No Place Like Home

By Wendy Cole and Richard Corliss

The sales rep stationed at the front door of the Kroger supermarket in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio, knew a family of attractive marks when she saw one. Here was a nice-looking young couple with their cooing newborn in the shopping cart: perfect targets for a high-speed spiel. "Have you had a family portrait yet? We're running a special deal this week, one 10 by 13-inch portrait, a $60 value, right now for just $8. Oh, the baby's so cute. Can I sign you up?"

The notion was a beguiling one--professional photographs of their adorable Debraysha--but Phenom and De-Shawto Cochran felt the need to magnify the saleswoman's small print. "How much will it cost me?" Phenom interjected hopefully. "Eight dollars, just $8," said the rep, a tad more slowly. "Oh, I don't have $8 right now," Phenom replied flatly. The woman finally retreated as the Cochrans pushed their cart toward the produce aisle.

Phenom, 26, was not giving the rep the brush-off. She did not have $8. She had $6--a neatly folded $5 bill and a one--tucked inside her jeans pocket. That was the Cochran family's nest egg.

De-Shawto (pronounced De-Shawn-toe), 28, and his wife knew it would be a while before they could afford the sort of professional photos of Debraysha that they had got for their two older children, Moriah, 10, and De-Shawto Jr., 8, when they were babies. The Cochrans have been homeless since August, and money's tight for a family that lacks a place to call home.

The Cochrans are the working poor on a losing streak. Until October, De-Shawto had a job at the Wal-Mart deli counter; Phenom drove a pizza-delivery van until her pregnancy made her too sick to continue. Now a few days a week, De-Shawto gets up before dawn at their temporary home at the Barbara Bonner Family Shelter and heads off to work prepping cars to be sold at a local auto-auction facility. He's lucky to take home $50 a day.

As they scour the grocery aisles for the best value in luncheon meat, the Cochrans, like many homeless families, are invisible to the rest of the world--invisible not because they provoke people to look away in discomfort or guilt but because they look and act no different from the rest of us. These are not the deranged homeless ranting in their portable bedlam, a ratty blanket near a street heat grate. Families like the Cochrans live in our neighborhoods, go to our churches, attend the same public schools as our kids. And in Columbus there are more of them every day: demand for shelter by families with young children is up 14% over last year and rising faster than requests by single adults. In other words, the Cochrans are us--after the roof has fallen in.

Phenom and De-Shawto are young parents with a long history. The Columbus natives have known each other since middle school, they went on their first movie date together (a comedy about upward mobility called Livin' Large) at 15, and both dropped out of school in the 11th grade, a move they regret deeply. They say they still plan to get their GEDs, or high school--equivalence certificates. And they share a similar dream for their children. "I want to see them go to their proms and graduate," says Phenom. "I want them to succeed at things we didn't."

Like staying in one place: the Cochrans have lived in eight homes. On Aug. 29, they were forced to leave the two-bedroom apartment where they had comfortably resided for two years in a scrappy east-side section of Columbus. Blindsided by a hike of almost 50% in their rent, they would have had to pay $500 a month to remain in their home. De-Shawto's $230-a-week take-home pay at Wal-Mart was not enough to support the family. So they scrambled to find a new place within their housing budget of about $400 a month, reasonable for a low-rent city like Columbus. But at a time when houses are appreciating well ahead of wages and the stock of cheap rentals is shrinking, such finds have become rare. The Cochrans applied at a score of apartment buildings and did not get a single call back. "I was hoping and praying something good would happen at the last minute," says Phenom, who was six months pregnant when they were evicted. "I didn't want to bring my baby into the world this way."

