Not This Time
33
Celebrating Life and Success
IN 2014, we had two children in high school and Emily was graduating from college. The triad of Emily, Lisle, and Carl lasted only until Carl left for Yale in August after they graduated from high school. I think he had a smile indelibly engraved on his face right up until the morning he left. For that matter, Lisle and Emily were happy campers as well. Both, however, were thrilled to head to freshman orientation at the University of Minnesota. They rented one of the small apartments in Washburn Neighborhood and had two other roommates. By the end of their junior year, they had moved to their own apartment together in Loring Neighborhood. Their own, but subsidized by Ernie and me. He and Margaret had accepted our daughters’ relationship and we accepted each other as a kind of extended family.
There were just some things we didn’t discuss. Bruce made a comment once about how nice it was that Ernie and Margaret provided shelter for so many young women in their home. The conversation lagged and we simply never brought it up again. Ernie sold insurance. In fact, we switched our insurance to policies his company serviced. His business gave him a lot of flexibility and he liked to drive around. He was always available to give people a lift in his shiny new white Mercedes E-Class. Maybe he was just a chauffeur at heart.
There was a graduation ceremony at the university—something I had not attended when I graduated. We proudly watched the two girls receive their Bachelor’s Degrees. They planned to spend the next year backpacking around the world. I knew that I’d be in a constant state of worry the entire time they were gone. Ernie went so far as to get them both Satellite phones and promised to pay the bill for them if they would just call home once each week.
Robin and Charlotte went into 10th and 11th grade the following fall. They were as close as any brother and sister. I was happy to see that Robin had the same protectiveness toward his sister that Bruce had always shown toward Lily and me. There was a little tension when he started dating and Charlotte couldn’t just tag along whenever she wanted, but at fifteen, there was no way we could tell Charlotte she couldn’t go out on dates as well. They were both among the youngest in their classes, but their peers were all dating. Neither of them was quite as open with us as Emily had been about their dating and sexuality, but they were good kids and acted responsibly.
Margaret and Ernie flew to New Zealand to join Emily and Lisle for a week exploring the land of The Lord of the Rings. Lily volunteered to stay with Robin and Charlotte while Bruce and I met the girls to go to Machu Picchu in the Andes. I think it was the first time that Bruce and I had ever been away for an extended period together. I’m sure we embarrassed the two girls with our moon-eyed fawning over each other. I hadn’t had that much sex at once in a long time!
The girls didn’t get home in time to celebrate Charlotte’s 16th birthday or my 42nd, but they were back for Robin’s 17th in August. They’d sent elaborate gifts for both kids ahead of them and took the two with their boyfriend and girlfriend out to dinner. They were all good kids.
Emily and Lisle both went to work at the community clinic as they started on their masters’ work in social services.
“You have to go,” Jim said. “I didn’t do anything but follow directions.” Gordon, Carla, Ernie, Margaret, Bruce, and Lily all nodded.
“But I didn’t do it for recognition. This is all because you had that interview in Forbes,” I protested.
“Forbes was only interested in how much money I made. They didn’t care a thing about what you achieved in changing the community,” Jim said. “I’m an old man now. No one would think I was capable of dreaming up the course you charted for revitalizing a community without displacing the people who were there. My record, in fact, is just the opposite with Loring Neighborhood. I’m simply not credible when it comes to social services.”
“Gordon…”
“I’m just a real estate agent. I invested money,” he said, cutting me off. I looked at Ernie.
“You do not want me representing the community at this thing,” he said. “You know that.”
I sighed. We, meaning Jim, had received an invitation to attend a symposium on urban renewal in California. More than that, they wanted a keynote address. Jim had already responded and told them I was the one who guided the process, that I owned the shelter, and that I had designed the park renovations. They ate it up. A woman did all of this! Whoopee ding.
“You are all going to help me write the speech and listen to me practice it from now until April!” I demanded. Yes, I was pouting. I knew very well that Bruce was going to be in production and couldn’t travel with me. Lily would be flooded with students who were panicked because they weren’t going to graduate—like they shouldn’t have thought of that a year ago. Every issue got escalated to her as director of student counseling. There was no way she could take off to attend the conference. That left…
“Carla, without any promises about getting into my panties, will you consider going with me so I’m not there alone? It would add some credibility.”
