“Well, I was born in this area,” she answered, “…then my parents got divorced and mom and my brother and I went to live in Florida. But I like it better here, so I moved back a while ago.”
Back on January 11, of this year I wrote about my chance encounter with a homeless girl. The girl’s tale of divorcing parents and family displacement sounded all too familiar to me. Something about her story hit very close to home. Since the time of my first post about Jenny, I am happy to report that Jenny has found a job (not a small accomplishment in this economy), bought a used car and is sharing an apartment with a couple of new friends.
Today I will finish writing about my conversation with Jenny, what she told me and what I re-discovered about myself while talking to her.
......
Jenny and I stood in front of the local breakfast place. From outside the restaurant we could smell the magic aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I could tell by the look on Jenny’s eyes that she had told me the truth when she earlier told me that she wanted the money to buy food. I know what hunger looks like, how it feels; I could tell that Jenny was eager to go inside the restaurant and get a bite to eat. So we went in.
I regularly eat at this restaurant so our waitress already knew me. We exchanged small talk and I introduced Jenny as one of Amy’s friends (Amy is my daughter and Jenny is close enough to Amy’s age that they could pass as friends, if not sisters).
Breakfast at this particular restaurant starts with a complimentary order of Swedish pancakes. The area where I now live was once populated with several large Swedish families and they left their imprint everywhere. I watched as Jenny wolfed down the thin pancakes, covered with powdered sugar and blueberry spread. She looked up for a moment and saw me looking at her. She must have realized that she was eating too fast, so she tried to apologize.
“I am sorry …” she started to say.
I stopped her in mid-sentence and told her that there was nothing to apologize for. “Jenny, these pancakes are so good I can eat them all in one single bite.” I then took a big bite out of my pancakes and “shoveled” it down my throat.
Jenny could tell that I simply was trying to make her feel comfortable, so she smiled. In that big, unguarded, sweet smile I saw a lot of me.
By the time our food finally arrived (scrambled eggs, ham, potatoes and sour dough toast for me; a ham and cheese omelet with spinach and avocados, fresh fruit and French fries for Jenny) I had learned that Jenny was born and raised in the same area where I now live, went to school here, but moved to Florida soon after her parents divorced.
I could tell, by the way that Jenny spoke, and the words that she used, that she was a well-educated, smart girl. Her current status as a homeless person was in stark contrast to her apparent good upbringing. Given my own experience, I knew there was a lot more to Jenny’s story, so I asked.
“Jenny, please forgive me for asking, but you seem like a bright, educated young woman. You look like a college kid, why are you homeless?”
I saw a bit of hesitation in her eyes, as if disclosure would bring back some painful memories, so I added.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. You can tell me as much, or as little, as you want. It’s all up to you. But before you go on, let me tell you that I too was once homeless, I too came from a broken family and I too had to beg for money to feed myself and my daughter, so I am not here to judge you.”
Jenny’s eyes opened wide. She looked at me, looked at the parking lot where my car was parked, and then looked at me again.
“You were homeless? You lived on the streets? You begged for food?”
With a wry smile I responded “Yes, yes and yes.”
Her eyes then turned dark.
“Look,” Jenny said looking straight at me, “you don’t have to lie to me to humor me. You have never been homeless. Look at you lady, you are the farthest thing from a homeless person. You were never homeless, how could you?”
“Jenny, I said I was once homeless, not that I am homeless now. I have way too much respect for you and for myself to lie to you about something like that. I would never tell you that I was once homeless if in fact I was not. I am not trying to score points with you; I am just letting you know that I share some of your experiences.”
She apologized for not believing me and then began to tell me her story.
Jenny’s parents divorced when she was 14 years old. Jenny’s parents never told her, or her brother, the reasons for the divorce. She told me that she suspected that one, or maybe both, of her parents were cheating. Jenny told me that one day her parents called her and her brother into the living room and simply announced that they were getting divorced. Jenny was not surprised; she had seen it coming for sometime, but her little brother was in a state of total shock. They both cried and pleaded with their parents to please give it a try and stay together. But as it is often the case when adults make these kinds of decisions, they are too caught up in their own emotional battles to give much thought to the effect of their decisions. Her parents had already made up their minds, so Jenny’s and her brother’s pleas and tears fell on deaf ears.
After the divorce Jenny’s dad moved to Corvallis, Oregon and her mom and new husband moved to Hialeah, Florida. Jenny and her brother went to live with their mom in Florida. Right after the divorce, Jenny’s dad would write them every week. Once, Jenny and her brother traveled to Oregon to visit their father for Christmas. Soon, however, the correspondence became less frequent until eventually their father finally stopped writing. Jenny told me that after her father stopped writing she sent him a few letters, and even called him once or twice, but he never replied.
Jenny told me that before the divorce she and her brother lived a fairly average, normal “middle-class” life. There were piano lessons, ballet classes and Little League baseball. In the summer they would vacation by the beach and in the winter the family would take ski trips to the local mountains. If you are familiar with the 1950’s sitcoms “Leave it to Beaver” or “Father Knows Best” you would instantly recognize Jenny’s family. When the divorce came, Jenny and her brother were abruptly torn from their comfortable lives to be tossed into a harsh world that eventually put Jenny on the streets.
