Note: This is a continuation of a series that starts here, then continues here and here. I also recently appeared on Mental Health Association’s podcast “Mental Health Download” to discuss my story and work. It is available wherever you listen to podcasts, including here.
The Trade Winds hotel room I’ve just entered smells like stale cigarette smoke. As soon as I opened the door that overwhelming stench took me back to my childhood when my mom would sit on the floral print couch and chain smoke Marlboro Reds. The phone up to her ear. The TV on in the background either showing a soap opera or music videos. A large ashtray full of cigarette butts sitting on the coffee table in front of her. It’s like I’m two places in time at once.
It’s early August. The overwhelming heat and humidity has forced my mom to spend nearly all of her monthly fixed income on hotel rooms for a week.
The last time I wrote an entry, I ended it with being yet again at the crossroads of continuing to help. The morning after I published that piece, she reached out and said she was no longer welcome where she was staying in Claremore and wanted to return to Tulsa to go to the Day Center. Since last June we’ve had a standing agreement that no matter where she was, I would always take her there if she felt she needed to go the homeless shelter.
She absolutely loathes that place for numerous reasons. The two biggest reasons being the evening lockdown that results in her being forced to try sleep on a cot while listening to people scream, talk to themselves and act out. As you’re probably aware a tremendous amount of those dealing with homelessness are also dealing with severe mental issues.
By the next day, she’s back on the streets in north Tulsa and sleeping in a tent in her old stomping grounds off Pine and Xanthus. It’s a house where people sleep inside, on the porch, in a van parked in the driveway and in the backyard. That is where my mom’s tent is located.
During her short stay there, she continually complains about the heat and that people keep unplugging the extension cord that runs from the small house to her tent. It’s used to power a string of lights and a fan. She says it’s always either the breaker keeps blowing or they unplug her cord to prevent that from happening.
There are trips to north Tulsa to take her food or supplies. I meet her in areas where Quiktrips don’t go.
She grills me on why I won’t let her stay with me. She repeatedly tells me how shitty I must view her to not allow her to cross that boundary. She tells me her friends can’t believe I’m so cruel.
I remind her numerous times that for all of this to work, I have to continue to act like a case manager that has boundaries. I share with her how mental health professionals, case workers and others have all said I’m doing the right thing. When it’s your mom, it’s heartbreaking to be this stern, but I continue to tell myself I’m doing the right thing for the process to work.
It’s around this time on a Wednesday evening at 5 p.m., I get a call from her. She’s screaming and crying. She has just been raped in downtown Tulsa across the street from the Cox Business Center.
She had been riding the bus and met a man along the route. They started having a light conversation, and she thought he just might actually be friendly.
They got off the bus, walk a block as they talk and then he pulled her behind a building and raped her. She got away and ran. She spotted the dumpsters next to the Emergency Infant Services building and hid behind them.
When I arrive, she comes out from behind them. She’s a mess. Understandable.
As I talk to her a cop drives by us. I question whether I should flag him down, but I know I can’t. She still has warrants in another county, and you never know how the police will respond.
It’s common for homeless women to be sexually assaulted and raped. This isn’t the first time it’s happened to my mom. She refuses to tell me how many times she has been a victim. All she says is it’s happened frequently. She says every homeless woman she knows has been through the same thing numerous times.
The reason why it frequently occurs is because they are helpless. Often times, like my mom, they have a warrant or other issues that keep them from reporting it. Besides, what good will it do?
An older black homeless man who is sexually violent, as in my mom’s case, doesn’t exactly narrow down the list of suspects.
“It was an older black guy. He’s homeless. He talked about God and religion to me then raped me. I thought he was actually nice. All these men want to do is shove their dicks into pussies. They don’t care.” My mom yells this between gasps of air and tears.
I’m enraged. I want to go look for the man. He can’t be far, right? This is a moment where I don’t know what I’d do if I actually found him, but my mom talks me down as she attempts to regain composure. She says she just wants to “go somewhere safe and get the fuck out of downtown.”
