Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,14
I had even asked Jamie over for dinner once because my loneliness had started to consume me. I hadn’t been out, seen my friends, or invited any over. I felt isolated. This was no place for me.
“Wait here,” Julie said, then returned a couple minutes later with some packets. “We can sign you up for TBRA.” She pronounced it tee-bra, which stood for Tenant-Based Rental Assistance. “It’s a lot like Section Eight. You’re on the waitlist for Section Eight, right?”
I nodded. Section 8 felt like the unicorn of government assistance—you always heard about it but never knew anyone who had it. It’s a rent voucher that pays for any housing costs beyond 30 to 40 percent of the tenant’s income. So, someone working minimum wage, who brings home $1,000 a month, with a voucher would pay only $300 rent, and the government would pay for the rest as long as it followed what the tenant qualified for—usually two or three bedrooms. The building had to meet Section 8 standards, which are pretty basic—like no lead paint, working plumbing, and things like that. Once someone has it, it’s honored—as long as you can find a landlord who’ll accept it—anywhere in the state, and it never expires.
I was on waitlists in three different counties. Jefferson County, where Port Townsend was, had the shortest at only a year, but most places I called had a waiting period of five years or more. Some weren’t even accepting new applicants, the need was so high.
Julie introduced me to a new caseworker who worked specifically with the Section 8 and TBRA programs. This woman sat behind a large desk, her short, dark, wavy hair framing her unsmiling face. She had me fill out several applications with questions about my plans for the next year and beyond. With detailed proof and calculations of my income, plus the $275 monthly child support, the amount of rent I’d expect to pay for a two-bedroom, $700-per-month apartment would currently be $199.
“That amount will go up or down depending on what your reported income is,” Julie added, who I was thankful had sat with me through the appointment.
TBRA also required me to go to a class or seminar, where I’d learn about the program, but mainly how to approach potential landlords about using TBRA (and eventually Section 8) to pay my rent. “Most landlords have some experience with Section Eight,” Julie said on our way out. “Or they at least know about the program. But some of them aren’t aware that it can be a really good thing.” I wasn’t sure what she meant and wondered why it would be a bad thing, but I didn’t ask.
We stopped in the parking lot, where she wrote down the time and directions to the class on housing assistance. “You’re lucky, there’s one tomorrow,” she said optimistically. “You should be able to get into a new place pretty fast!”
I gave her a smile and nodded, but I was not holding onto hope that any of these programs would be able to help. The trauma from the last six months since we’d been homeless, and dealing with Jamie always fighting me, had paralyzed my whole system. My brain, stomach, nerves, everything was on constant high alert. Nothing was safe. Nothing was permanent. Every day I walked on a rug that could be yanked out from under me at any moment. I watched people smile at me, nodding their heads, again telling me how lucky I was to have this program or place available to us, but I didn’t feel fortunate at all. My whole life had become unrecognizable.
Caseworkers told me where to go, where to apply, what form to fill out. They’d ask me what I needed, and I’d say, “A place to live,” or “To eat,” or “Childcare so I can work,” and they’d help, or find someone who could, or not help at all. But that was all they could do. Recovering from the trauma was also vital, maybe the most critical, but not only could no one help me with that, I didn’t know yet that I needed it. The months of poverty, instability, and insecurity created a panic response that would take years to undo.
* * *
“You’d think landlords would appreciate it,” the man standing at the front of the room said to about twenty people sitting around two tables in a narrow room. He was Mark, the same guy who’d taught the class for LIHEAP (the Low-Income Home Energy Assistance