sufficient to support two children in the South, they were not enough to pay for housing in New York. He makes some money now by working in a hospital while taking classes in the afternoon and studying at night to finish his computer course. How does he study in this room?
“He gets back from class at suppertime,” Annie explains. “After dinner he helps me with the children. He’s
good
with the children. He tries to do the things a father should. He helps with homework, helps me to bathe them, tells them stories, gets them into bed. Once they’re asleep he does his books. He’ll be working up to three or four …”
Doby, with his brown eyes magnified by his thick lenses, is an earnest little boy. One of the workers in the crisis center calls him “an owl—bright and studious,” he says. But he’s a year behind his proper grade because he lost so many months during the time in which the family had been shunted from one shelter to another. He comes into the crisis center with his briefcase after school each afternoon and climbs onto the lap of one of the good-natured crisis workers. He looks like an oversized teddy bear and seems to be favored somewhat at the cost of his more quietsister. His father cuddles him a lot, scolds him a little, and seems amused by almost everything he does. They bought him and his sister heavy clothes and winter boots for Christmas.
“We had no money for a Christmas tree or toys. We buy them what they need so they will not feel different from the other kids at school. All the money that we have, it goes to them. They’re
nice
kids. They deserve it.”
Annie is twenty-seven but she looks like a teenager. Her husband is the same age but seems older. He doesn’t say much, but he’s friendly to me and seems grateful that I take an interest in them and, even more so, that I seem to take an interest in their kids. When Annie says, “they’re
nice
kids,” I cannot help thinking: “You are a nice person too.” And, although there is much more than this to say of Annie Harrington, it is to me the most important and most simple truth of all about this man and woman. They are good people: clean and honest. Diligent too. They love their children and each other. Nothing I’ve read about the culture of the underclass comes near the mark in stating what is elemental in this family.
“My mother is alive but very poor. My father is deceased. He died of asthma and heart failure. This is why I scare so easily when I have my attacks. My daughter’s attacks are not as bad as mine. They scare me too.”
She’s given $13 every two weeks to pay for travel costs of hunting for apartments; but her rental limit is $270 and she understands, after four years of searching, that she’ll never find a home until the limit is increased. “Places I see, they want $350, $400, $500. Out in Jamaica, recently, I met an older lady. She had seen me crying, so she asked me: ‘What’s the matter?’ I explained to her how long I had been looking for a home. She said: ‘Well, I own a couple of apartments.’ The rental was $365. She said that she would skip the extra month and the deposit. I had told her whatmy husband does, my children. I had Doby with me. I believe she took a liking to me. So I was excited. Happy! And she handed me the lease and proof of ownership and told me I should take them to my worker, and she gave me her phone number. A nice lady. And you see—you do forget what is your
situation
. You forget that you are poor. It’s like a dream: This lady likes me and we’re going to have a home! My worker denied me for $365. I was denied. $365. My social worker is a nice man but he said: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs. Harrington. Your limit is $270.’ Then I thought of this: The difference is only $95. I’ll make it up out of my food allowance. We can lighten up on certain things. Not for the children, but ourselves. We’ll eat less food at first. Then I can get a job. He’ll finish his
“He gets back from class at suppertime,” Annie explains. “After dinner he helps me with the children. He’s
good
with the children. He tries to do the things a father should. He helps with homework, helps me to bathe them, tells them stories, gets them into bed. Once they’re asleep he does his books. He’ll be working up to three or four …”
Doby, with his brown eyes magnified by his thick lenses, is an earnest little boy. One of the workers in the crisis center calls him “an owl—bright and studious,” he says. But he’s a year behind his proper grade because he lost so many months during the time in which the family had been shunted from one shelter to another. He comes into the crisis center with his briefcase after school each afternoon and climbs onto the lap of one of the good-natured crisis workers. He looks like an oversized teddy bear and seems to be favored somewhat at the cost of his more quietsister. His father cuddles him a lot, scolds him a little, and seems amused by almost everything he does. They bought him and his sister heavy clothes and winter boots for Christmas.
“We had no money for a Christmas tree or toys. We buy them what they need so they will not feel different from the other kids at school. All the money that we have, it goes to them. They’re
nice
kids. They deserve it.”
Annie is twenty-seven but she looks like a teenager. Her husband is the same age but seems older. He doesn’t say much, but he’s friendly to me and seems grateful that I take an interest in them and, even more so, that I seem to take an interest in their kids. When Annie says, “they’re
nice
kids,” I cannot help thinking: “You are a nice person too.” And, although there is much more than this to say of Annie Harrington, it is to me the most important and most simple truth of all about this man and woman. They are good people: clean and honest. Diligent too. They love their children and each other. Nothing I’ve read about the culture of the underclass comes near the mark in stating what is elemental in this family.
“My mother is alive but very poor. My father is deceased. He died of asthma and heart failure. This is why I scare so easily when I have my attacks. My daughter’s attacks are not as bad as mine. They scare me too.”
She’s given $13 every two weeks to pay for travel costs of hunting for apartments; but her rental limit is $270 and she understands, after four years of searching, that she’ll never find a home until the limit is increased. “Places I see, they want $350, $400, $500. Out in Jamaica, recently, I met an older lady. She had seen me crying, so she asked me: ‘What’s the matter?’ I explained to her how long I had been looking for a home. She said: ‘Well, I own a couple of apartments.’ The rental was $365. She said that she would skip the extra month and the deposit. I had told her whatmy husband does, my children. I had Doby with me. I believe she took a liking to me. So I was excited. Happy! And she handed me the lease and proof of ownership and told me I should take them to my worker, and she gave me her phone number. A nice lady. And you see—you do forget what is your
situation
. You forget that you are poor. It’s like a dream: This lady likes me and we’re going to have a home! My worker denied me for $365. I was denied. $365. My social worker is a nice man but he said: ‘I have to tell you, Mrs. Harrington. Your limit is $270.’ Then I thought of this: The difference is only $95. I’ll make it up out of my food allowance. We can lighten up on certain things. Not for the children, but ourselves. We’ll eat less food at first. Then I can get a job. He’ll finish his
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