Finding a homeless suspect not in the act of the crime is like finding a million dollars sitting in the street. Good luck.
I take her to the Rest Inn on Admiral and Sheridan. It’s $45 a night, there’s a pool and there’s a cop car continually circling the parking lot. I mention she should feel safer knowing there is a police car around. She reminds me that hotels I stay at don’t have cops circling them. It’s funny the things you latch onto for safety and self assurance when you’re not the one who needs it.
In July, she’s finally cleared by her doctor. Her broken neck from her February car accident has healed. It takes time for her attorney to negotiate a settlement with the company that employed the dump truck driver, who hit her head on. That money will be arriving this week. It won’t be enough to set her up for life, but it’s enough to give her a stronger chance at independence if she handles it properly. She refuses to get a payee. She has already asked for my help, but refuses to allow me to control it.
Late in July, I made a deal with her. I loan her money to pay for hotel rooms. I realize this is a risky proposition, but it’s the only way I believed she’d make it through the summer. With the insurance money coming soon, I’ve told myself I’ll eventually be paid back.
In my mind, this was an acceptable deal. I wasn’t just giving her money, it was better than her getting a payday loan, and it created another way for her to accept some responsibility without high interest rates.
She reminded me often that if she died, there’d be no insurance money. This statement was most often made when she was angry with her lawyer or his paralegal, or when she grew tired of staying outside.
There are numerous night stays at Sky Hotel on Garnett near Pine, which is located in the middle of nowhere in northeast Tulsa. The hotel features a sprawling network of rooms filled with people of various ages and races. It looks like the kind of place that’s perfect for a horror movie setting. Carrying a couple bags of my mom’s, I walk down the hall behind three gangly teenage boys, who are talking about fighting.
The tallest and skinniest is talking about how he beat up a kid older than him the night before. He says the big kid came at him, and the skinny kid raged on him. He’s 12 or 13 and weighs maybe 125. The kid on the right leans forward and looks to the kid on the left and says the tall skinny kid has plenty of practice because his dad beat him often. Then the tall skinny kid says, “Until I got big enough to beat his ass. Now I get to be here with you two fuckers. Let’s go check out the pool.”
My mom’s room is bare. There’s a concrete floor, white walls and a window. There’s an entertainment stand with a couple of drawers. The TV is the old kind with the tube in it, so not the flatscreen variety. The bed is two twins pushed together. There’s no refrigerator. I have to make a second trip to bring a styrofoam ice chest.
On my second trip, I have to walk between two men making a drug deal in the hall. They kind of try to become a bit more discreet, but even though I don’t look like I belong, they must know I’m not police because they slap hands and the goods are exchanged. The two men discuss partying later and return to their rooms.
The reason my mom stays at the Sky Hotel is the bill is paid by Mental Health Association of Oklahoma. She rotates between there and places like the Trade Winds depending on who is paying.
The reason MHAO began helping is because I had reached out to a longtime friend, Ashley, who had recently started working there following an internship. She and I had known each other since 2001 when we both attended a philosophy class at Rogers State. Because the world is small, we ended up living two streets apart in recent years.
As the summer’s heat increased and I found myself running out of ways to help, I reached out to her for help. I got straight to the point, telling her my mom would soon be dead if she didn’t get help.
I honestly believed this and with good reason. My mom was talking about suicide more and more often. She questioned why she was alive. She felt below human. A pest. An embarrassment. A waste on society. I continued to feel helpless.
Ashley said she’d help, and she did. Within 24 hours a case manager paid a visit to my mom’s tent and thus began the hotel stays.
It also created a glimmer of hope in my mom, which is a good and bad thing. You tell someone you’re there to get them off the streets and they expect it as soon as possible. With anything that involves paperwork, government agencies and nonprofits, it takes time. Plus there’s a chance it will all fall through. Been there, done that.