“Oh, you don’t have to promise me I’ll get into your panties,” she laughed. “As long as there’s the possibility.”
“There is,” Bruce and Lily both jumped in.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Actually, the idea of letting Carla get into my panties wasn’t that unappealing anymore.
Carla insisted that we fly first class and rent a sporty little car. It was a Mercedes, but Carla said they called them California Volkswagens out here. Indeed, there were a lot of them. I heard that in places in Africa, Peugeots were as common as Fords in America. So, what the heck. It was fun to drive down the Coast from LA with the top down and our hair flying in the wind. I was sure Carla was fifteen years older than me, but once she was away from her public role in Minneapolis, she reverted to being a teenager. She drove and I recited my speech to myself. In spite of my threats, I hadn’t even let anyone else look at what I’d written. I knew if I did, I’d lose my courage. It would be hard enough with Carla in the audience.
It was a typical convention hotel with conference rooms named after California missions and a large ballroom where we would meet for the first night’s dinner and my keynote. The desk clerk didn’t even ask what kind of room we wanted when we said we were sharing a room. We got to it to find a decadent suite with one huge bed. I guess they call them California Kings. I certainly wasn’t going to complain. We had just enough time to shower, apply makeup, and head to the opening ceremonies.
I’d been to my share of real estate conventions. This was a symposium on urban renewal, but it had the same feeling. We ate the typical rubber chicken that cost $1.25 to buy and prepare and $42.00 to eat. And then it was time. I stood up to give my keynote speech.
I looked around at the people I could see beyond the light that nearly blinded me. These were true professionals. Urban planners. Developers. Social workers. Politicians. What was I? I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to start speaking.
What am I doing here?
I know you invited me to speak about the transformation of Washburn Park and Neighborhood in Minneapolis. I know that Jim Sorenson pointed at me and said ‘You do it.’ But why me? Why here? I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone but my spouses. Yes, that’s plural. No, there is no legal marriage involved. Even with the general acceptance of gay marriage, there are no state laws that allow two women and a man to create a single marriage. We’ll get there one day. But Lily and Bruce and I have had a single household with a loving relationship for over twenty years. Think of that.
And that brings me to the start of my story.
Twenty-five years ago, I was drugged and raped by my so-called boyfriend after the senior prom. I was seventeen years old and pregnant. I knew my parents well enough—in fact, my parents, his parents, our church, and our little community—that if I told anyone about it, I would be pressured, subtly and overtly, into marrying the bastard. So, the day after my high school graduation, I ran away.
I caught a bus to Minneapolis and rented a room for the night in a motel that was usually rented by the hour.
I was eighteen, homeless, pregnant, scared, friendless. The only thing I knew for sure was that I could never go back.
Enter Jim Sorenson. I mustered all the courage I had and went to his office to say I wanted a job managing one of his apartment buildings. I was surprised when he said yes. But there was a catch. The building I was to manage had just begun renovation. It would be four months before I could move in. Four months that I didn’t have.
Jim found me a place to live that I could afford and that was safe.
If it had not been for Jim’s faith in this teenaged single mother, I would probably have ended up just another statistic. It wasn’t so much that Jim changed my life. I still had to earn a living. I still had to raise a daughter. I still needed a college education. I still needed a job. But the key thing that Jim gave me was an address.
Does that sound so strange? Do you know that you cannot get a driver’s license anyplace in the United States without a street address? You cannot register to vote without a street address. You cannot file income taxes without a street address. You cannot start a business without a street address. In this country, you are no one if you do not have a street address.
But what could I do about that? What could I, a single mom barely holding on, do about any of the social ills that I saw around me? I’m not blind. Even while I was managing the sales of condo conversions that were displacing renters in Loring Neighborhoods, I considered myself to be unable to help anyone.
Then I discovered a neighborhood just south of Loring Neighborhood called Washburn Park.
The first time I walked through Washburn Park, a man—I think he was drunk, but maybe not—suggested things he wanted to do to my body that I didn’t know were humanly possible! I’m still not sure about one of them. What I saw on that walk in the company of a man from the Community Services Clinic were addicts, prostitutes, pimps, pushers, homeless men, homeless women, and people who could prey on all of them.
But what could I do? Just little ole me.
