Little light brightened the empty streets where West 17th crosses Neptune Ave. on the blustery and bleak Sunday morning of my first visit to Providence House VI. The driveway between the convent and the rectory of Our Lady of Solace in Coney Island offered the comfort of parking but a few steps from the entrance, where the burst of heat from the kitchen swiftly dispelled the morning chill. Below the comfort of the heat was a deeper comfort, the remaining scent of Adele’s recently cooked fritata: eggs, potatoes, onions and peppers.

This old convent was now home to Adele, a lifetime away from her last abode at the Women’s House of Detention on Riker’s Island.

I was here to learn about the experience of the women who lived in Providence House VI as they made their way back from whatever hell they had known to whatever life they could rebuild for themselves. What was it like to look for employment, for housing? How could one earn enough and save enough to start life over when everything you once had was gone?

Sister Mary Dunleavy, C.S.J., who lived at Providence House VI, and worked at a substance abuse program in Staten Island, invited the current residents to meet and discuss the “Challenges of Transition” with us on this Sunday morning.

Thirty-seven-year-old tall, lean Sandra bounced into the parlor where Sister Mary and I had already settled in. She scanned the empty seats, nervously assessing where she should sit. A quick cigarette hadn’t really calmed her and a thousand uncertainties about who she was and how she should act giggled out before she thought it OK to sit in the La-Z-Boy chair. She was open and forgiving as she twice had to remind me of her name. I was grateful to Sister Mary who covered my embarrassment by complimenting Sandra for speaking up and making clear, “My name is Sandra.”

All residents had agreed to attend this discussion but it took a little prodding from Sister Mary to get them into the parlor. Adele came in carrying a tray with a cup of tea for me. She was followed by Lori and Phyllis. There were introductions and a brief review of why we were meeting. Almost at once, Sandra launched into an abbreviated biography that took us from the time she was 16 and on her own. She raced forward like a fugue revealing in her words “…a lifetime of bad behavior, shelters, drugs, alcohol, jail …things you wouldn’t believe. … But then I got to Providence House V on Church Ave. and found some peace and dignity.”

Communal Atmosphere

Her tone softened as she spoke of the pleasure she experienced for the first time in her life of eating meals together, of the caring and acceptance she found, of how each of the sisters who lived there had a real personality and how some gave you one thing while another gave you something else. She contrasted them to the workers she encountered in other settings who she felt cared little about their jobs and only did them for the salary.

I was struck by how well she expressed herself, by her intelligence, her honesty. Then she skirted past the details of a problem at Providence House V that led her back to the street and eventually back to Rikers. “I had taken on too much,” she said. “I tried to do too much even when I was warned not to. I enrolled in college. I didn’t have the reading and math background. I couldn’t keep up. I grew discouraged. I fell apart and eventually ended up back at Riker’s Island from an old case. When they released me, I refused to enter the shelter. I found Sister Marion and she made it possible for me to come to Providence House VI in Coney Island.” Out of breath, she paused, tossed up her arms, and ended “and here I am.”

Phyllis jumped in. Alert and confident, she presented a very different image than Sandra. “I have a job,” she said. “I, too, lived at Providence House V. I loved it and I learned so much there. But I didn’t like it at all when I first got to Providence House VI. It was very hard on me. I wanted the feeling of family that I had in Providence House V. The sisters here are okay. It took me awhile to get adjusted. Then my brother died. I told Sister Marion and then I was getting cards from everyone. Sister Marion did it real quiet-like. I began to feel better. Where else could I go? I have a daughter, but I couldn’t go there even if I wanted to. We’re getting along now. There was a time when we were in the mall and she told me I was an embarrassment to her.” Phyllis slumped back in the chair and her self-assurance seemed to fade. “That’s right. You know that hurt. But then at my brother’s funeral she told people she was proud of me and I told them I was proud of her. It was beautiful.

“I have to get another job. I know I have to stay like another six months, but I can’t stay on this job longer than that. I know I can find another job. Just a little while ago, a woman wanted me to go and work for her in her day care center. I spoke to my parole officer. He explained that this job requires ‘fingerprinting’ and even though I am not on the child abuse registry, it would open up everything. I’m too private, so I left that alone. But now I am applying for a job at an oncology center and I will put the truth on the application this time because this is a job I really want. I’ll take that chance to get this one.” I learn Phyllis has her college degree and I begin to imagine her in a medical setting where her interpersonal skills and her appealing personality would be great assets in patient care.

