|
Mary Schmich
January 9, 2004
Let's say you're a woman of skimpy means and you wind up in jail. For selling
drugs. For having drugs. For the prostitution or thievery that buys your drugs.
Your narrow life shrinks even more, to food, a bunk bed in a big dorm room, a
small lockbox for your belongings. But you get straightened out, then get out.
And go where?
You have no job, no money, few skills. So you go somewhere you can find a couch
to sleep on and a meal. Back to the old neighborhood, the old junkie boyfriend,
the street. Back to the bad habits and bad cronies that led to that bunk bed and
lockbox in the first place.
It might have happened that way for Lisa Brown. In fact, it did happen that way
through four trips to prison for selling drugs.
"I questioned myself every day," says Brown, 37, "thinking, what
is it going to take to get my life on track?"
It was on one of those reflective days, free again and high again, that she went
into a store and got caught stealing. That was the day she got lucky.
"Instead of sending me to the joint," she says, "they offered me
treatment."
While in treatment, Brown ran into a friend who mentioned a rare housing
opportunity for homeless women about to open on the West Side. It was called
Sanctuary Place. It wasn't a halfway house or shelter. It was 69 subsidized
apartments, mostly studios, primarily for women fresh from jail or treatment.
Tenants would sign leases, get keys, furnish their own rooms. There would be
standards to meet and meetings to attend, but basically they'd be at liberty.
Along with more than 650 others, Brown applied.
And there she sat at Sanctuary Place on Wednesday, in a baseball-style cap and a
baggy yellow jersey, one of the lucky chosen few. With her sat three new
friends.
There was Nikola Williams, 30, wearing a crisp yellow linen blouse and a couple
of arm tattoos; she used to steal to support her heroin habit.
There was LiShon Mosley, 33, with a big gold cross hanging on her black
turtleneck; she relied on her talent for forgery ("I have excellent
penmanship") to buy her heroin.
There was Sonia Bradley, 40, who wore a bright red sweater and a silver ring on
every finger; she spent years imprisoned in her bedroom getting high.
For several weeks, these women have lived in this new building, with its pale
walls, big windows and 10-foot ceilings. It's the work of Interfaith Housing
Development Corp. of Chicago, built and run with public and private money,
dedicated to the proposition that with light, air, privacy, counseling and the
company of other determined women, troubled women can change.
"Women" is an important word in the formula.
"There's no men," said Bradley, "no problem of them looking at
you, thinking, OK, she's cute, she's fun."
These four women laugh easily, talk with self-awareness and bubble with optimism
that falls short of entitlement. They've been looking hard for jobs, as yet
undeterred by the obstacles of their own histories.
"I've had several chances," said Mosley, who has been in jail four
times. "All those incarcerations were chances. I am not upset that somebody
doesn't want to hire me because I have an extensive background. It's just a
human reaction. I don't think anybody owes me a chance. But I do believe that
God's gonna touch somebody's heart."
Later, she showed off her room, which prominently features photos of the
18-month-old daughter she hopes to reclaim when she's stable enough to get a
bigger place. Relatives have helped her buy a futon bed, a coffee table and TV.
That's one of the best things about living here, she said. Family members who
had turned away have shown a new faith. Their faith bolsters hers.
It's hard to change. Ask any smoker. Or dieter. Any upscale pain-pill junkie.
But it's a lot easier when you wake up in quiet, with sunlight, in a room of
your own surrounded by people who want you to succeed.
I hope to check and see how Lisa, Nikola, LiShon and Sonia are doing.
Copyright © 2004, Chicago Tribune
Searching Chicagotribune.com archives back to 1985 is cheaper and easier than ever. New prices for multiple articles can bring your cost as low as 30 cents an article: http://www.chicagotribune.com/archives