She and De-Shawto did not let their emotions cloud their common sense. For $69 a month, they rented a large storage space at a U-Haul facility and started moving their belongings there. The Cochrans kept only the essentials: two large duffel bags with clothes, several tote bags for toiletries and a few toys, and a TV. Left behind: the furniture, the winter clothes and an artificial Christmas tree they had bought in 2001 when things looked brighter. Then they drove their cantankerous 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme to the Interfaith Hospitality Network, Columbus' sole portal for homeless families. Before arriving there, Phenom and De-Shawto dropped their kids off at school. They had briefed the children that they would be spending the night in a shelter. "I wanted them to understand that being homeless doesn't mean you're a bad person," Phenom says. The kids took it stoically. "They were a little sad, but they didn't say much," De-Shawto recalls. "I told them we wouldn't be down there that long."

And in saying that, he was speaking in part from experience. For this was not the Cochrans' first foray into homelessness. In the spring of 2000, when De-Shawto was between jobs and fell behind in the rent, the family was evicted from its two-bedroom apartment. The Cochrans moved in for a few months with De-Shawto's mother and her five other children in their Columbus apartment. But things got crowded and occasionally tense. That led to the Cochrans' entry into the shelter system. But De-Shawto, who had found restaurant work in the meantime, signed a new apartment lease within a few weeks of landing at the shelter, enabling the Cochrans to regain their footing that summer.

This time around, pride kept Phenom from asking her mother Wanda Purdie if she and her family could crash at Purdie's house. "I didn't want to invade her privacy," Phenom said, explaining that she would have found running to her mother for help more humiliating than taking her family to a shelter. For her part, Purdie says she has "cried many tears" over the family's plight. But she has not offered to house them, saying she believes that would send Phenom and De-Shawto the wrong message about the importance of self-sufficiency. "I guess you could call it tough love," Purdie says.

The hospitality network first arranged for the Cochrans to sleep--together in one room--at the Broad Street United Methodist Church. They remained there a week. For four weeks after that, they shuttled each night to motel rooms assigned by the hospitality network. In that time, they all took tuberculosis tests, and the parents went through drug screening while waiting for space in one of three 90day family-shelter programs overseen by the city's shelter board. During those first few weeks, Phenom kept up a brave front. "I waited to cry until I was alone in the car or in the bathroom," she says. "I didn't want to worry my husband."

Homeless families in Columbus can count on humane treatment. On a $9 million budget, the shelter board, which operates as a public-private partnership, seeks housing solutions for families as well as single men and women, no matter how complicated the underlying barriers. No one who needs shelter is turned away. "Our goal is to do whatever it takes to help you stay housed," says Rachel Ginsberg, director of the hospitality network. Last year 635 families received shelter through Columbus' so-called front-door system, while an additional 400 found other housing options with the agency's help.

On Oct. 8, the Cochrans transferred to the Barbara Bonner Family Shelter, run by Catholic Social Services. "We hope to get people out of this situation once and for all," says shelter director Wilhelmina Spinner. They are doing exactly that. Since 1997, the percentage of homeless families in Columbus who attain long-term housing solutions has risen from 30% to 70%. Enhanced after-care services, like financial and psychological counseling, also help families cope with stress and stay housed once they locate a suitable place. Officially, families are supposed to remain at Bonner no more than 90 days. But with the sluggish economy and fewer available jobs, some are taking up to six months to find permanent housing.

It happens that the Cochrans' current living quarters are more lavish than any home they have had during their eight years of marriage. The shelter is actually a three-bedroom, 1 1/2-bath town home. Catholic Social Services rents and maintains 21 furnished town houses within a private 5,000-unit rental-apartment complex, where a three-bedroom dwelling rents for up to $649. But what the family has gained in space, it has lost in ambiance. The scuffed, white living-room walls are barren except for some stray crayon marks left by previous occupants. Yet the kids don't complain. For the first time, they have their own bedrooms. Most nights, however, De-Shawto Jr. (nicknamed Little D) climbs into bed with his older sister, something he never did before they were homeless. "Sleeping alone is too scary," he says. Moriah says she likes having him there.

In no time, both kids made new friends at Prairie Lincoln Elementary, a short bus ride away from the shelter. But they have not told anyone they are homeless. And much of the time, neither do school officials. Principal Kelly Jacobs says the teachers are informed that an incoming student is homeless only when there is a compelling academic or social reason to do so. "We want all kids here to feel safe and accepted," she says.

