On the way to dinner the other night, we turned down a street and my mother said, "Hey Julie, look at those apartments right there---they just built them..."
And I said, "Are they full?"
Which she misheard, unsurprisingly considering the amount of noise six children can make, and said, "No, no they aren't for the poor, it isn't subsidized housing, I think anyone can live there."
Which caused my sister to say, "Are you telling your HOMELESS daughter about alternative housing possibilities?"
We laughed---a little at my mother for misunderstanding, and a little at me for the homeless thing.
See, the homeless thing is a joke. It came from this whole incident at the school, when I tried to register my kids for temporary enrollment.
When I went by the local school to see about sending the kids there until our school district opens, they handed me a form that I had to sign, declaring myself homeless, so that my mother---with whom we are staying---could be declared our host, so that we qualified to enroll in the school.
It seemed wrong.
I protested, "But we aren't homeless," I said, "We're just very temporarily displaced. I could go back," I explained, "Except I want them to have as normal a life as possible right now."
"Oh but if you're declared homeless you can get the breakfast and lunch for the kids," the lady said.
"But I brought their lunch kits, and I already have breakfast and lunch food at home," I said.
"Well this has got to be so expensive already," she said, confused by my protests," You don't want to spend money you don't have to." She shoved the form back at me.
I don't want homeless status. I don't want the school to feed my kids. I am providing for them. I can provide for them.
We are lucky.
My husband has a job, we have insurance, my mother is generously and comfortably hosting us. We have other generous offers from others who want to help if we need.
We are lucky.
We do not need to take resources, such as free lunches at the school.
If I needed to, I would.
But just in that moment, I felt it: that loss of status, that sucking up of pride. I built a new empathy for people in this position. People not in my fortunate privileged position, people like me who can say no thanks.
I, unlike some in my town, still have a house. My house is still there, and despite wind and water damage, and a power company cherry picker that sunk in our still sodden yard, it is habitable.
Although the power company said another three weeks to power up my area, because we are on the same grid with essential services (in this case, a lifting station and a pumping station---those are to do with water and wastewater for the record) we may get power back as early as this week.
My husband said crews were still clearing trees, but had begun freeing power lines, stringing power lines and working hard to get power restored, all day every day.
So I am hopeful we can return home sooner rather than later.
My husband went to cruise our small town and said quite a few houses are completely gone, others look like a blast blew through them and the frame is mostly there, but the interior is missing. The water has mostly receded, but it left debris, and a lot of marine life died. He said the stench is dreadful.
We are lucky.
That's why the homeless thing is both so funny and not funny at all.
All things considered, I have thought of myself as fortunate. And yet, in that moment, that woman thought of me as poor.
It makes you think. It makes your mind open. It makes you realize about perceptions and circumstances and you and others and everything.
And I said, "Are they full?"
Which she misheard, unsurprisingly considering the amount of noise six children can make, and said, "No, no they aren't for the poor, it isn't subsidized housing, I think anyone can live there."
Which caused my sister to say, "Are you telling your HOMELESS daughter about alternative housing possibilities?"
We laughed---a little at my mother for misunderstanding, and a little at me for the homeless thing.
See, the homeless thing is a joke. It came from this whole incident at the school, when I tried to register my kids for temporary enrollment.
When I went by the local school to see about sending the kids there until our school district opens, they handed me a form that I had to sign, declaring myself homeless, so that my mother---with whom we are staying---could be declared our host, so that we qualified to enroll in the school.
It seemed wrong.
I protested, "But we aren't homeless," I said, "We're just very temporarily displaced. I could go back," I explained, "Except I want them to have as normal a life as possible right now."
"Oh but if you're declared homeless you can get the breakfast and lunch for the kids," the lady said.
"But I brought their lunch kits, and I already have breakfast and lunch food at home," I said.
"Well this has got to be so expensive already," she said, confused by my protests," You don't want to spend money you don't have to." She shoved the form back at me.
