Trading Cages

Trigger Warning: Contains themes of childhood abuse.

In the beginning, there were three suitcases and two duffle bags scattered on the driveway of the home on the corner of Squire Mansion (not an actual mansion) and Ranchwood Drive. Only two would fit in the borrowed Jeep Wrangler. My entire life was packed in that old luggage, from clothing and shoes to books, personal care items, and the few precious tchotchkes I used to decorate my bedroom—my small attempt to make that space my own in a house that never truly felt like home.

But, I knew what my mother did not. I wasn’t coming back. I needed all five pieces to fit in the back of the Jeep Wrangler that we borrowed from a church friend in exchange for delivering several boxes of Home Interiors decor. The boxes consisted of fake gold-encrusted framed pictures of flowers that would be better suited for a funeral and way too much potpourri for one person, or even ten. My mother was getting paid a cut of the sale to deliver the items to a lucky MLM client in Albuquerque. The funds would go to getting caught up on the electric bill that had fallen behind or the Foley’s store credit or to pay off that bounced check. It didn’t matter though. I wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t. This wasn’t just a move. It was an escape.

“Stop being so dramatic! Go put your suitcases back in your room. I said that I’ll ship them to you. I don’t understand why you have to be this way,” my mother stormed passed me as she continued to load the Jeep up with the gold-flaked monstrosities.

Spoiler alert: She never mailed them. Her word was as empty and hollow as a cheap chocolate Easter bunny from the dollar store.

I stood in the late summer Oklahoma heat and burst into tears, quickly wiping them away. I knew that my mother would probe me asking why I couldn’t just have my things delivered after I moved to Phoenix. But I never wanted to see this house again and she couldn’t be trusted. I never wanted to see my stepfather’s face again—the source of so much trauma within those walls. I also needed to escape my mother’s control, and the constant manipulation and stress. I put my hope in this discipleship program, in God’s hands, not my mother’s. I knew I would never see most of that stuff again.

Have you ever seen Forrest Gump? There is a scene in it where Jenny and Forrest, as children, run away from her house as her abusive father ran after her. They make their way out to a cornfield and Jenny falls to her knees, pulls Forrest down with her, and begins to pray, “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far, far away from here.” This was my Jenny Curran moment. I prayed for a way and God provided. Or, so I believed. I left this state a total of two times in my life. The twisted knots in my stomach reminded me of the excitement, anxiety, and fear I was feeling over this move.

We finally squeezed the singular suitcase of my necessities, the hideous decor, and my 10-year-old brother into the SUV and began our westward journey. The 14-hour trip required many music options. I brought my favorite Christian rock, ska, and worship CDs, leaving my Alanis and Garbage phase behind me in my past life. Secular music was not allowed in my mom’s car but it especially was forbidden in this program. We could only listen to music that glorified Jesus.

It was August of 1998. I had just graduated high school and was embarking on the next chapter of my life - to know God and make him known. That was the mission. This program was supposed to change my life, to give me a clear purpose—but more importantly, it was my escape from the manipulation and abuse I’d endured at the hands of my parents, the people who were supposed to protect me.

I wasn’t worried about all that at the moment. I was focused on getting to Phoenix. College wasn’t an option; we were too poor for out-of-state tuition but not poor enough for full scholarships. My parents supported this program in hopes I’d return as a minister, which would look good on them. Plus, the program was mostly paid for with donations from our church. So little skin in the game for them. Unfortunate for them, I couldn’t sing or dance dance, I had a terrible stage presence, and my inquisitive nature would later clash with the program’s agenda. Oops.

One of the requirements to attend this program was that students needed to have a car. My parents bought me a lemon a couple of months before that broke down a week later, leaving me without transportation for the program. This left me needing to rely on my roommates and others in the program. Being low-income was one thing but it was impossible to hide by not even having a vehicle.

As we drove west, I saw things I’d never seen. I’d seen small hills and mountains before, but nothing prepared me for the sight of the snow-capped Rockies rising in the distance as we made our way through Arizona. The flat plains of Oklahoma gave way to the equally flat desert of New Mexico. We stopped at the Painted Forest and drove through Flagstaff. I screamed as we descended steep highway declines. Ninety percent of the trip was along I-40, which ran right through Oklahoma City, where I’d lived most of my life. The voyage itself was a straight shot.

Driving into Phoenix felt tropical, though I’d never been anywhere tropical. The palm trees and sand gave me that impression. It seemed otherworldly. My stepfather ran a landscaping business in Oklahoma, so the site of yards of rocks, sand, and cacti were jarring. The environment was much drier than Oklahoma’s humid summers and tornado-prone springs.

Approaching the church, the knots in my stomach tightened. We turned into the drive, and the vastness of the campus hit me. Pamphlet pictures hadn’t captured it. The church grounds were an oasis of green, a stark contrast to the desert landscape, a blatant display of evangelical opulence. We took notice of the massive water fountain in the middle of the campus that flowed down through to the front of the drive, ending in another small fountain.

