LOS ANGELES _ On a Friday afternoon in mid-September, Big Mama and Top Shelf stood in wonder and disbelief in the courtyard of the apartment building. They had finally arrived.
"Wow!" Big Mama exclaimed after finding her mailbox.
She took a deep breath, raised her arms and let them fall, her knees slightly buckling. Weeks spent waiting, years spent wondering slipped away.
"I'm speechless right now," she said, sobbing. She covered her face with a tissue and wept.
Hours earlier, the two women had gotten the phone call they had nearly given up on. Their case manager said they could move into their apartments. They were stunned and wasted little time.
Laughing and joking together, they hopped on a southbound bus. They couldn't get away from their tents fast enough. Ahead lay their new homes with hot water, bathrooms, kitchens full of appliances.
Big Mama, 51, had been living on that sidewalk for nine years. She and Top Shelf, 46, were friends and neighbors, looking out for each other on the street.
Both women had been told months earlier that Los Angeles city and county agencies were trying to clear out encampments in the neighborhoods around Broadway Place and Leimert Park. They thought they would be moving in June. Some of their neighbors had gotten their units in August.
But their housing subsidies were delayed by a building inspection. Now with the summer almost over, their time had come. At 2 p.m., Big Mama and Top Shelf met with property management and opened their "Welcome Home" packets. Keys in hand, they dabbed their eyes and danced.
In the courtyard, they gazed up at their new apartment building.
They went to Top Shelf's unit first. It was cool and dark. Steel chairs were pulled up to the kitchen table. "It's cute," she said.
She opened every door: bathroom, refrigerator and closet.
Even as Top Shelf seemed uncertain _ as if this were too good to be true _ she nodded. "This will work out just fine."
Big Mama's unit was next.
"Hold the elevator," she called out, touching her eyes with a tissue. She rang her doorbell as if it belonged to someone else.
Then she took a breath, exhaled and pushed her key into the lock.
She opened the door. The room was dark, the blinds pulled shut. She raced across to let in the light.
"Ahhh," she said. She waved her arms over her head.
Big Mama explored the kitchen, then the bedroom, then the bathroom. Everything around her smelled new: the untouched walls, the plump sofa, the cabinets in the kitchen. It was spare, but clean.
She started to unpack her bedding, then remembered: They still had to sign their leases. She turned to head out, but stopped.
She dropped to her knees. Light from a window poured in around her and reflected off the bare floor.
She clasped her hands on a coffee table and bowed her head. There was a lot to pray for.
The building manager had made the rules clear: No smoking. No visitors for longer than 14 days. No drugs, including marijuana (federal regulations prohibit the use of cannabis _ even for medical reasons and even in states where it is legal _ in any federal housing program like Section 8). Violations led to warnings, and three warnings could lead to eviction.
Tears on her face, she thanked God and asked for help.
