Powerful . . .

I borrowed this entire post from Process. A blog written by a current Child Protection Worker that really makes you think. This is an AMAZING read and made me truly think about the plight of others. I think every person who has ever used the term "welfare whore" needs read this. What are you thoughts?

What Would It Be Like?

What would it be like to lose my job because I couldn't work because I was in pain all day? What would it be like to try to keep working, to try to stay on my feet and be nice to customers and keep pace with the lunchtime rush, all while I was in so much pain I was sweating and shaking? How long would I last? Would I push myself through a couple more days than I really could, because I knew that losing my job would be just the beginning?

What would it be like to lose my home because I lost my job and could no longer pay the rent? What would it be like to pack up all my belongings--the things my mother had given me, the crafts my kids made for Mothers' Day, my favorite coffee mug--and ask people to store them for me in their attics and their basements? What would it be like to tell my kids that we were going to a homeless shelter?

What would it be like to be sent to a shelter on the other side of the state, because that's where there was a place for us? What would it be like to be told my family of five could only take six bags? What would that long silent ride be like, in the van they sent for us, sitting in the middle of the back seat, not really knowing where we were going, my children leaning into me on both sides, looking to me for safety and comfort?

What would it be like in that city, a city I didn't know, where my children would have to go to schools I knew nothing about? Would I be afraid for them?--after all, shelters are not in the best parts of town. How long would it take me to figure out the bus routes--if there were buses--so I could get to their new schools, the grocery store, Wal-Mart, so I could do for them as I'd always done?

What would it be like when, after we'd finally been moved to a shelter closer to home, after we'd been there nearly a year without any problems, to be shaken awake by staff one morning after a bad, bad night and told to pack our things, we had to leave? What would it be like to protest that I wasn't the one who had started the fight, that the other resident had attacked me, and had slapped my children when they'd tried to intervene? What would it be like if the police backed up my story, and still I was told we were the ones who had to leave? What would it be like if I knew the other woman was the staff's favorite? How angry would I be? How powerless would I feel?

What would it be like to be sent to a hotel to wait for the next opening, in some shelter, somewhere--anywhere--in the state? What would it be like to have four hungry children and only the food I'd bought while I was in the shelter--meats and beans and rice--and no stove in the hotel room to cook it on, and no more food stamps coming for another two weeks?

What would it be like to finally get to a food pantry--after asking too many people if they knew where one was, and spending too much of what little money I had on a taxi to get there--and to be considered ungrateful for asking for microwavable foods, as though I were too lazy to cook for myself? What would it be like not to be able to cook the familiar foods for my family, not to be able to make my children's favorite meals? What would it be like to be afraid that we would lose part of our ourselves, part of who we were as a family, if we couldn't ooh and aah over the simmering pot on the stove, couldn't sit down at the table together to eat?

What would it be like to get the call from the front desk, the one I'd been dreading, telling me to pack our bags again? What would it be like to have to go back where we'd been before, hours away? What would it be like to be placed in an apartment this time--not one we can stay in, but one that's part of the shelter--with a stove now but no microwave? What would it be like to have to make calls on a Friday afternoon, begging for food and pots and pans and blankets, hoping that someone will respond so that my children wouldn't be hungry and cold all weekend long?

What would it be like to know that I was supposed to get a housing voucher months ago, but someone made a mistake, counted the days we'd been waiting wrong, and gave it to someone else, someone who hadn't been waiting nearly as long as we had? What would it be like to tell my story about all this over and over and over again to anyone I thought had even a little bit of power, and not get anywhere, to be told there's no recourse, that the damage done to me and mine can't be corrected, that all I can do is wait?