Moriah's and Little D's teachers proclaim that the kids are fitting in well at the school they love. "De-Shawto's a very nice boy with good writing skills," says second-grade teacher Beth Smith. "He's right on the mark with spelling, and his math is good." Fourth-grade teacher Amanda Beck (who did not know Moriah was homeless until a reporter asked for an interview) also gives a glowing report: "She has a great work ethic and is an excellent kid. She's a tiny bit behind in some areas. But I expect her to catch up if she stays here."

Both teachers hope the Cochrans find permanent housing in the neighborhood so the kids can remain at the school. And Moriah's new friend Bryanna Roop, 9, is hoping she will stay too. "I really like Moriah. She gives me good advice when I'm having a problem. I'd like to invite her over to my house to play games." Moriah would be unlikely to return the invitation. "I'd be embarrassed for them to come over," she says. "Other people might laugh at me, so I don't tell them."

The parents feel the stigma more poignantly. "The place is comfortable," says Phenom. "But I really wish I didn't have to be here." At times the Cochrans betray a subtle self-consciousness about their homelessness. "There's a regular family living right next door," says De-Shawto, excitedly explaining the unobtrusive nature of the shelter. "Hey, we're a regular family," Phenom cuts in. "What I mean is, the family next door isn't in the program," explains De-Shawto, a bit awkwardly.

While the kids are at school, De-Shawto is busy applying for jobs in the area, hoping the family can stay in this new suburban neighborhood just west of the city limits. Shelter staff members scout out local restaurants and retail stores and then ferry him around by van (his license was suspended in 1995 after he was stopped for speeding and driving without insurance; he still owes $850 in fines) to fill out applications. With several years of experience as a cook, De-Shawto felt confident at first that he would get something quickly. But more than two months of diligent canvassing and follow-up have yielded nothing. "Before now, it never took me more than two weeks to find a job," he says dejectedly.

Some leads De-Shawto finds himself. He responded to a TV news report on the shortage of poll workers for Election Day by pursuing and landing a job. Three days after Debraysha was born, he was helping voters sign in and seeing that the polling ran smoothly. The day's pay: $85, which was set aside for the following month's storage fee. He also voted for the first time--the straight Democratic ticket.

Phenom is even busier, not just tending the baby but also meeting with service providers, from the Catholic Social Services caseworker to the Parents Anonymous family-support rep. Phenom intently listens to all the advice yet admits that the unending parade of support workers can be wearying. "Sometimes all I need to do is be by myself, get some rest and take care of my baby," she says.

In her few spare moments, Phenom occasionally finds her thoughts slipping to the past. This time last year, De-Shawto was employed in housekeeping at a motel; she had her full-time pizza job. On her way to work, she would often stop for a cappuccino to go, a little indulgence that she sorely misses. "The ones at the Exxon station are the best," she says wistfully. She has not had one in months.

A year ago, the parents together were frequently taking home $500 or more a week, more than they had ever earned in their lives. "Life was good. We could get anything we wanted." That's when they bought their first Christmas tree, an artificial one that would be fresh each year. Three weeks ago, the Cochran Christmas was more like Ash Wednesday. De-Shawto and Phenom had no cash for the kids' presents. (The shelter helped out there: people donated gifts from the residents' wish lists.) But they did succumb to the kids' begging and pulled the six-foot faux evergreen tree out of storage: it's still lighted up in the living room because there aren't enough lamps to go around and the kids can huddle around it in the evenings to do their homework.

Phenom is still waiting for her New Year's wish to come true: to have a real place of their own, paid for by them, with earnings from the full-time job De-Shawto has yet to find. "I was really hoping we wouldn't be spending the holidays here," Phenom says, and sighs. "I didn't want to be here that long." The bright lights in the kids' eyes can't bring a sparkle to Mom's. She knows that a family doesn't have to be houseless to be homeless.