Stories Worth Telling

As I was walking to a coffee shop on Saturday to begin my homework, I was struck by an entirely unexpected interaction. I was simply walking along, minding my own business, mentally planning what homework I wanted to do first, when I was stopped by an older woman by the metro stop on Wilshire and Normandie. I had not even acknowledged her presence next to me, because I wasn't paying complete attention, and suddenly I heard her gently asking me if I would be willing to help her out with getting something to eat or drink. I turned towards her and answered "yes" before my brain had time to consciously process what I was doing. I offered to buy her something from the Carl's Jr. to our left, and she quickly accepted.

As we walked inside, she started to thank me for stopping for her and began to share her story. While she talked, I could not help but notice how beautiful she was. Her wizened hair was pulled back into a thin, curly ponytail, and I was caught almost immediately by the joyful orange of the shirt poking out from under her sweater. She held a Chinese takeout box in her hand, that I later learned she had been given by a passerby as she stood out on the street where I met her, and a colorful woven bag hung from her shoulder. Soft wrinkles graced her cheeks, and she smiled just briefly as I walked toward the entrance with her. Something about this woman made me feel so safe, and I was instantly drawn into her eyes and the stories they played as she spoke. Her name is Stacy, and I so wish I could have done more for her. Instead, I will tell her story, because I believe it deserves to be told.

Formerly a crack addict, she was sentenced to 17 years to life a handful of years back (I did not catch the exact timing of this part of her story) and told God that if He somehow got her out of this, she would give up this addiction once and for all. He did, and so did she. She has been clean for at least a decade or so now, but since then has experienced the death of two of her children. One of her sons spent 12 years in prison, and 2 months after getting out was murdered. Two years ago she lost her second son when he was shot four times in MacArthur Park. She thought life could not have gotten work after that, and now she is living in the reality that she was so wrong then. Tears began to flow from her eyes as she told me that, since then, she has become stuck in an abusive relationship with her dying and increasingly aggressive daughter, who is constantly taking advantage of her as she attempts to care for her grandchildren. This mother-daughter relationship spiraled from being her biggest support and friendship into being her worst nightmare. Just a few weeks ago, she was also officially diagnosed with paralyzing depression.

Stacy is on social security, but the majority of this monthly check is going towards paying for the hotel room she is living in with her abusive daughter and grandchildren. This leaves her with little money left over that is taken by her daughter and used to buy marijuana. Her current situation seems to be one that is defined by her past as a crack addict, even though she does not allow that to define her view of herself any longer. She explained the abuses that she has to take from her daughter, who is convinced that Stacy is going out and getting high on crack again. These abuses include sleeping on the floor, sometimes going without food, and physical abuse through hitting, kicking, and spitting. She is being forced to live out of a suitcase because her daughter will throw away anything she leave out. Her daughter has even gone so far as to confiscate any identification documents she has, in essence taking total control over her life as the abuse escalates.

Stacy cried as she told me that she just doesn't know what to do anymore. She left her daughter and grandchildren that morning, and didn't think she could bear to go back. And yet, every time she spoke, she mentioned needing to care for her 2 year old grand-baby, who was in desperate need of diapers. It seems as if blow after blow has happened throughout her life, and she is doing everything she can to get back up. She asked me if I knew about any shelters or aid services that could help her now. Naturally, I started to tell her about the Dream Center, since I am connected with the resources it offers for people finding themselves in situations similar to hers. She has already heard about it, and has been on the waiting list for the Family Transitional Housing Program with her daughter and grandchildren for what will be a year in May. That clearly hasn't worked out yet, and she is running out of time and options. At this point, she is looking for anything. But she is not yet giving up, and her resilience was inspiring.

When we left Carl's Jr., we stood outside for a moment, and she let me pray over her. As soon as we finished praying, a man approached us asking for money. "I wish someone would help me out with the same thing," Stacy said. I simply offered to buy him food, but he insisted that he needed money. When I told him I only had a card and no cash (which was true), he insisted that I go to an ATM to get him some cash. I said no again, and that I would only buy him food if that is what he wanted. He continued to ask for cash, explaining to me that he was disabled and had been shot 15 times while giving me the complete tour of each bullet wound on his body. Stacy asked him to leave if he did not want food, and then I asked him what he needed the money for if not for food. He straight up told me, "to re-up!" When I said no again, he took a step towards me and my backpack, pulling his hands out of his pockets, and as I quickly stepped back, I bid him a good day.

As soon as he left, Stacy burst into tears again. She explained that people like him were the reason she could not find the help she needed. These frustrations of hers really struck me. Sniffling, she confessed that it was hard enough for her to stand on the streets asking for help because her body is in immense pain. Most people don't give her a second glance because they assume she is asking for drug money, like this man was. But all she needs is a hand up for the moment, since she is at a loss for what to do otherwise. Hearing this broke my heart, because I know this is a stigma I have held against people on the street before, and one that I still unfortunately buy into at times. Through the tears, she kept saying that she did not know what to do anymore. But each time she made this statement, she would follow it with some statement about how she is still trying to be joyful, or how she is not ready to give up. Even if she felt like she was breaking, she is not down yet.

I was so touched by her determination to make things work, and by her humility and bravery. In fact, inspired really does not begin to come close to how her story made me feel, even though we only talked for maybe 20 minutes. If I had been in a rush to get to my coffee shop homework spot yesterday, I would have missed this God-inspired interaction. I hope she knows she can hold her head in dignity, because she is a beautiful woman inside and out. And while she is currently living in the midst of a story in need of much restoration, I am struck by the fact that she is so much stronger than I could ever be. Despite the fact that we come from entirely different backgrounds, that does not change the way she is seen as a beloved Child of God. I am no better than her simply because of my current reality, and our interaction really put my perspective on some things in check.

I do not by any means intend to exploit her situation or situations of people like her for my own personal gain or fulfillment of some sort. But I strongly believe that the stories of people such as these deserve to be told. They are people, with voices, emotions, and stories, and they all just need someone to listen. That is why I felt I should tell the story of Stacy. She has a beautiful voice, spirit, and presence. She, and people like her, deserve not to be ignored.