“So is this where all the water in Phoenix goes?” my brother quipped. He wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t let that deter me. My mission was escape at all costs. We drove around as my mother oohed and aahed. This church was vastly different from our 150-member church back home that took over an old office building.

We parked and went inside for my welcome packet. The staff, not much older than me, greeted us. There were about a hundred other students in my cohort.

“You must be Hannah?” a friendly Latina approached me.

“Yes! That’s me.” I was visibly nervous.

“I’m Alina. You’re from Oklahoma, right?”

“Yep.”

“Interesting. I expected you to have more of an accent.”

I was confused. Not everyone in Oklahoma had an accent. I chalked it up to my mother’s Philadelphia upbringing balancing things out.

I met the staff and got my packet, keys, and a t-shirt. The packet revealed a shared debit card with $50 per month for four people’s groceries. I realized that I was definitely a fish out of water; most students were expected to be self-sufficient.

I told myself I’d make it work. I’d grown up poor; being poor alone would be no different. It would be an adventure. I would chase Jesus and he would meet my needs. Me and this singular suitcase.

As we entered the apartment, I heard girls giggling in a bedroom and others chatting in the living room. Everyone turned to look at me.

The apartment was a good five miles away. The journey between the church campus and the apartment was mostly highway and had very little sidewalk. That didn’t mean it wasn’t walkable but it would be difficult to do. I would have to rely on fellow students to get back and forth. I made note of the fruit on the trees surround the apartment complex. They were grapefruit. I liked grapefruit. I used to climb the plumb tree outside of my apartment as a child and ate the sweet fruit during the summer. I could snag some grapefruit when I needed it.

The back of the Jeep was empty after we dropped off the decor in Albuquerque, revealing my lonely suitcase. I was so angry at my mother but also understood that this opportunity would not be possible without that arrangement. I hoisted it out of the Jeep and drug it up the sidewalk. We weren’t sophisticated enough to have a suitcase with wheels so I had to use every bit of strength to drag it up to the 3rd floor apartment with my brother attempting to push on the other side. I packed it very tightly with as much as could. My shoulders were screaming at what felt like 200 pounds. It probably wasn’t but it certainly felt that way as I made my way up the stairs.

As we entered the apartment, I could hear the giggle of girls in one of the bedrooms while several people chitchatted in the living room. As we piled in, everyone turned around and looked right at me.

“Hi!” an older woman turned and addressed me. “Are you Ginger or Hannah?”

“Hi! I… I’m Hannah,” I stammered.

“I’m Stephanie’s mom, Janice. It’s so nice to meet you!” She then turned to my mother. “And you’re…?”

“Rhonda,” my mother said curtly. “Where’s Hannah’s room?”

“She’s sharing with Ginger. Second room in the back.”

“Great. Let’s go. I can’t believe they put you on the third floor!”

“Mom, it’s ok. I only had one suitcase.”

We went to my room, passing the room of giggling girls.

“Oh my Josh, are you Hannah or Ginger?” one of them said.

I set down my suitcase and turned to acknowledge my new roommates. Stephanie was a tall, bubbly blonde from Southern California, her overly enthusiastic smile already grating on my nerves. Lisa was quieter, more reserved.

“Hi! I’m Hannah,” I said.

“I’m Stephanie. Where are you from?”

“Oklahoma,” I tried to smile as I revealed that preparing for the weirdest comments I’ve received so far.

“Oh! I expected you to sound like a hick. You sound so…normal!” She laughed, noting my clothes. “Wow, people from Oklahoma really love off-brand jeans!” My face burned especially since she was wearing a Rug Rats t-shirt. Like the cartoon. I suppose it was acceptable when paired with Guess jeans!

“Hi, I’m Hannah,” I said to Lisa.

“Hi Hannah! I’m Lisa. Welcome to our little abode!”

“Where are you from?”

“Nova Scotia!”

“Wow, that’s far!”

“Yeah.”

My mother interrupted. “Hannah, I have to go. This place is so hot and stinks!”

“Already? Are we getting dinner?”

“No. I figured you’d stay here and spend time with your new friends. I have to return the car and make some stops. I’ll ship your stuff.”

“Mom, I need things now. We don’t have food.”

She dug in her purse, producing $13.53. Stephanie and Lisa stared, horrified as my mother walked out and pushed past the others in the living room.

I squeezed my brother. “I’m going to miss you, Bubba. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. You’ll be home for Christmas, right?”

“Yes! I’ll call you in a few days.”

He nodded and followed my mother out. I’d miss him most. Stephanie and Lisa followed suit and left my room. I sat on my bed, the coils digging into my thighs. My suitcase was at my feet and took up most of the floor. I pulled out a picture of my brother and me, as the urge to give in to the grief was settling in.

I set the picture on the nightstand and lay down on the bare mattress. The apartment grew quiet as the families left to say their goodbyes outside. I took a deep breath. This is what I wanted, right? Escape. I was now two states over with no transportation and barely any money.

I closed my eyes, listening to the laughter outside, and wondered if I had truly escaped, or if I had simply traded one cage for another.