Gabrielle B. is a 38-year-old single mom in Birmingham, Alabama. She and her daughter have been living in their car for the past two months and have been further displaced by the coronavirus crisis.
Gabrielle receives some support from a mutual aid organization that helps people in need in her community. You can find your local Covid-19 mutual aid organization here.
I live with my 13-year-old daughter and our little white dog in our car at the truck stop. Unless somebody calls me and I can build up the strength to act like I’m okay and go visit them, we just sit here all day. But I did have a job that I loved. I did have a home. Then it all fell apart.
I used to drive a bus, picking up disabled people. I’d left my job as a FedEx delivery driver because I wanted to maneuver bigger vehicles and get my commercial license. Then I started working for the city. I woke up at 2:30 a.m., six days a week. By 4 a.m., I was all over town in my bus. I had a cute little house, fully furnished and decorated. My older sons also lived there. I was so proud.
I loved my job but didn’t make much money: $13 an hour. After taxes, my take-home was around $330 a week: too high for me to qualify for food stamps, but on just over $1,300 a month, I couldn’t support a five-person household. I applied for Section 8 housing and was approved. My portion of rent was $187, and the state made up the rest. We had a nice life. I had no complaints.
But the Section 8 building inspectors came one day and found that the house had black mold, which is against regulations. The landlord wouldn’t fix it, so we couldn’t stay there. My sons moved in with friends, but my daughter and I had nowhere to go. That’s how we ended up at this truck stop. Then things really started to unravel.
I couldn’t work full-time, because I couldn’t leave my daughter alone in a car before dawn. I cut my driving hours to match school hours. Finding a new place was nearly impossible. After a month, one landlord finally said she had an apartment. Crazy as it sounds, I didn’t even look at it. Two bedrooms and a bathroom was good enough for me. I just said, “Sign me up.” The landlord took the application fee and then asked for a background check fee. Along with the money for a deposit, it was about $400 all told. Then it took the landlord weeks to get back to me. During this time, Birmingham public schools closed down because of the coronavirus. I couldn’t leave a 13-year-old girl alone in the car all day long, so I had to quit totally. Because I had been working only part-time, I couldn’t get unemployment.
I was hopeful though. Focused. We just needed that background check to come through, and I could get back on my feet.
When the landlord called to say we were accepted, I was on cloud 30, if there is such a thing. We picked up the lease. We had music going, dancing in my car on the way to the Assisted Housing Department to get final approval so we could move in. I said to my daughter, “Girl, we came out of it. We made it. I knew we would.”
Then, oh my goodness: The coronavirus.
I walked up to the Housing Authority office and saw a sign on the door: Closed Until Further Notice.
I went back to the car, turned off the music, and cried. I felt so discouraged: If I go up, it’s always something pulling me down. I called any kind of phone number, but if it didn’t go to voicemail, anyone who answered told me to wait until this crisis is over. So I called the shelters. They’re completely full. One man said to me, “The best thing for you to do is just stay on in your car, ma’am. You’re safer there anyway.”
I can’t say I’m obsessing about the coronavirus. Every day I’m just thinking: When is the Birmingham Assisted Housing Department going to open up?
I turned to my daughter and said, “I hope I don’t look like a failure to you.” She said, “Mom, it’s going to be all right.” My daughter doesn’t give me any problems at all. She says she’s happy, even if she’s not.
We’re just waiting. A friend lets us shower and do our laundry at his house sometimes; another lets me stay over once in a while. Otherwise, we have our systems in place to survive this. I keep our clothes in the trunk: clean to one side, dirty to the other. We sleep with sheets over the windows — my daughter reclined in the driver’s seat with her pillow and me on the passenger side. The dog finds a clear spot up under the steering column. I try to leave that place for him, with his little water bowl. There’s a guy who parks next to us at the truck stop. I suppose he lives here, too. We don’t know each other well, but he told me, “I’ve been in the military 30 years, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to you and your daughter. I’ll look out for y’all.” He’s brought us drinks, biscuits. That’s my security right there.
I grew up in chaos. My mother struggled with mental illness and drug addiction. As a child, I often didn’t have any food. So, even now, I try to look on the bright side. I think: Just be happy you aren’t hungry, because that’s a whole other struggle. A person from the local Mutual Aid brought me peanut butter and jelly for sandwiches, and another sent me $50 on the Cash app. One of my sons gave me a little money. We live on Hot Pockets, Cup O’ Noodles, bologna sandwiches. Fruit and vegetables? I think my daughter and I had an orange last week. That’s the last thing on my mind, to be honest.
I can’t say I’m obsessing about the coronavirus. I’m not oblivious to it: I’ve got Purell in my car, some Lysol. Every time I get out of the car and go somewhere and then return, I spray the back of my pants; this car is our house, and we have to keep it clean. But really, every day I’m just thinking: When is the Birmingham Assisted Housing Department going to open up?
I want the world to get back to normal. I really do. But for me, on a small scale, I just want a home with my family around me: my sons and my daughter together. I crave that tight little bond we have. Food in the refrigerator. Room for my dog to be a dog. Some normalcy. That’s it.