It is eight o'clock in the morning and the sleepy building starts to rustle with life. The sounds of toilets flushing and alarm clocks chirping can be heard from two floors down in the spacious laundry room. Pots and pans clank and a coffee maker spits. I walk to the single dryer to claim my clothes, but they have already been piled on the table. With two washing machines and one dryer for twenty four people, I am neither bothered nor surprised. After working as a Resident Manager for over a year, I have grown accustomed to community living. It is a far cry from the white middle-class environment of my youth, yet like the guests who come here seeking refuge and shelter; my heart has found a home at the Theresa House in Mankato. Since its opening in 1996, the Theresa House has been a safe haven for hundreds of us sojourners, in need of a place to feel welcome and safe.
I pass the T.V. room where people gather on hot days, as it is one of the few rooms with an air conditioner unit. During the worst days of the summer, it becomes a community sleeping room. On my right is the office of the Case Manager, Vicki. She sits in front of a computer in a small, dingy room packed with filing cabinets and papers. This is where residents come to learn about Section 8 housing, parenting programs, job openings, and sometimes just to vent. Vicki works diligently on a follow up report on a recently relocated family. She makes house visits to bring clients food and bedding and to see what progress they have made since they moved.
I walk on through the narrow hallway and am greeted by a sleepy Aziza. She peers through her dangling braids bound with bright pink and yellow ribbon. She holds out her arms for a hug, we embrace and she continues down to the kitchen. Her four siblings are still fast asleep as her mother tries to get a head start on breakfast. They have been living at Theresa House for nearly seven months. The maximum stay allowed is only six months, but an exception has been made because the family of seven is having great difficulty finding government-funded housing for so many people. When Aziza's family arrived in Mankato, they were met with an unexpected danger: in the middle of a cruel Minnesota winter, the immigrant family was without a home. Her father, Anwar, once told me he was afraid his children would have died if Theresa House did not give them a place to live when no one else would.
Anwar has finally gone to bed. His eyes are wise and weathered; as if he has seen so much chaos and destruction that it hurts to keep them open. His traumatic experiences in war-torn Somalia have left him with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and he stays awake at night to guard his family, and now, Theresa House.
The sounds of life buzz around the building as the morning goes on. Staff and volunteers circulate, checking off chores, proof-reading applications, or just listening to a child talk about her upcoming adventures at the park. There is a sense of community and family, though no one has known each other before meeting here. I do not notice anyone looking depressed or angry. Today there is a feeling of hope that is unexplainable and indefinable.
Mary stops with her children buzzing around her to tell me that she has filed for a protection order against her ex-boyfriend. She thought she would never escape him, as he has repeatedly threatened to kill her. Now that she is in a safe environment and has locked doors and night staff on hand, she is confident she will be protected. For the first time in weeks I see her bright smile. She scoots her two small children down the hallway to join Aziza and her mother in the kitchen.
As the day progresses, the crowds ebb and flow. The kitchen fills and empties and the warm aroma lingers long after the meals have been devoured. Vicki and the Volunteer Coordinator take turns giving rides to and from work, daycare and job interviews.
At five thirty I hang my sign next to the Resident Manager living room and flip on the television. I am soon greeted by Aziza’s brother looking for a bike to ride. We walk slowly through the hall as he practices newly acquired phrases in English. We stop by the kitchen where his mother nods that it is okay and we continue on to the garage. Throughout the course of the early evening, I disperse and retrieve bikes to and from children, hand out cleaning supplies for daily chores, and talk with residents about their day.
At eleven o’clock I feel a sense of relief and fulfillment when I knock on the last door for curfew check. "Good night" I whisper and receive back a "good night, Kate". I walk through the building and check all of the locks for the third time tonight before locking all of the windows. It is my turn to clean the library and the restrooms. When I am finished, I head outside with several garbage bags I’ve collected.
Anwar stands guard by the garden he has planted. He smokes slowly while examining the lettuce springing up and the tomatoes plumping. I sit down on the picnic table and light a cigarette. I ask him how his wife is feeling, and how the children are adjusting. He tells me they are much better and not to worry. He tells me that Theresa House saved his family. "This place will remain in my heart forever…you will be in my heart wherever I am for the rest of my life". I see for the first time a glimmer of joy in his eyes. What he may never realize is that those kind words will be etched in my heart for an eternity.
