Home Is Where the Heart Is

Excerpted from "Teens With the Courage to Give" by Jackie Waldman, Conari Press. Used with permission.

I thought the worst part of my life was living without my father. He's in prison and has only been out once for a short period of time since I was born. We hardly know each other, but it's not from my lack of trying. I wrote to him and sent him pictures of me. He only wrote me back a couple of times, and that was a long time ago.

I love my dad, so it's not easy on me. I'm hoping that when he gets out of prison I can get to know him. I'll try again.

For most teens, having a father in prison would be enough to have to deal with. The day the ceiling in our home fell in proved far worse.

Last year we lived in a rented house, and the landlord neglected the repairs. When the ceiling fell in and destroyed the house, my mom called the landlord. She didn't even care-she didn't offer to move us to a different house or fix the roof.

Part of the ceiling fell on me. My left ankle and leg were very swollen. I couldn't walk on it for two weeks. The ceiling also hit my neck, so I was in a neck brace for weeks.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the pain of not having a home and not having money to move anywhere else.

Suddenly my mom, my five brothers and sisters, and I were homeless. We had to pack our things and go to the Office of Emergency Shelter Services in Philadelphia.

That night was the most terrible night ever. All sorts of people were in one big room filled with cots. I looked around at all the men, women, and children with their own sad stories. I lay there mad, scared, and heartbroken. How could the landlord treat us like this? How could our lives change so quickly? Just that morning I lived in a home like most families, and now I was in a homeless shelter. I started to cry and couldn't stop. I was crying for me, my mom, and my brothers and sisters-maybe even for my dad.

I was in seventh grade and loved my school and friends. Our home was the place all the kids came to-my mom always let my friends spend the night on weekends. My home was fun, comfortable, and safe. How could this be happening?  

The next morning the people who ran the shelter found us a permanent shelter to move to. The shelter was far away from our old neighborhood. When I saw the middle school near the shelter I suddenly realized I lost more than a home. I wouldn't be able to go to school with my friends anymore. As we drove up to the shelter, tears poured down my face. I couldn't help it.

I didn't want to go in-I never wanted to spend another night in a shelter. But I also knew we had no choice.

The director took us to our rooms. At least it wasn't one big room. The shelter was an old nursing home with sixty rooms. They gave us two rooms and told us we could stay there as long as we needed to.

My sister and I share one room. My mom, my brothers and my other sisters took the other room. Bathrooms were at the end of the hall. I would be sharing a bathroom with strangers. When I walked into the bathroom to look at it, I about died. For a thirteen-year-old girl who needed privacy, this was a living nightmare.

At first I spent all of my time in my room. I hated the place. I didn't know anyone and I didn't want to meet anyone. I kept thinking we wouldn't be there very long. I kept hoping.

There were strict rules to follow. It was hard following someone else's rules when I was used to living in my own home with our own rules. But I did what I was told. I knew my mom didn't need me to cause trouble-she was upset enough.

I was required to join the teen group-a group of kids between the ages of thirteen and eighteen living in the shelter-and go to meetings every Wednesday from 6 to 8 p.m. with the youth case worker, Miss Pat.

The first meeting I went to was an "anger" meeting. I listened as other kids talked about their feelings. One girl said she was ready to hurt herself because her mom was getting on her nerves and she had to watch her little sister all of the time. Miss Pat told her she was glad she could express her feelings and let out her anger.

I noticed how much better the girl felt having the other teens' and Miss Pat's support. I wanted to tell Miss Pat how mad I was at the landlord, how much I missed my friends, and how much I hated living there, but I couldn't do it. Just then Miss Pat reminded us that if we couldn't talk about our feelings, we could write to her in the journals she had given us.

Continued on page 2: I wrote a long note to Miss Pat letting her know how I felt... »