Downtown, far from the
stores shoppers flock to, is a four story red brick building. The first
three floors house old medical records that can't be legally destroyed
until they're thirty years old. Upstairs, the owner of the building has
turned the fourth floor into a home for plants. Lush potted greens line
the west wall, some rise up to block the windows, other shorter plants
extend into the main area which is a gray cement floor that's
been recently redone. In the corner is a bin with yoga mats. There's a
stereo, a few pieces of red leather furniture that seem both out of place, as well
as oddly fitting. Standing in a pool of pulsing coppery sunshine, I see
the room not as it is, but the way the paramedics discovered it back in
August. I picture the six sides of the human foot, and relive the crunch
of it being driven upwards into an assailant's jaw.
The other room I want to tell you about isn't as large as the fourth
floor quarters it was modeled after, however, it isn't as empty either.
There are fewer plants, the owner killed a few before she realized she
was watering them too frequently. The uneven flooring is scuffed, it needs to be swept badly although
you get the feeling that the broom and dustpan that lean next to the
garbage can probably don't get much of a workout. A bamboo bowl of
apples is one of the first things you see when you walk into the room.
The bowl is large, it's painted green on the outside, the fruit inside
didn't pass the supermarket standards which is why the owner is able to
get organic produce at a discount, sometimes for free.
Other signs speak to the owner not being wealthy, the bathroom is
functional, but the tissue is barely there, and the toilet makes a
thunking gurgling sound after it's been flushed. The room is an odd
triangular shape, in the near corner a dark skinned woman is wiping the
nose of her toddler. Squinting makes images clearer, around the room are
many troubled women. Some are swaying as they sing softly, others are
talking, two women are hugging, the woman closest to the window pulls
away first, wiping her eyes with her hands while the woman who was
giving her a hug smiles gently.
Strange Fruit bills itself as a yoga studio where you can buy soup,
salads, smoothies, and juice. The owner lives upstairs, and although the
mingled women on the first floor have differing skin and eye colors,
they're all carrying the scars and stripes that made them victims of
abuse. Their lives are better now that they have a place to stay, even
if it means they're sleeping on yoga mats, and covered by borrowed
bedding. It's a place where anyone can go, the occasional man wanders
through, but most of the patrons are women, usually with children, and
without money.
Somehow, the place stays in business, managing to pay the rent by
pleading with the landlord, and making payments just before the eviction
notice gets printed. Despite the sorrowful journey that has brought
most of the women here, hope permeates the air. There's talk of
preparing for job interviews, of meeting attorneys, and of a tomorrow
that will bring new skills, fresh faces, and distance from the lives
that they used to lead. Those who have been here for a while welcome the
newcomers who hold their coats tight to their chests, wearing fresh
bruises from recent beatings instead of paint and powder.
Rarely do well educated women walk through the doors, although the
woman with five children who left an abusive spouse after he dragged her
son off of the playground feet first was a college professor before she
quit her job in another state. For months she stayed with people she
knew, parenting to the best of her ability before she was able to get
professional help. I had an interesting talk with the woman who runs Strange Fruit. She admitted
that she once upon a time she had a regular job. Her life changed the day a woman whose
battered face made it difficult for her to speak asked if she could use
the bathroom before her brother came to pick her up. She says that
despite the challenges involved in keeping her pseudo restaurant and
yoga studio afloat, she doesn't have any regrets.
Her room isn't furnished, there's a curled yoga mat, a dented brass
alarm clock, and two decaying sweaters hanging in her closet. I can't find a full
sized towel in her bathroom, she has half a bar of lavender soap in
her shower, dental floss, a bottle of vitamins, and an electric toothbrush sit on the edge of
her sink. She states that God will provide, there isn't much to steal so
she doesn't worry about people trying to take advantage of her anymore.
Standing in front of her, I wonder what griefs etched those lines into
her forehead. I can't fathom the type the courage it would take to start
a place like this with nothing more than a dream of offering hope to
those who gather below. I think about what she's going to do when she's
old, and has to retire from this round the clock stream of women who
pour through her door. When I ask her, she gives me a half smile, sticks
her hands in the pockets of a sweater that only has one elbow, shrugs, and points to a
picture her daughter drew when she was still married to her husband.
The black tornado and huddled brown stick figures don't remind me of
grade school art.
Now I notice a scar below her right
eyebrow whose crooked path disappears into her hairline. I see dusty
light shining onto a jagged line above her left eye, there's tension in
her squared shoulders, but the anxiety she tells me she used to live
with, that's gone from her gaze, hopefully for good. Morning comes
early, with much to be done, so bedtime is usually at nine. People drag
the yoga mats out, place them as close to, or as far away from others as
they can, depending on what the weather is like. Heating and cooling
are unreliable, but complaining is mostly done by children who are too
young to realize that safety isn't always the comfortable temperature
they wish it was. Dust hangs in the air after bedding is distributed.
Gradually it settles, creating a fine film which reminds me that my reclaimed flooring
really needs to be swept.