“One last time,” I thought. “One last time to drive around the peninsula.” It was the Palos Verdes Peninsula in California, home to the Trump Golf Course. It was home to my family, not exactly near the golf course, but still, the air was pristine, city view of the LA basin spectacular and streets lined with beautiful homes. I was excited yet anxious at the same time because in hours my life would be changing dramatically.
The drive was something out of a movie as I faced a brilliant sunset on a two-lane highway overlooking the spectacular cliffs. I could see the outline of someone hang gliding and thought, “What am I doing? Tomorrow I leave all this beauty for, for what?” I did not know exactly. Sure I had visited, but my visits gave no indication that someday I would become a spokeswoman for disenfranchised women.
The next morning I flew from sunny California to New York – alone. I was setting out to work for a very aggressive inner-city children’s non-profit. At that time its staff and volunteers touched the lives of 20,000 kids on a weekly basis. We worked hard in the community. They had been there since the early 80’s and had achieved major acceptance in New York’s inner city whose neighborhoods were rife with distrust and violence. I was picked up by a soon-to-be dear friend and dropped off at my new, or more aptly old, very old apartment.
The tenement house itself was owned by the organization and everyone was gone on his/her only day off. I was given a loft in the front room. But let me describe the loft lest it conjures up some gorgeous open space with hardwood floors and tall windows. My loft was over a 7.5’x9’ space with a clearance of 3’. I climbed a handmade ladder to get into bed. My roommate left a small lamp sans the shade so I’d have light. The bathroom had an original claw foot tub! In winter months I’d experience dealing with two inches of ice layering the inside of the tub. That was due in part to the holes in the floors and walls throughout the apartment. The ones in the floor allowed a direct view into the basement. It struck me as funny as the largest hole was right in front of the refrigerator. My apartment held the single thermostat regulating heat for all three floors. It worked great! Too much heat for the third floor, just about right for the second floor and a coat required for the first floor. Occasionally, I used the gas oven to heat my side of the apartment though I’d been warned that it was an unsafe practice. Sure enough when I opened the oven door one evening when I was too tired, a pop of flame escaped and singed my hair and eyelashes.
All staff lived in and around the people we served to earn their respect and gain credibility. It was not easy for me. I learned to have selective eyesight. I would choose to see beauty if only enjoying wild petunias growing through the cracks in the sidewalk. Or I would choose not to see (or hear) the gunshots. I guess I got a little too good at selective seeing as I unabashedly invited an American Diplomat (part of my job) into my home and served him a tuna fish sandwich. He sat at my tiny table looking into my pots and pans on a shelf. But that’s a story for another time.
For my birthday, Dad came out and spent four days plugging up every possible hole that rats could get through to terrorize me in the apartment. I’d seen five-pound rats run out from some unknown spot in the apartment across the hall…. The David Letterman sketches about NY rats are … pretty accurate!
Still nothing could be done about the noise. On the other side of the thin wall was an empty lot where men would spend every night, except on the coldest, drinking beer and watching a blaring TV hooked up to some electrical pole. They rarely left until about 3:30 AM.
Thus I lived in tenement housing for nine years. Happy to say that my surroundings improved when I moved to another apartment building four years later. But it was still noisy. Now I got to experience the pungent smell of marijuana wafting through open windows. Wherever I walked it was common to see empty vials of crack cocaine on the sidewalks and the occasional empty shell casing. We used to pick them up and collect them. Crazy how my normal had changed! Yet I was fortunate because I lived in a building owned by my employer so the tenants were all colleagues.
It would have been so much more dangerous if that weren’t true. Tenement housing was never safe. I knew of so many stories of harassment for children, women and men – especially adolescent girls. One always had to be alert to one’s surroundings. It was a matter of life and death.
My duties at the non-profit included not only writing their donor communications, but also developing relationships within a mapped out area in East New York comprising of 6×11 blocks. All staff were expected to visit the kids and their families every week regardless if their other responsibilities were unfinished. Our organization’s success and mutual trust in the community was forged in relationships at every level over time and consistency.
So it became normal for me to enter dark buildings and climb up dimly lit stairs to visit a family. Sometimes I’d learn that two or three families, generally with no father in sight, occupied a single apartment. I’d see mothers try to do their best in providing beds for her kids. Though sometimes broken down couches would do. It always struck me as odd how sheets were sometimes used and yet, more often than not, not used. Clothes were stored in plastic bins after being washed in the tub. Some would have only a cook plate on which to prepare meals. The moms often seemed listless and depressed. Then there were others too strung out to care. Their kids suffered the most.