I don't want homeless status. I don't want the school to feed my kids. I am providing for them. I can provide for them.
We are lucky.
My husband has a job, we have insurance, my mother is generously and comfortably hosting us. We have other generous offers from others who want to help if we need.
We are lucky.
We do not need to take resources, such as free lunches at the school.
If I needed to, I would.
But just in that moment, I felt it: that loss of status, that sucking up of pride. I built a new empathy for people in this position. People not in my fortunate privileged position, people like me who can say no thanks.
I, unlike some in my town, still have a house. My house is still there, and despite wind and water damage, and a power company cherry picker that sunk in our still sodden yard, it is habitable.
Although the power company said another three weeks to power up my area, because we are on the same grid with essential services (in this case, a lifting station and a pumping station---those are to do with water and wastewater for the record) we may get power back as early as this week.
My husband said crews were still clearing trees, but had begun freeing power lines, stringing power lines and working hard to get power restored, all day every day.
So I am hopeful we can return home sooner rather than later.
My husband went to cruise our small town and said quite a few houses are completely gone, others look like a blast blew through them and the frame is mostly there, but the interior is missing. The water has mostly receded, but it left debris, and a lot of marine life died. He said the stench is dreadful.
We are lucky.
That's why the homeless thing is both so funny and not funny at all.
All things considered, I have thought of myself as fortunate. And yet, in that moment, that woman thought of me as poor.
It makes you think. It makes your mind open. It makes you realize about perceptions and circumstances and you and others and everything.
Comments
The think is, there are many who would take what they could, whether they really needed it or not, actually thinking it was "free" or not caring that it's not.
julie, i very much appreciated this post.
I'm glad you guys can laugh about it, but I'm also glad that you, in your usual Julie way, are able to reflect on it in a meaningful way.
I was also thinking about something along the lines that jen commented on... imagining what your response was to the situation at the school, how it made you feel... then wondering at how people feel when they don't have a choice... what does that to to them over weeks and months and years... how does it wear them down... Obviously, these are all just wild ponderings because I've never been in any situation that is remotely similar.
It's a hmm'er, isn't it?
The main thing is that you are safe and well - and I'm grateful for that.
~*
They have free breakfast though and my daughter has discovered it. She often goes and helps herself after her bus drops her off. There is nobody IDing the kids at the door, and her dad and I have tried to explain that the breakfasts are for kids who don't have a chance to eat in the morning like she does. I don't worry much about stigma at this point.
I understand the stigma though. I felt it when my late husband had to go on SSDI (social security disability) and when I had to make visits to the "welfare office" to take care of his Medicaid related issues. The people who run those things try (well some don't) to make it seem okay, but you never feel okay about it. You feel as though you have failed. So I get not wanting to be seen as someone who needs help. There is a perception of people as lazy or that they did something to bring on their circumstances.
I hope this time of displacement goes by as easily as it can. I'm sure your kids are enjoying visiting their grandmother, but soon you'll be back in your own home with your own stuff.
With our status - the kids on WIC and the Husky healthcare - our oldest gets a reduced lunch price & that causes people to call us all the time to make sure we have healthcare & we do. I realize they are calling who they think we might be - not who we are. As are the people at the grocery store who take a second look at our WIC checks - they think they know why we use them.
All this to say, you are right to hold on tight to the fact that you have a home, to not get lost in what is happening to you all right now.
Wow.
I'm so glad you're not homeless, but what a voice you are for your entire area.
It is semantics - you have a home - but you can't live there at the moment.
Homeless is such a loaded word. Home-forlorn would be so much better - with an option for no special benefits.
I remember my parents having to find a definition they and the government could both live with that would allow the parent who took all the area kids to a far distant school coverage and reimbursement.
I was horrified to learn that a school in our area was making children whose parents were behind in paying for school lunches THROW AWAY the hot meal when the child got to the cash register. They were given 1 cheese sandwich instead.
Basically a scarlet letter for those kids.