Self-Improvement

I’m finishing my last set of crunches at the gym, after a grueling training session, when one of my students, Courtney, texts me: “Well, we don’t have a way to shower tonight.”

Damn. I don’t have time for this. I still have two miles to put in on the treadmill before I hit the steam room. The phone rings—incoming call from said student. Ignore.

I only gave my fifth grade students my direct phone number because we lost a fellow teacher at school this year. The grief was abundant for all of us. I knew they would need an outlet. I didn’t expect them to reach out for other reasons. I never expected this.

On the treadmill, I beg God to show me what to do in this situation. How to help? I know I can’t go home to shower in my own bathroom, feed my own three daughters a healthy dinner and tuck them into beds- in their own bedrooms- knowing I didn’t do anything to help this mom and daughter. Earlier today Courtney told me her situation: she and her mom, Lori, have been living in their car for about six weeks. “Evicted” wears like a scarlet letter whenever they seek shelter—which they can pay for, if only they could just get in. Unlike many of the desperate situations I see daily at the Title 1 elementary school where I teach, there are no drugs involved. No one has been in and out of jail. There is not even a bitter attitude. This particular family has simply fallen on hard times. Illness prevents the ability to work steadily. The early death of Courtney’s father resulted in a lack of resources that has left them scrambling for years.

And yet, my question in the midst of this is: Why me?

The answer comes as quickly as my shame for asking in the first place: Because they don’t have anyone else. It occurs to me that when a person is desperate, they cannot think rationally or creatively. They can’t see the bigger picture or have a vision for how to solve the problem. Survival says, ‘don’t make any sudden moves.’ But I am not in survival mode. I can be rational and have vision. I can problem-solve for them.

After a little creative thought, I make three phone calls: to my church, which gives me the number to a local Women’s Center, who directs me to a local shelter. I’ve driven past the Women’s Center daily for the past six years. It’s literally around the corner from my house. I did not know it existed.

I meet Lori and Courtney at the shelter I find, which is ten minutes away from my house. I go inside with them, to help with paperwork and settling in. We meet with an employee who takes their basic information, then tells them what’s what. 

“Shelter rules: in by 6pm, if your late, or we’re full, we turn you away. End of story. You’ll get a hot dinner, hot showers, lights out by 10pm. You each get a bed. In the morning we serve a hot breakfast and you have to leave by 7am. Understand?”

My heart is racing at the clinical brevity of this introduction. I look at Courtney, and Lori, to see if they understood. Or even heard. They just nod and my student, 11 years old, lights up. “You have showers?” 

I help Lori fill out paperwork. Until today, Lori has been one of twenty-five parents that shows up twice a year for parent conferences. I vaguely recognized her in the parking lot, quickly catching up mentally with what I’ve learned about her so far this school year. Works at 7-11, widowed, just getting by. And apparently, sometimes not even that.  

“Can you help with this? I can tell you what to write.” She holds the clipboard and pen out to me.

At first I think she’s just so overwhelmed that she can’t focus. I know I would be. I know I am. Then I realize, it’s not her emotions. It’s her vision. She doesn’t have the right prescription in her glasses, so she can’t see the form well enough to answer questions. My three daughters and I all wear glasses and contact lenses, which is a pretty penny, even with our vision insurance, once a year at our annual optometrist visit. How many little things like this do we take for granted daily?

I read the questions, one by one, and carefully write Lori’s answers in the correct spaces. The shelter employee is patient but clearly has a lot more to do before the evening is over. I make sure it’s okay for them to walk out to their beat-up minivan with me before I leave. I feel absolutely overwhelmed and unsure of the rules in this environment. I’m usually the one setting the tone and explaining the rules, in my classroom, in my school, in my home. I am caught off-guard by this entire situation.

But I want to take their laundry home. This is something I know how to do, for free in my own home, while my girls complete homework and shower for bed in their separate bedrooms. I’m fully aware that Courtney will not have homework to turn in tomorrow. 

  I’m there for about 30 minutes as I help them fill out forms, then I leave, taking their dirty laundry home with me. Laundry is an eye-opening experience, as well. Folding the fresh, dried pieces on my dining room table, long after I’ve tucked my daughters in for bed, I notice how little underwear exists in this pile. While I am fighting with my oldest, about to become a teenager, about the merits of training bras in Target, my student, a much larger and more abundant girl already, doesn’t have anything her size. No wonder she wears sweatshirts and hoodies in the heat of summer. She’s not cold. She’s hiding. Making do. Passing. 

The next morning, I meet them in the school parking lot to return the washed laundry and give them the food my children gathered for them from our pantry. In the amount of time it takes me to get a manicure, and for a lot less money, I have helped this family have food, shelter and showers until the end of the month. Another phone call in the morning results in a resource that will help them get permanent housing. They will be OK. I might not.