My town, Hohenwald, Tenn., is a small rural community with two banks to serve it. I had the misfortune of choosing the wrong one–Hohenwald Bank and Trust Co.–in which to place my trust and accounts. I had a small retail shop and my husband was employed by the city. We weren’t rich, but we were building a future. Then on a Friday night in 1982 the FDIC took over the bank like a bunch of storm troopers. Some of the townspeople were dragged off to jail for trying to enter the bank. The town was in a panic.
From the news we learned that a big moneyman from another state had defrauded the bank with huge bum checks and caused it to be declared insolvent. What the news didn’t tell us was that when a bank goes under, the FDIC has the job of collecting all outstanding loans, as quickly as possible. Notes that set up on America repayment schedule were safe and time was granted to the borrower to repay it. But short-term notes were called due and payable at once. I was one of the unlucky people. I had a term note. My business checking account was applied toward the note, without my permission, and I was left without any working capital in a dead economy. Even my husband’s paycheck was worthless because it was drawn on the bank. The FDIC started to hound us with threats of foreclosure and garnishments, and I was forced to sell my inventory at half the wholesale cost to my competition in the next town.
For a year and a half we struggled to stay afloat in the whirlpool created by the bank failure, but it was a losing battle. My job was gone and all the burden fell on my husband, who was 10 years my senior. My husband lost hope and his health began to fail. He died at home in my arms. I was left alone in an empty house (most of the furnishings were sold to pay bills) and I began to beg from the social-services system. I was turned down or put on hold. Finally after living in the house for months without heat or electricity, I put it on the auction block to pay bills.
My husband dead, my home sold to the highest bidder, I went to stay with my daughter. But this was against the rules; my daughter lived in a government-controlled housing project and two families were not permitted to occupy one government unit. The local administrator for the housing authority began to threaten my daughter with eviction. I would not be responsible for my four grandchildren being evicted, so three years ago I hit the streets.
I was luckier than most people who are forced to live on the streets–I still had a car. I learned to pick up cans from the roadside for the deposit money and where food could be found in trash bins. I began to suffer stress-related illnesses and I went into a deep depression. I had hit bottom when a friend of mine suggested I could go to college and that I might be able to get some grants and loans to help me get through. I jumped at the chance. I now had a goal, something to live for. I couldn’t believe it when I was accepted at Columbia State Community College in Columbia, Tenn.
Street-light student: There I was, a 41-year-old widow without a penny to her name and only hope to go on, and I was going to go to college. I had never attended high school, but I had gotten my GED years earlier because somebody bet me I couldn’t do it. I now lived in two worlds. At school I stayed to myself because I was ashamed of the way that I was forced to live. At night I lived in my car on the streets where I would study under the street lights.
One day during my last semester at Columbia, it was cold and I went to the auditorium to keep warm until my next class. There on the stage was the man who had caused most of my trouble, John Candler Jr., who had defrauded the bank. He was a prisoner from the state pen and he was giving a speech about prison life in the “Don’t Follow Me” program. I sat down unable to believe my ears. There he was at my school, telling how bad it is to live in prison and how he was working to help people within the penal system. I found it ironic that both myself and the man who had caused me so much trouble were now both taking college courses. He said he was working on a master’s degree while in prison.
A rage started to build in me as I listened to him complain of cold showers, bad food, no privacy and low wages. He said that he was lucky that his family was standing by him and he was looking forward to going home once he had paid his debt to society. He added how good it would feel to get back into his own clothes because the prison laundry used a soap that irritated him. “I don’t have a home to go to, thanks to you!” I screamed at him. “You got it made! You get food three times a day and you have a bed to sleep on! You should have to live on the streets and try to make your own way with nothing! You should have people look away from you so that they will not have to acknowledge your existence!” The teachers and other students were staring at me with their mouths wide open. I felt suddenly ashamed, and as I made a hasty retreat they gave me a round of applause. I regained my pride that day, and I am no longer ashamed to tell people that I am homeless. I have a lot of unanswered questions like: Why are there so many homeless in a land as great as ours? What can be done to help victims of crime? And is our justice system really just?
I am seeking an education in hope that I can answer some of these questions. This past spring I graduated cum laude from Columbia State, a two-year school, and now hope to complete college at Austin Peay State University and for this I am grateful. While I am building a huge debt on my future, it is worth it if I can escape the past. As for John Candler Jr., he will soon walk out of prison system, a free and better-educated man. But it is hard for me to believe his debt to society has been fully paid.
Halbrooks plans to earn a degree in history and prelaw.
