I'd really like to help you people, but. . .

Every word after "you people" was lost to me. You people. You poor, homeless people. Clearly separate from me and my people. I was embarassed for the speaker. She had no idea what she was saying and I could tell she meant no harm.

I turned my attention to the other woman. "M" is a hardworking, single mother. Almost a year ago, she lost her job and subsequently her home. In desperation, she split up her family - one child staying with an uncle, the other with grandparents. No one would take her; they blamed her for her predicament. She entered a shelter for single women.

"M" described her time in the women's shelter almost like a prison. There were strict rules and chores - but that she didn't mind. It was all the lining up, regimented schedules, lack of empathy and compassion. Family tried to reach her during her time there, but no messages got through. Her purse was locked up - and only shelter staff had a key - but her small amount of money was stolen. She felt dehumanized - like so many cattle on their way to the slauterhouse. She even told her parents she didn't care if she lived.

Not surprisingly, she ended up at a local mental hospital, diagnosed with severe depression. She received counselling and was connected with ongoing support. Unable (and unwilling) to return to the previous shelter, she was given a list of numbers to call. One of them was ours.

Just 4 weeks later, M has been reunited with her children, is working parttime, and has applied for housing. Her dignity is restored, and her self-esteem is on the mend - but she is still wounded - still working towards recovery from losing her job and home, from the harsh realities of life in America when you are one of the have-nots. The words "you people" opened a wound that had not quite healed. One that may never heal.