Jenny’s tale was familiar. My own parents divorced when I was 13 years old and my mother re-married soon after that. Prior to the divorce I had been my daddy’s spoiled princess. Like Jenny, there were piano lessons and ballet classes (I did not like the piano, I wanted to play the electric guitar, but ballet was OK). There were also horseback lessons, tennis lesson and car repair lessons. Yes, my father figured that even a little princess needed to occasionally get her hands dirty and be able to change the oil and filter in her own car. My mother disagreed; she said that no man would ever want to marry a girl who was better at overhauling a carburetor than baking a pie; my father won that argument and if you have a vintage GM. car with dual, four-barrel carburetors I am your girl next time they need overhauling!
Although I already could guess at her answer, I asked Jenny if the divorce had changed her life. She let out a long, deep sigh and in her clear blue eyes I could see the signs of a gathering storm; I regretted asking the question.
I reached out for her hand and she pulled back. My question had obviously hit a deep and unhealed wound. She looked up again and I could see that the clouds in her eyes had given way to tears.
“Jenny, I am so sorry,” I told her, “I did not mean to pry, please forgive my question and forgive me for making you cry.”
Looking at Jenny, her small shoulders shaking as she sobbed, I found myself looking back into my own past. Reflected in Jenny’s eyes, there was a girl looking back at me; a girl just like me.
“Jenny, don’t cry, it was not your fault.”
She looked at me with a mildly irritated expression and then she said.
“I know it was not my fault that they got divorced. Why would you even say that to me?”
I pondered for a moment whether my next words would further upset her. I looked at her again and the feeling of déjà vu nearly knocked me to the floor.
“Jenny, I know the divorce was not your fault. I was not talking about that. I was talking about the other stuff. You know, the stuff that made you cry. The stuff that made you leave home and become homeless. The stuff that brought you back here, to the area of your happy childhood. All that bad stuff, that wasn’t your fault either.”
After I finished talking I looked at Jenny, to see if my words had missed the mark. They hadn’t.
Jenny began to cry again, her long, deep sobs shaking her. I looked around to make sure that no one was staring – no one was. I guess the restaurant patrons assumed that this was some sort of mother – daughter fight so they gave us a wide-berth.
After a while, Jenny stopped crying and asked me, “Why did this have to happen to me, why did he have to do that to me? Why did he have to molest me? Why? Why?”
Jenny’s voice trailed off and she began to sob again.
I reached out for Jenny’s hand and this time she did not pull away.
“Jenny, I don’t know why these things happen. I don’t know why there are bad men who do bad things to children. I don’t know why there are men, not all men just some, who want to hurt children the way your stepdad hurt you. I have no answers for those questions. Just like I couldn’t tell you why, if there is a God, these things have to happen. There is only one thing I know for sure Jenny - and I am as sure of this as I am sure that the Sun will rise again tomorrow - it was NOT your fault, it was nothing you did. There is nothing you could have done to prevent it. You were a child and the people who were supposed to be there for you to protect you, failed you.”
“Oh my God,” Jenny said and the way she said it I thought that maybe I had spoken too much. “How could you known that? How could you have known that I told my mom what he was doing? How could you possibly know that she would call me a slut and a liar?”
Now it was my turn to cry. When I finally was able to compose myself I said to Jenny. “Soon after my mother re-married, her new husband began to sexually molest me. The molestations went on for a couple of years. When I finally got the courage to tell my mom what her husband had been doing to me, my mother’s reaction was the same as your mother’s – she called me a slut and a liar! She would not even lift a finger to protect me from the monster she had married. It was after that when I finally realized that no one was going to protect me, so I ran away from home, just like you did.”
There we were, a young girl and me sitting across the table from each other. Different generations, different backgrounds, different parents – same story. For a moment, Jenny and I were united in a bond that only survivors of sexual abuse can understand. Looking at Jenny I saw myself at that age. Looking at me, I am, Jenny saw what she has the potential to eventually become.
Jenny’s story, and my story, are stories that are repeated every day, in thousands of homes across our nation, indeed across the world. It is a situation that knows no social, economical, religious or ethnic barriers. Jenny and I both came from solidly middle-class homes.
Children are our most precious resource and the hope for a better future. Through ignorance or neglect, or both, we allow our children to be preyed upon by adults. The damage inflicted upon innocent, powerless children goes far beyond the physical scars left behind by sexual and physical abuse. The psychological trauma that abused children are subjected to follows them for life, preventing them from forming healthy adult relationships and often affecting the very way in which they raise their own children. Once the trust of a child is broken, and his or her childhood taken away, there is precious little that can be done to restore it.
The damage done to a child goes beyond the emotional and physical scars. In a March 2007 study done by the Australian Children, Youth and Women Health Services, the agency conducting the study made the following findings:
What being homeless means
There are 4 main types of homelessness.
1. Sleeping 'rough' - that is, sleeping on the streets, in a park, on a bench, on the beach, or in some other area that is basically out in the open.
