Like any good non-profit, this is not a quick process. I’ll start by pointing out how difficult it is to make decisions about who needs help, who deserves help, how we can help and how much time, volunteers and money we can put into any given project. There are a few situations that make it particularly difficult. Two different families we encountered had family members who lived in brick houses with concrete floors. What I mean by this is that the majority of the family lived in the brick house with tvs and beds and dressers and then, just outside the home, there was a shack with a son and daughter in law or vice-versa. In one case, the son and pregnant daughter in law were living on dirt floors, without proper walls, while the remainder of the family lived in the brick house, unwilling to rearrange things inside their home in order to make room for the couple.
Today we visited a few sites for an initial site assessment, 6 sites to be exact.
The first was not a situation that required our assistance. The family lived in a small house with concrete floors, brick walls and a plywood roof. There were beds, a kitchen, running water and electricity, in fact, there were two TVs. They wanted help fixing up their roof but it was something that we felt they could do with a little bit of team effort.
The second family we visited took a bit of work to find. Addresses are not organized logically and streets are unmarked. As a result, triangulating or estimating based on the addresses of homes nearby is a lost cause. For example, if I were driving down the street in most US cities (except for Ward) I could expect that the house after 52 would be 54 and on the other side of the street would be odd numbers such as 51 and 53. These rules absolutely do not apply here. After asking several people on the street if they knew the family or at least the Manzana (something like a block, but more like a neighborhood, I think) we were looking for, we made it to the right house, or chozita. According to the fellow sitting next to me, a chozita is a, “[poorly built] house made of plastic, cardboard and estera.”
I knew we were in the right place when I saw a small girl just up ahead of us in a beautiful and bright orange dress. She had long dark hair that flowed midway down her back. Shortly after her followed her mother and in her mothers arms her younger sister, buck-naked, interrupted mid-bath.
They welcomed us into their home through a flap in the tarp. Some light shone through the holes in the black tarp and the heat radiated off it to a point of discomfort.
The tarp was unsupported and sunk so low I had to duck or hold it aloft with my hand.
Water was sprinkled on the floor so that as we tread upon it, we did not kick up dust. Because they had no running water, they borrowed water from their neighbor.
Inside their home were only a few things: a large pile of unidentified objects wrapped in a large sheet, a couple of plastic yard chairs, a made bed, and a small table and chair only large enough for a child.
The mother explained that their other belongings had been stolen at various times. People had easily cut a hole in the tarp wall and taken her other furniture: tables and chairs. What we saw when we entered was all that remained.
As was our obligation, we asked the mother several questions to get a better idea of the extent to which she was in need of our support. She explained that she was hoping for some poles to better hold the tarp.
In just a few minutes her mother (for the sake of avoiding confusion, I’ll call her Abuela from here on out) popped up in a pink halter top, purple fleece pants rolled to the knees and a white bucket hat advertising a nearby radio station. She smiled and laughed and helped answer our questions politely and thoroughly.
I liked each of them.
I liked the older daughter in her orange dress, I gave her my orange headband to match.
I liked the tiny daughter whose bath we interrupted because she smiled and was beautiful and still oblivious.
I liked the mother because she was young and doing her best. Her partner was out of the picture because he had issues with drugs. At times he came around to rustle up trouble, but she handled it and moved forward on her own. When asked if she worked to support her family, she said, yes.
I liked the Abuela because she was strong and independent and when asked if there were men around, she smiled triumphantly and explained that they were single women, that they could do things themselves. The Abuela took us to her home where she showed us the bathroom she was constructing herself with the nails she had pulled from boards in other peoples trash. She had a bowl of them. She didn’t know how to do the plumbing herself and didn’t even have running water, but she has a head start.
It seemed clear to me that these women weren’t asking for handouts, they were asking for support.
The mother asked if we would bring her wood to better secure the tarps. Of course, we said.
I hope we can bring her much more. Maybe even a modular home with windows, a concrete floor, and a door that locks.
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