You already know the programs that are in place in Washburn Park. We now have needle disposal, needle exchange, free condoms, a homeless shelter, a free clinic, counseling services, and subsidized housing. But if you go to any derelict neighborhood that you know and simply install those things, you won’t solve your problem. And if you decide to just go in and renovate the community and improve it, you won’t solve the problem. Jim found that out with his first effort in Loring Neighborhood. It just moves the problem further downstream. Which neighborhood would be next? How would you like to take on our problems?
What do you say?
Want a few addicts and pushers? Prostitutes and pimps? We have a special on muggers today. How about a crack house or two?
That has really been the problem with urban redevelopment. We just move our problems from one place to another. In Washburn Park, we didn’t launch a ten-year plan to end homelessness. We didn’t increase police activity. We didn’t arrest every hooker and john. We didn’t gentrify the community by pricing it out of the range of the people who lived there. We did one thing: We gave people an address. We validated their existence. We gave them something to be proud of. A home.
Don’t be fooled into thinking that we put all the homeless into apartments, that we treated all the addicts, or that we got every prostitute a secretarial position. We kept our problems. We found legitimate ways for four unrelated people to share a one-bedroom apartment. We found ways to be sure needles weren’t shared. We provided an unending supply of condoms. We gave people simple jobs that would pay for a room and a hot meal. And, yes, sometimes for a bottle of Canadian Mist or a box of wine.
We didn’t impose our religion or our morality on them. We just turned them into a community.
Violent crime in Washburn Park has dropped to half the average for Minneapolis as a whole. Just three weeks ago, two homeless men stopped an assault on a single woman walking home. They didn’t do it for the reward. They did it because she was their neighbor.
No one will ever call Washburn Park a prestigious address. But I like to think it is a place where a homeless pregnant teenager like I was, could find a safe place to live, healthcare and even childcare that she can afford, and an alternative to the life of misery that society has declared is her just reward.
I can’t really look back at this transformation because it truly isn’t over yet. It is a process that calls us all to be good neighbors, every day of our lives.
If I had it to do over again, I don’t think I’d change much. Maybe I’d love a little more and worry a little less, but that’s only because I know the end of the story.
Thank you.
There was quite a party after the evening session. First night of a convention and people were intent on blowing off steam, stretching their wings away from home, and getting a little crazy. The big difference between them and a drunk in Washburn Park was the price of their liquor.
And there was a fairly heavy scent of weed in the air. I guessed that some of the desserts were laced as well. They didn’t have to hide it because it was legal in this state.
With as many people who wanted to talk to me, thank me for my keynote, and ask my opinion on their project, it seemed there was always a drink in my hand. If there wasn’t, Carla was quick to remedy the situation.
“Carla, you don’t have to get me any drunker to have your way with me,” I whispered to her. “Let’s just go back to the room now.”
“Kind of cut loose, didn’t we?” she said. “Hard to believe that all these people will be propping their eyes open for a nine o’clock panel discussion in the morning.”
“Not me. I’ve done my thing and plan to leave for the airport.”
“The flight’s not until after noon. We have plenty of time.”
“Then take me to bed and show me what you showed Lily all those years ago,” I said. “My family gave me explicit permission to play.”
“Then let’s move the party upstairs.”
I’d had only Bruce and Lily as lovers since I moved to Minneapolis. Carla was not an unpleasant change of pace. I had to laugh at myself for how naïve I had been when Lily first made a pass at me. And here I was with a long-time friend’s face buried between my legs bringing me to a heart-stopping orgasm.
I knew I’d had too much to drink and a little to smoke last night when I woke up with a granddaddy of all hangovers. I reached for Carla, but her side of the bed was empty. I squeezed my eyes open enough to see that it was already noon. She must have gone to get some breakfast, or perhaps even attend a session if she wasn’t as hungover as I was. I used the bathroom and knocked the phone off the bedside table when I reached for it. Steadying my hand, I punched 0.
“Front desk. How may I help you,” said a voice that was entirely too bright and cheerful for this hour of the morning. Or afternoon.
“Yes. I’m afraid I overslept and I need to arrange a late checkout,” I rasped.
“Oh, honey,” she giggled.
My heart leapt to my throat and tears sprang to my eyes as she sang.
“You can check out any time you want…”
The End
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Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