2. Staying with a friend or relative, or 'couch-surfing' around from one place to another.
3. Staying in a refuge or short-term boarding house.
4. Staying in a boarding house where people may live for weeks, months or years when they are not able to find a home of their own.
Causes of young people becoming homeless
There are many reasons why young people become homeless - it could be any one or more of the following:
• Problems at home, eg. feeling unsafe, being abused, fighting between parents, fighting between siblings, feeling unwanted, parents' divorce, trouble with a parent's new partner, a new baby in the house, money worries, too many rules, not enough rules, not getting on with foster parents.
• Problems at school, eg. bullying, teasing, finding schoolwork too hard or too easy, problems with teacher(s), not having any friends.
• Problems with peers, eg. peer group pressure, teasing, spreading rumours, sexist or racist harassment.
• Problems with the law, eg. drinking, drug use, stealing, graffiti, vandalism, assault, involvement with gangs, breaking in.
• Problems with boyfriends/girlfriends, eg. breaking up, being dumped, not wanting to take 'no' for an answer.
Dangers of being homeless
• Living rough can put you at risk of being harmed or manipulated by others.
• You could find yourself doing things that you don't want to, just to survive. Some young people get into prostitution, stealing and drugs, which can put them more in the control of others and in trouble with the Police.
• You can be at risk of sexual abuse or rape.
• It is hard to get proper food.
• There is nowhere to store any of your belongings and they could get stolen.
• There may be nowhere to wash yourself or your clothes.
• You could become very depressed and not care about what happens to you.
Children, Youth and Women Health Services, Australia - March 20, 2007
http://www.cyh.com/HealthTopics/HealthTopicDetails.aspx?p=243&np=295&id=2456
As the Australian research shows, a large percentage of homeless teens are homeless because of abuse at home. They simply cannot tolerate the abuse any longer and they just walk out into the streets. That was Jenny’s reason for ending up on the streets; that was my reason too.
Once out on the streets, runaway and homeless teens are subjected to further abuse. Both boys and girls are often the prey of sexual predators who exploit the vulnerability of runaway and homeless children. Some runaways end up selling sex in exchange for a warm place to spend the night. Others end up with pornographers who falsify birth records in order to pass off children as adults. Others end up using drugs as an escape from the overwhelming misery of life on the streets. Others end up dead on the street, or in a back alley.
Other studies about homelessness and children have come to the same conclusion: homelessness, whether due to intolerable conditions at home or whether due to the current economic downturn is taking a terrible toll on our children.
So, what can YOU do to help out?
1. Report suspected abuse, be it physical or sexual, to the local authorities. Go to your local police department and report the abuse to the authorities. They will open an investigation into the situation. (If you are a mandated reporter, such as a teacher or a nurse, you are already required by law to report suspected abuse);
2. Don’t be afraid to get involved. Studies have shown that the more people there are around the victim of a crime, the less likely that victim will get help. Everyone makes the wrong assumption that “someone else is handling it.” The end result is that no one is doing anything, just sitting around and waiting for the others to act. Take action, be responsible not just for your own well-being, but for the well-being of those who are most vulnerable – our children. Sometimes it does take the entire village to watch out for one another;
3. Don’t be afraid to talk to teens, especially your own, or those in your own family. Teens are often stigmatized by adults who cannot look beyond the teens often weird (OK, not weird, maybe just avant garde clothing) manner of dressing and talking. Behind every “different” looking teen, however, there is a kid trying to make sense out of a very difficult to comprehend, and often scary, world. Sometimes all that a teen needs is for a caring adult to lend a sympathetic ear;
4. Be ready to help if asked, or if needed, but avoid being preachy and avoid being a phony. One thing teens hate is “preachy” people, one thing teens can smell (a mile away) is a phony; and
5. Volunteer your time (money is good, but time is equally important) to a local shelter for homeless persons or to a teen community center. Exercise the power of one person to make a lasting difference in the life of another.
These are simple steps that we can all take right now. I know, from personal experience, that many times all it takes to make the difference in the life of a teen is for one person to get involved, for one person to lend a helping hand or a sympathetic ear.
As I wrote at the beginning of this post, I am happy to report that Jenny is doing well. She is on the road to recovery. She speaks with her brother on a regular basis. Jenny still has not made peace with her mother, but if my own experience is any indication, she will eventually be able to reach out to her mom. Whether or not she will ever be able to forgive her is up to Jenny. I am certain, however, that Jenny will eventually get around to forgiving her mom - if not for her mom’s sake, then for Jenny’s own sake.
What about her stepdad? Well, as it is often the case, bad karma has a way of catching up with bad people (my friend Yucca Gemini tells me that I do not understand what karma is and that I have it all wrong, that there is no such thing as bad karma or good karma, there is just karma – she is probably right). About a year ago Jenny’s father was crossing the street when a car, driven by a man running from the cops, plowed into him. He was killed instantly by the impact.
As long as jenny allows it, I will continue to occasionally report on her progress. I am certain that some day she will accomplish great things – she has already beaten great odds.
Finally, to all of you who read this I say, please watch out for children – they are our future. To all the Jennies of the world I say – hang in there, get help, don’t lose hope, things will get better.
Peace!