I recall making a special Sunday lunch for a friend and three boys he mentored. (Their teen-aged sister was responsible for the boys, then aged 9, 11, 13, since losing both parents to AIDS a few years prior.) Everyone sat down to my nicely set table when they immediately reached for the ham with their hands and began to eat the slices. My friend and I were taken back by their actions. We quickly realized that these boys had only eaten fried chicken, hamburgers or pizza on the run. Like parents that they didn’t have, we taught them how to cut meat with a knife and eat food with a fork.
Contemplative by nature, I did some real soul-searching. ‘Where would I be if no one had taught me? Would I know how often to wash sheets and how to put them on a bed? How “up” would I be if I lived in a cramped apartment on a dangerous street with little hope of a decent job? If my education was lacking and the prevailing atmosphere was apathetic with little to no inspiration or expectation, would I take initiative to change my circumstances? What would I instinctively know about taking care of children and running a household if I hadn’t witnessed a good example and been taught as I matured?’ After all, I had an amazing mother. And she had a very capable mother as well as a hard-working mother-in-law and a number of talented aunts. Together, in multiples of ways, these women all poured knowledge and life-experience into my life.
Even when I put myself in the shoes of the moms that I served, I knew I had an advantage. I had a strong and admirable family unit infused with a personal relationship with Jesus based on the Bible. I was taught right and wrong, what love is and to appreciate what I had been given. I had a strong foundation for daily living. I would always have their love and support.
‘What if drugs or alcohol stripped away all aspirations and abilities of those positive influences, where would I be? What would my norm be in that situation?’
Maybe I’d know some things. But to be brutally fair, I had to take it back another generation and another, as is the case for many of today’s marginalized women. What does the foundation of their lives look like with three, four generations of damaged lives and practices on which to build? Whatever that looks like is what they are trying to build their lives on. If in the same situation, could I do any better if I didn’t know any better?
I didn’t think so.
Unwittingly, I was on my way to becoming an accidental spokeswoman for marginalized – defined “as a process whereby … someone is pushed to the edge of a group and accorded lesser importance” – women. The definition continues its explanation that marginalizing “is predominantly a social phenomenon by which this sub-group is excluded, and their needs or desires ignored.”[i] The latter phrase would become very important to me.
After nine years I sensed I was nearing the end of this season of my life living in the inner city. But just before I resigned, I was asked to speak at our two-day women’s retreat. This experience would prove to be pivotal. I was given the topic, “Peace in the Home” with four sessions. I decided to divide the time into two expressions of peace: The first half would center around what spiritual peace is about; and the second half would be devoted to a “practical” and visual peace calling attention to what could be done to effect that sense in their own homes.
That weekend the ladies streamed in from the five boroughs. They knew where I lived and in some small way I had gained credibility to say what I was going to say. I had walked and lived where they did. Wanda, my loud, outspoken friend and co-route leader came. The memory of her exclaiming across the lobby when we first met, “She ain’t gonna’ last!” still made me chuckle. I was nostalgic as I surveyed the ladies. There were so many that I had grown to love and respect….
After lunch I spoke about housecleaning, offering tips on tasks I had taken for granted. I talked about how often to change sheets, family meals at the table and so on. At one point while suggesting simple decorations to change seasonally, one lady sitting near the front loudly grumped, “I don’t do all that,” implying it wasn’t necessary. I smiled and responded, “That’s okay. You don’t have to. But I’ll tell you what. It makes an old place look new four times a year.” There was a spontaneous sound of ascent by the rest of the audience. They were tracking.
For several weeks following that retreat, women would come up to me and with pride tell me what they had been inspired to do. One lady with a huge smile told me, “I went home and cleaned my bathroom!” It was fun to hear their reports of accomplishment.
One mom invited me over to her tiny apartment that I had visited many, many times over the years. It generally had a smell that is attributed to the odor emitted by roaches. She and her three kids spent most of their hours atop a frayed out mattress in the back room. This time, instead of stuff stacked from floor to ceiling forcing you to the back bedroom there was enough space to talk in the front room. Following the retreat, she had begun to systematically clear it out so that her toddler (whom she thought had A.D.D.) would have a place to play. She proudly admitted there was more work to do, but she wanted me to see the progress before I moved. Then she turned and picked up a large box. “Here, this is for you,” she said. I could see from the picture label that the box contained an entire place setting of dishes. “I bought this for you with my bus money. You said you liked flowers…” as she pointed out the pattern of flowers on the dishes’ perimeter. It was a precious gift full of meaning that I treasure to this day.
