What’s it like to be homeless or transient? I can’t answer that question for another, only for myself. It’s also important to note that these situations can be experienced differently by children, even for children in the same family. So much depends on the setting, too. When we were homeless, living in a small travel trailer and sleeping out under the stars in a campground, it seemed like a grand adventure. However, living in a tent behind a house in Haight Ashbury in San Francisco was terrifying. The people and the events (hippies, anti-war protests, and rampant drug use) in the summer of 1970 were beyond my ability, as a nine-year-old child, to comprehend.
Living with family and friends held its share of trials and tribulations. Welcoming at first, the burden of supporting somebody else’s children as the days wore on (and there were seven of us) became, well, a burden. Eventually, words would be said, and we’d pack up the car and move on down the road. Living in a car or some other vehicle was the worst. It meant days of eating bologna sandwiches or nothing at all, taking sponge baths in the restroom sink of a gas station, and never feeling rested, clean, or safe. Despite the heat of seven little bodies squished together, I was always cold.
As I grew older, the most difficult part was the lack of connection to place or people. I never felt rooted. Even when we had an address that wasn’t a post office box, home wasn’t a stable place. When you had parents who had substance use disorders and mental illness, opening the front door was like opening Pandora’s box. I couldn’t ask a friend over to play or accept offers from them—even when they were infrequently given. I couldn’t risk having them see where or how I lived. There were no friendly neighborhood bike rides, no birthday parties, and attempts at joining Girl Scouts or Camp Fire Girls usually ended with some sort of disaster – my father stealing the candy money or having to drop out because I couldn’t buy the uniform.
I am not an anomaly. Twenty-one million children in this country live in a home with at least one parent who misuses alcohol or drugs, and two million live with a parent who has a substance use disorder. One in every thirty children, about two and a half million children, will experience homelessness this year.
The costs to our society are enormous. Untreated substance abuse and mental health issues in parents and unaddressed poverty in children begets more of the same. We know that providing intervention to families can mean the difference between a promising future and a lifetime of misery. My story is an example of that. Faith-based organizations provided food and emergency aid to my parents. At times, we benefited from Section 8 housing, a federal program that assists low-income families. My family also received food stamps and participated in the food commodities program. As a single mother with two young children, I received Pell Grants, federal grants that help low-income students pay for college. I also received college work study, a federal needs-based program that provides part-time jobs for college students. I worked in the childcare center at a local community college while I studied for my degree in education.
The mental health issues and trauma in my family are multi-generational. I can trace them back to my parents, grandparents, and beyond. Breaking the cycle of trauma has been a long and difficult road, but I now have a thirty-year career in education, two successful adult children, grandchildren, a wonderful husband, and a close circle of family and friends.
It takes considerable support to be a cycle breaker; it takes that proverbial village and a whole lot of local, state, and federal support programs. It’s not easy or cheap, but it’s worth it. Our children are worth the investment.
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