The first glimpse of it struck me as an omen—my only affordable refuge was at the end of a dismal dead-end street alongside railroad tracks. I took a deep breath and sighed when I first saw it: a dilapidated, block-sized, pink cement tenement where the only thing in the neighborhood that seemed to be progressing was its state of decline.
I imagined no one had chosen to live in the decrepit place, but instead, like me, was there as a last resort. It was my only option to being homeless after having left the comfort and security of our Savannah home.
Life had been dreamy in 1983, living with Watson in a renovated Victorian house in Savannah. He was a loving partner and father who made sure everything in our spacious, sunlit home was just the way I wanted it—painted in vibrant colors, comfortably furnished, and well-stocked with healthy foods.
But what began as a dream gradually turned into a nightmare. Before we'd met, Watson had served in Vietnam and returned home with personality problems. I'd later come to understand he was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. As a result, he sometimes withdrew from us or burst into an unpredictable rage.
One afternoon, I knew for our safety the kids and I had to leave. I was angry that the government had sent such a wonderful man to war. I'd be a single mother again.
I decided to escape to Jacksonville without Watson's knowledge. One Saturday morning, after he left for work, I had two friends pack a small moving truck. While helping out, I felt guilty for leaving the man I loved—who was already hurting in a sense—and deceitful for sneaking off in such a way.
As Earl drove the rental truck, I and the boys, Cedric and Devin, ages one-and-a-half and nine, were passengers inside, with his buddy following closely behind. Overwrought from the mental, emotional, and physical exertion of leaving, as we reached Jacksonville, I pleaded with Earl to stop at the first hotel off the highway.
After seeing us to our room, Earl's goodbye snapped me out of my daze and into my harsh reality. He needed to return to his life in South Carolina. I had to recreate mine in Jacksonville, with no plan as to how. Then, it hit me.
Oh my God. We're homeless.
In the anguish of my departure, I'd made a poor hotel choice. The room's carpet was sticky, its water slow to warm, and a huge roach scurried from underneath the bed covers. Tearful and exhausted, I demanded a better room.
Sunday morning, in search of breakfast, I discovered how awkward it was to drive the moving truck with my car attached. I grabbed a newspaper to start looking for a place. Until we had a home, I couldn't think about much else.
Monday, I called social service organizations. Catholic Charities couldn't help with housing but would cover utility deposits. A Traveler's Aid worker shared a housing resource list and suggested the Jacksonville Urban League. I called them, but Mr. King, the housing specialist, wasn't in.
Again Mr. King wasn't available when I phoned his office Tuesday. So I visited a rental management office, looked through its listings, and picked three houses in the $120-to-$150-a-month range to go see.
The first one had a warped living room floor, and a foul bathroom, with a tub barely three feet long. At the second house, I just walked up on the porch and hopped through the large wood frame where a window used to be. Its dank kitchen was ghastly, complete with brown trails of old grease where a stove once stood.
I sprinted out of the third house after walking into the odor of what I guessed was raw sewage. I'd seen and smelled enough. Not that I expected, at that price, to replace the charm of my Savannah home, but neither had I envisioned having to live in squalor. Before surrendering to our room, I dialed the Urban League once more. I lucked out—and got a next-day appointment with Mr. King, and I rested on that.
I entered his office Wednesday morning filled with hope but left that afternoon deflated. For hours, I'd sat there listening to him, call after call, explaining our situation. But even with money for a security deposit and rent, they all refused me. I had to either have a job or good credit, or nearby relatives—or all three.
Mr. King would continue his outreach on Thursday, but to make sure I'd still have housing money, I'd already checked out of the hotel. He mentioned a YWCA that sheltered women and kids. I went there, but was refused because Cedric was over six years old.
Just as I was slipping into a panic, something dawned on me: there was a sticky note in my purse with the telephone number of a woman who, a Savannah friend had said, took people in. That woman, Rita, answered the phone, gave me directions, and told me to come right over.
The children and I bedded down in a homey trailer in her backyard. Thursday morning, as we headed out, Rita invited us to come back, if needed. That was a relief since Mr. King's efforts again only resulted in more heart-breaking rejections.
Then at last, just before noon on Friday, Mr. King spun his chair around and said, "I think I've got something, Miss Willoughby. Mr. Stewart at McCauley & Campbell's Real Estate, sounds like he's willing to help. You ready?" I followed him to the office, where he introduced me and the boys, then sped off to lunch.
Mr. Stewart did take a chance on me, ignoring the questions I left blank on the application: "place of employment" and "monthly income." I went to look at a $170-a-month apartment. It wasn't much, but I signed the lease and moved in that afternoon. Finally, I'd accomplished the first big step to starting over.
The tiny unit with the ambiance of a concrete vault was just better than being on the street. It had no refrigerator, stove, heating, or air conditioning, and only one window in the front and back. The pebbly concrete stairs leading up to our bedrooms made me nervous. I'd keep the baby away from them.
