I QUICKLY FOUND out that no one here was really friends. We got along, we spoke when spoken to, we were cool, and that was it. Not because we didn’t want to be friends. But you didn’t exactly come to this type of place to find a running buddy. With the mind-state most of us were in, friendliness was too much to ask for. We all had issues, or we wouldn’t have been here. After washing up the babies and fixing something to eat and dealing (or not) with the babies’ fathers, we were too worn out to stay up and giggle like we were rich girls in college dorm rooms. Once in a while me and Tiny would sit up with twice razor-sliced Janice; she would tell us all about New York where she was from, where Jewel had left me to go. We never talked about men. At night, everybody was tired—even those of us who didn’t work. We were still tired. Tired of running, tired of putting up with men and the “man,” tired of hoping, tired of being broke, tired of hopping from place to place. Most of the girls had a job, a few had two. I left only after my morning GED classes to look—hard. We were there because we needed to forget about a past and to think about a future. We weren’t trying to get by on some once-a-month check that came out to be half of minimum wage on a forty-hour week. We wanted more.

That first Sunday it felt funny to be in a church where nobody stared or looked at you sideways because you had “fornicated,” as all the religious women I knew liked to say. All us girls piled into the shelter van for mandatory Sunday service, and I thought it would be just enough to show up and try to look interested. My favorite part was the music, since the choir’s singing reminded me of when I had braved the school choir and sang in two concerts. Then I realized I wasn’t out of water until I stood up and endured that dreaded rite of passage for new faces at any Black church—“The Announcement of Visitors” is what it said in the program. Baptism and membership were the only exits out of visitor status, and not one of us was ready to commit to all that. The organist slowed down his bluesy rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross,” inching the song along to make sure every visitor would have background music. One by one, we nervously patted down our hair and fidgeted with our shameful outfits before stating our names, what city we were from, what church we were coming from, and who had invited us here today. My roommates were given the cue by Sister Clara Walker, the shelter housekeeper, to go first.

“I’m Janice Clark. I’m from New York City born and raised—”