In my heart, I felt this was it. If this attempt failed, she would check out. I told myself if that happened it would maybe be for the best. She would finally have peace. Us too. It’s a weird, dark place to go, but it was a tub I had to soak in. There were texts, phone calls, hotel room meetings where it felt as if the end was near. There was a sense of dread filling my days as the summer wore on.
Some days she’s happy, the next as depressed as one can be before tasting gun powder as a last meal.
Back inside Trade Winds hotel room 217, there is that stench of smoke mixed in with the sour smell of hopelessness. Two days earlier my mom had spent a Friday night out in downtown. It was a night where I received numerous texts about how terrified she was. I had fallen asleep early with my phone in another room on the charger. Something I had been doing more often to create space. Texts can come at any hour and it’s typically not just one.
As I slumbered in my queen size bed in a room cooled to 70 degrees, my mom stayed awake to increase her chances of staying alive.
The next day, I met her at the hotel and paid for two more room nights. Her loan up to $725 and that didn’t include the groceries I bought her each week.
She has a man named Willy staying with her. I find this out when I go back to take her some clean laundry. He’s recently out of prison, homeless, but trying to get back on his feet. She is a caring person, who even if it’s too her detriment will help others in similar situations. She has allowed others to stay in her room, and I met some of them along the way.
On Sunday, when I stop by he’s out collecting cans to try to get some cash. I’m there to collect some of my mom’s stuff. She’s up to five bags and a milk crate. Obviously she can’t carry them when she’s mobile, so I grab a few bags and load it in the back of my car, leaving her with the necessities.
It’s days like this when our conversation can get heated. Both of us upset and angry, I often stand silent and let her vent about things. Recently, I’ve opened up to her more about my childhood. One example is I explain how when I was bullied or had problems I never went to her with them because I already knew she had a lot on her plate, and I didn’t want to add to it. I would figure it out on my own. Obviously, not the healthiest option looking back on it. I tell her about how much I was made fun of because of our economic status or because I often smelled like an ash tray.
I open up and share my feelings. No more peace over truth. That ship sailed a while back and won’t be returning anytime soon.
If there’s one positive to going through all this, it’s that we’ve blown apart every wall and discussed all the bad stuff along the way.
She’s been told she’s on the list to get an apartment, but there’s been a hang up. The third-party background service used by Mental Health Association is cheaper and faster than using the OSBI background check. It’s also out of date and incorrect.
The first degree conspiracy to murder charge from 2012 has resurfaced. While never charged for that, it remains on her criminal background search. It doesn’t state she’s completed the Anna McBride program. It doesn’t state those charges have been expunged. It will be another six weeks if MHAO opts for the OSBI version. That’s too much time.
I meet with MHAO officials to vouch that what my mom has stated is true. Those charges were bogus. She did complete the program in 2014. It had been expunged. They tell me they need it in writing. There’s an apartment with my mom’s name on it, just waiting for one document to prove we’re telling the truth.
Here’s the deal, if your record has been expunged, you’re the only person who can show up at the county court clerk’s desk and request a copy of that letter. A journalist can’t do it and and advocate can’t do it. I called multiple county courts to verify this is the case and to ensure it’s not just Rogers County trying to pull a fast one. I don’t trust them, and everyone involved with my mom’s case agrees that if she goes there to get the letter, she will be arrested for a warrant.
Grand Lakes Mental Health, which oversees the Anna McBride program, shreds documents after a few years, so they have no record my mom graduated the program. My mom’s attorney has since retired, but continues to do some legal aid work.
The staff at MHAO continues to work diligently to find a solution, but it feels as if we’re locked in a room slowly filling with water. The light has just gone out and it’s only a matter of time before it’s over.
After 10 days, my mom has lost hope. She’s absolutely crushed that the system has failed her (again). A bogus charge continues to haunt her. She had done everything the courts demanded at the time and it was as if her accomplishments had been tossed in a box and forgotten. She tells me she will be dead by her birthday, which is Sept. 8.