One more experience led to the birth of Reach UP Magazine. At the end of my last session, I carefully told the women that there were magazines on the back table that they could have if they wanted – no pressure. I say carefully, because the target audience of those home and lifestyle magazines was white upper class women. I knew how I felt seeing all the nice things and knowing I could never afford them. Still I loved looking and picking up ideas here and there that I could incorporate into my lifestyle. How would these ladies who live at or below the line of poverty in circumstances that is difficult for the suburban middle/upper class to imagine, how would they react? I never wanted to offend or make some insensitive intimation of judgment. To my utter amazement, the women loved the magazines.
Combining how quickly the ladies responded to practical tips and enjoyment of the magazines triggered a realization – not once, ever, anywhere had I ever seen a magazine for women in their neighborhoods. Was there even a magazine that took into consideration limited finances and the realities of the inner city? Not only did these women have a generational void in their lives, there was a print publication void! And in my thinking, it was not fair to have their needs and desires ignored.
Are not these women who are raising children and struggling to survive worth the effort to inspire and encourage and empower? Within days the idea of a magazine targeting disenfranchised women was born as I mulled over my recent observations. Later I would come to understand that it didn’t matter where they lived, being marginalized is not relegated to location or race[ii].
The name Reach UP came almost as quickly. Empowerment is not conferred. It may be inspired, but the actual movement from one step to another step requires effort on the part of the person rising to the next level. And there’s not a soul alive who never needed the encouragement, a ‘hand up’ by another human being or Someone….
Initially Reach UP began as a simple e-zine in 2007. Everyone – graphic artist, writers, and editor – was eager to help. I was euphoric. The first issue came out on my birthday and dedicated to my mother. She was and always would be my inspiration.
Gradually, I realized that the digital divide was very real. If we were to truly serve marginalized women, the magazine must be printed. Around late 2008, we printed our first copies on the church copier so women in a nearby jail could have their own copy.
Distribution was a challenge at many levels. As a single woman I was used to having to consider magazines a luxury while being on a tight budget. If that were true of me and I had a good job, how much more for a struggling mom living on the brink (or under the line) of poverty[iii]?
Without money to advertise but having a fairly good working knowledge of the non-profit world, I networked with dedicated volunteers and organizations that worked with my target audience. Some could readily understand how Reach UP could be utilized in developing relationships and encouraging dialog thereby furthering their influence. Others took more convincing since it was such a different concept in the realm of charity and working with the underserved. Rarely did any of these non-profits have anything budgeted towards such a resource. Alas, the magazine would have to be free or, with a sad shrug, “Sorry….”
At last count we quarterly print and ship free of charge[iv] 13,000 copies in English and Spanish to organizations and individuals across the nation who work with marginalized women. The ladies who receive the magazine love the special attention when given a FREE magazine just for them, filled with articles and beautiful graphics that speak directly to their needs and circumstances. We print articles contributed by experts as well as by women who have risen out of the depths of despair. The result is a growing sense of hope and pride by our readers in their ability to gain some control over their lives and circumstances.
We’ve heard how a group of incarcerated women began to talk of their renewed desire to get their GED. This was directly attributed to a first-person article of a single mother of four who struggled to get hers and went on to become an RN. We know of several women who gave their personal copy away as gifts. It meant something to them and therefore heartfelt gifts! Inmates separate the pages and tape them as decorations on their dismal cell walls. But most commonly when we give out Reach UP Magazine, it’s a big smile lighting up a face of a woman heretofore overlooked by society. In that instant we know she feels special to be recognized and valued.
So that is how I became an accidental spokeswoman for marginalized women. It began when I put myself in someone else’s shoes. That exercise turned into my life’s mission to help marginalized women and fill the gap in the print world by magazine called Reach UP! To learn more, visit our website at www.reachupmag.org.
I’m planning for expansion! Please join us. Reach UP will grow exponentially in distribution when our funding takes a leap upward.
[i] http://www.businessdictionary.com
[ii] “Rate Poverty by Race/Ethnicity – 2014,” The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, accessed 7/13/16. http://kff.org/other/state-indicator/poverty-rate-by-raceethnicity/ U.S. Totals: Total – 47,021,300; Whites – 19,796,700; Black – 10,145,200; Hispanic – 13,214,100; Other/Mixed – 3,865,300.
[iii] Ibid. The U.S. Census Bureau’s poverty threshold for a family with two adults and one child was $19,055 in 2014. This is the official measurement of poverty used by the Federal Government, and the measure used for most poverty-based data presented on State Health Facts.
[iv] Reach UP Magazine is financially supported through the generous donations of individuals and corporate sponsors.