When a neighbor stopped by Christmas Day and noticed our only heating and cooking source was a kerosene heater, she told me about Section 8. It was an income-based housing program, she said, that met government standards and wouldn't cost me anything. We'd have central heat, air conditioning, and an equipped kitchen again.
She cautioned me, though, to apply as soon as possible, because there was a year-and-a-half-long waiting list. I did that right away.
Since the waiting period would take forever, I gave in and applied for public assistance. The $170 rent ate my whole monthly $152 welfare check. For three months, we had no fridge. For 8 months, no stove, and the kerosene heater was another mouth to feed.
But the final kicker was when someone burglarized us downstairs one night as we slept upstairs. From that point on, I dozed down there on the couch with a baseball bat. Waiting.
In July 1985, my new Section 8 apartment freed me from the monthly stress of paying rent. The larger, brighter unit had appliances, central air, and heat—I was giddy about having a thermostat again. The basic taupe indoor-outdoor carpet in the living room with a picture window welcomed me like a red carpet. What I cherished most was the sunlight through the bedroom windows, magnified by freshly painted white walls that symbolized my fresh start.
To top it all off, the apartment complex had an on-site coin laundry, bordered by grassy areas where the children could safely play.
The program put money back into our household. I spent my assistance check on basic necessities, like the boys' clothing, shoes, and bedding. Plus, I received a payment for utilities.
I had already enrolled at Florida Community College at Jacksonville, but before Section 8, the stress of unsafe, substandard housing, that I could barely pay for, made it hard to focus on my studies. Most of my time and energy went into just getting by day to day. The specter of housing insecurity was always present—always on my mind. I couldn't let us end up on the streets again.
Affordable housing in a safer environment gave me the stability to fully engage as a student. The subsidy improved our living conditions and brought peace of mind, making it easier to sustain my academic success. Excelling in college, I soon became eager to pursue new opportunities, knowing our housing was secure. This let me envision long-term goals instead of just getting by.
While studying television production and broadcast journalism, I discovered communication skills I never realized I had. Internships provided occupational opportunities, including having my first published piece as a journalist in what was, in 1986, a relatively new national newspaper—USA Today.
I expanded my writing career as a freelance journalist and successfully graduated. Three years after applying for welfare, I was proud to write to the agency requesting my family's removal from its rolls.
Soon after, I got a job as a newspaper reporter. With a rise in income, my housing cost for the apartment also increased. When my share of the rent reached nearly 100 percent, I decided to move. Striking out on my own, I transitioned to renting a single-family home.
Reflecting on my welfare passage, I recall psychologist Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs theory, depicted as a five-stage pyramid. It starts with fulfilling basic physiological needs, including shelter, to pave the way for higher-level aspirations like self-actualization.
With the Federal Housing Authority's first-time homebuyer program, I became a homeowner in Virginia in 2000, living there until 2019, when I relocated to Metro Atlanta and purchased my current home.
Affordable housing established my base of stability, allowing me to confidently pursue education and make substantial progress toward my personal and professional goals. My Section 8 apartment, which I referred to as my "launching pad," served as a crucial foundation, helping to prevent a cycle of generational poverty and ensuring my children didn't consider deplorable living conditions as normal.
Unfortunately, due to our nation's ongoing affordable housing crisis, many families are denied such opportunities. According to the National Low Income Housing Coalition's 2024 report, Out of Reach: The High Cost of Housing, "Even in states with the least expensive rents, a renter working full time and earning less than $18 per hour is unable to afford a modest two-bedroom apartment."
Providing decent, affordable housing through government subsidies like Housing Choice Vouchers (HCV), formerly Section 8, allows individuals and families to envision a better future. Without shelter, our most critical need, there is no foundation for feeling safe enough to begin the uphill journey. Like a rocket set to lift off, individuals must first have a supportive base to begin their ascent toward growth and career advancement.
Housing remains central in my life. My second home is another brick ranch, but this one has five tall trees as part of the region's canopy. In the summer, they shade my column-flanked front porch with its array of potted flowers and help keep me cool as I mow. I chose this modest home for its many windows, each morning opening the drapes to greet the natural light.
I work here and often set up my office in different rooms, but wherever I am, not a day goes by without my speaking words of gratitude for my home. Housing is why, eight years ago, I got involved in advocacy work. It's important to me that others benefit from the housing assistance I received when I needed it most. It made all the positive difference in my life.
Pamela M. Covington is a speaker and a storytelling alumna of The Moth, with over eight years of advocacy experience focused on issues impacting low-to-moderate income individuals and families, particularly in housing and nutrition assistance.
She holds two master's degrees—one in Human Resources Management and one in Management—from Troy University. She is also the author of the memoir A Day at the Fare: One Woman's Welfare Passage and is currently working on a book that proposes ideas for revamping the welfare system. Pamela currently serves as a Communications Fellow at Community Change.
All views expressed are the author's own.
Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? See our Reader Submissions Guide and then email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com.
Disclaimer: The copyright of this article belongs to the original author. Reposting this article is solely for the purpose of information dissemination and does not constitute any investment advice. If there is any infringement, please contact us immediately. We will make corrections or deletions as necessary. Thank you.