Accent on the Positive

Phyllis’ difficulty adjusting to the hotel atmosphere of Providence House VI after the warmth and family-like environment of Providence House V leads me to ask how she thinks she’ll manage when she moves on her own. She answers, “No problem. I don’t need $200 shoes or $300 pocketbooks. I save now, do you hear me, I save. I always have something to do. I don’t sit around. I have a bachelor’s degree. I can go visit Providence House V, just tell them I’m coming for dinner. I can come back here, go see friends, spend time with my daughter. She calls and wants me over there all the time. I’m 53 now and I can make my life.”

As if to prove the point, her cell phone rings and off she goes to welcome a friend. She returns, but doesn’t sit back down. She is hesitant and I sense she wants to leave.

‘I Have a Job’

Lori who has been sitting wide-legged in her boldly striped bathrobe pops up. She is super alert and appears more so because of her shaved head and Marine-like appearance. She says she needs to go as well, but wants to add her piece to the discussion. “I have a job, I do shipping and receiving in the Bronx. I’m looking for an apartment. Adele is helping me on the computer. I could stay here five months, but I don’t want to wait. I’m looking now.”

When I ask where she is looking, she says, “Brooklyn or the Bronx. I got that commute built into me now, so it really doesn’t matter. My problem is my son.” Lori doesn’t get time to explain before Phyllis says, “Aw, he’s a sweet boy. I say boy because he is a boy.”

“Well he didn’t get back here with my monthly MetroCard like he was supposed to,” Lori says in an effort to prove her point. I do the math in my head. Lori could be out $80 and I think how hard it is for a low-wage earner to replace the card. “You did good by him, Lori,” Phyllis adds in an effort to ease Lori’s distress.

Both women are anxious to leave, but don’t want to be impolite. I offer to come back to finish the discussion and they both leap at the idea and exit promptly.

Adele, who has been listening and waiting for her opportunity is invited by Sandra to share her story if she is up to it. Adele, a neat, petite, dark-haired and dark-eyed woman of unknown age begins in a very detached professional tone, “I am a ‘workaholic.’ I do lots of research; I’m writing a book, ‘The Art of Survival,’ about my experiences. I have put together a resource binder of services that could be helpful to others.”

I really don’t need help, she says in a hundred different ways. The pride she takes in her self-sufficiency is her defense against the pain of her life. She cannot work now; she is in treatment for advanced cancer. Chemotherapy and surgery are behind her and she is now to begin radiation five-days-a-week for a period of six weeks. With a jaunty lilt in her voice, she continues, “I am my own therapist; I am taking online courses at MIT which are fabulous. I have Brooklyn and Manhattan library cards and use the inter-library exchange program extensively. I go to the 14th St. green market to get my fresh vegetables. I love to cook. It is my passion.”

Sister Mary asks how it felt to be so sick and at the same time to be confined in Riker’s. Her voice cracks. “It was hell, of course, you could imagine. They don’t want you to get well, they just medicate you,” she said.

She swallows and for the first time her voice fails her; she suppresses tears. Just as quickly she recovers to describe the self-advocacy that led her to get her treatment at Sloan Kettering, even though they don’t accept Medicaid. Her strength and determination are back in charge. “I am so grateful to be in Providence House, you have no idea. I need to give back (chokes) ... that’s why I post all this information ... why I do research ... I can help you … I can fund raise. I want to help.”

It is 12:30 p.m. and Sister Mary asks for time for us to be alone. Adele goes to retrieve the tray to bring back to the kitchen. Sandra has slipped out. Mary and I talk.

Getting Out on Her Own

Providence House VI, she explains, is a step in the process of going out on one’s own. There are no common meals. Everyone fends for herself. The house is not staffed to provide services. For most, this is an important interim step. Sandra will need another setting, the intensive case manager from her program, Realization, will work with her on this. Phyllis and Lori will move out on their own steam and in due time will re-establish themselves. Lori will stay at the job where she is comfortable despite the commute which requires that she leave the house at 4:30 a.m. Phyllis, who looks younger than her 53 years, has successfully processed her separation from Providence House V and now has the internal and external supports she needs to find a job that suits her and a place to live as well. Adele will do her six weeks of radiation, never seeming to doubt that when the time comes she will find a job and a place to live. For now, it is enough to hope she will be able to say, “I am a cancer survivor.”

Taken together Providence House V and Providence House VI have done their jobs. The former provided the nurturing safety that reignited in these women the desire to live, while the latter reasserted the challenges of adulthood and the need for them to fend for themselves. Each place offered them acceptance, support and encouragement and in the end they found the new level of self-respect they needed to move on.

Fran Sullivan is a member of the board of directors at Providence House.