made to leave - even if you are still within your 30 day probationary period. Well, this is very different from the message I was given. I was led to believe that just as it was up to them to decide if I would be allowed into the program, it would be their decision if I was to be put out of the program. They would have the final say, and they would always be right because they make the rules. What I was hearing today, however, led me to believe otherwise. Arnett said, "People don't know that they can get help, they don't know they have rights." I am feeling exhilarated at hearing this and reach for extra flyers to distribute when I get "home".

At this point the woman with the child introduced herself. She has 2 more children at home. She says she had recently been put out from a Transitional Program. It is the same one that I am currently at. She tells her story of being given 15 minutes to gather her things and go, of all of her belongings being left in the hallway, of her sons new jacket disappearing during the shuffle. It is when she is at the peak of her anger, strongly declaring the injustices she has endured, that I realize a startling and alarming fact: This woman sitting beside me is the woman whose room I now occupy. When she is done speaking, I reach over to give her a hug. She thinks, perhaps, that I am showing my support or empathy. With my arms are around her I whisper in her ear, "I think I 'm staying in your room."

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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 !

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THERAPY COSTS TOO MUCH!!!!
Dee Gray, M.S.W., M.F.C.   Licensed Therapist specializing in advocacy and crisis counseling. Mother, daughter and family counseling. Adoption and juvenile dependency. Literary and creative art counseling. Individual and group therapy. Sliding scale fee. (415) 541-5629.