It’s Monday, August 12, and it’s checkout time at Trade Winds. She’s out of her monthly pension. I’ve spent hundreds on rooms and my budget is tight. It’s time for my mom to return to her tent. I go to pick her up just before noon.
As I load her belongings into the car, she stands in the hotel room and sobs. She can barely speak, when she does it’s a scream. It’s primal.
From 51st and Harvard to the downtown bus station, she continues to cry and all she keeps saying is she’s done. She is ready to die. It’s time.
I believe her.
She tells me she loves me and she’s proud of me for trying. We say our goodbyes and I watch her walk away.
I believe this is the last time I will see her alive.
I can feel it in my heart.
I return to work.
Two hours pass then I receive a phone call.
My mom’s case manager is letting me know they have made contact with my mom’s attorney and he’s verified the information and agreed to sign a letter. She’s uncertain if my mom is with me, so she’s tried me first.
Knowing how hard the MHAO staff has worked, I ask Alyssa, the case manager, to hang up and immediately call my mom to give her the good news.
Tears begin pouring out my eyes. I just hope my mom is still alive.
Minutes later, my mom calls me. She’s crying and giggling. Finally something good has happened. She still has a chance. She has a new reason to stay alive.
A few days later on Aug. 15, we’re sitting in Altamont’s front office, and I’m watching my mom fill out paperwork to become a resident in their transitional housing program.
Sitting next to me is my mom’s case manager. When I comment something reminds me of the Lindsey House, Alyssa mentions she used to live there.
It turns out she had been accepted into that transitional housing program right around the time I had joined their board of directors in 2014. Each month we’d get a packet of updates about each person, and she was one of those clients.
A few years later she’s sitting next to me as an advocate for my mom.
Living in a world full of darkness for so long, it’s the first time I’ve questioned my lack of faith because I just maybe witnessed what feels like a giant miracle. That said, I tend to believe more in Buddhism and karma, so maybe that’s the case.
Either way, magic has happened.
I celebrate with my mom as she unlocks her door to 208-B and enters her new personal and private space. It’s the first time in years I’ve seen a genuine smile stay on her face.
It’s a small room with a twin bed, chest of drawers, a sink, mini fridge, microwave and her own bathroom. There’s a night stand and a lamp next to the bed.
We’re told it’s one of two available units that Mental Health Association has available across Tulsa. That’s two of something like 4,500 housing units.
When I leave my mom at the Altamont, I instantly feel a tremendous amount of weight evaporate. I get emotional and nearly drive off the road trying to wipe my face.
That night I sleep better than I’ve slept in a long time. Even then, I know we’re not out of the woods.
In the early days of her residency she talks about leaving. She hates the white walls and silence in her room. It reminds her of a mental institution. There’s a 10 p.m. curfew. There are other residents with extreme mental issues.
It’s downtown, but the location isn’t near a bus stop or store, so she has to walk everywhere. She can’t carry many groceries nor has the space to store much.
She’s not allowed to host guests in her apartment.
I see the positives in everything mentioned, she sees none of it.
I get it. She had a dream of going from sleeping on the street to having her own home with her own rules.
I know this is fairly common feeling for those making the transition from the street to their own place. As scary as it is to live homeless, there is also a weird comfort because it’s the norm.
We have many talks in the first week she stays there. She contemplates leaving the program, and I tell her if she does I’ll no longer be there to help. It’s a dangerous move because I’m aware how she has responded to ultimatums in the past, but I need her to understand how important I view this step in her recovery from homelessness.
She has never had structure. She’s never had to maintain a bank balance and pay bills on her own.
Going from years of homelessness to having your own place has to be a surreal experience. I get it.
This isn’t the end of her journey, but a fresh beginning.
On Sept. 8, she turned 52. It’s a new year for her. A new start.
She’s still alive.
She has a home.
