Moving on from the streets, or from prison

It's been a long day today, lurching from one piece of project work to another - the life of the social entrepreneur is never dull - particularly when working in criminal justice.

I say this often, that working in this field, requires a special kind of resilience, even more so if you are treading the boards of lived experience, in a professional setting, where two worlds collide, it is both your superpower, and your kryptonite - at least, it is for me.

It's a fine line of being involved, engaged and empathetic, and letting the experiences of those your supporting, not seep into your own life, psyche and heart, womens justice is no fools errand, and it's certainly not a 9-5, clock in, clock out. Today is proof of that.

I sat down at 5:30 after spinning many plates of professional work, teams meetings, zoom calls, collections, deliveries, social media marketing, social impact writing, abstract summising, and all the while wondering - have I got it right today?

I put various care packages together today, supporting among a few; a lady moving into her first home; her first real ever home. We've supported this lady on programme, we know her well now, her story is not unfamiliar. She has been street homeless and imprisoned, rinse and repeat, this is the first time, now in her 50's, that she has something that is all hers. And hers it may well be, but it is barren.

A safe space, a roof, with heating and locks, yes. But without care or pragmatism, as many properties in this countries flailing, failing housing stock and provision has to offer. Curtains to give dignity, privacy and safety? For a woman who has been victim to sexual assault, coercion, control, imprisonment, surveillance? No curtains. No curtain poles. Just a window, looking out onto a street that she's never seen before the listing popped up on the housing list. It's an alien land, and it's terrifying.

A bed and a sofa were pulled together at the last minute, so she has somewhere to lay her head and park her bottom, but that is all. The fridge is empty, the cupboards are bare, and she would be sleeping under a second hand single duvet shes taken from place to place had we not stepped in. And step in we did, with everything I could comprehend from my own lived experience, and from the stories, feedback and ultimately - data, that we collect from the women who we support. What do you need? We ask, they tell, we buy.

It's always my stolwart view and vision for Coming Home, we never assume or pressume. We ask. We listen. And we're honest, if we can, we will, if we can't, we'll find someone who can, but never make promises. Women in the system, or in the cracks of the system, are sick of broken promises. So we don't make them.

I don't make them. For someone who was convicted of a crime of dishonesty, it's even more important to maintain that thread of honesty throughout my work life as much as it is in my Fran life.

That said, today I put together the essentials for one of these ladies - curtains, curtain poles, a duvet, pillows, a duvet set, a throw, cushions for her sofa, lampshades for her lights, placemats for her table (if one ever materialises!), crockery and cutlery, pots and pans, all for one.

Now, the tricky part was not the homewares and the housing essentials - it was the "welcome home," starter bag of things - groceries, store cupboard staples, cleaning supplies and as I packed the bags I thought "god, this reminds me of my first night parcel in jail," where a gruff prison officer asked me if I wanted a vape pack, and I had no idea what that meant, so I said no, and instead she thrust a polythene bag into my hands with a random assortment of processed, budget nonsense. UHT milk, cheap noodles, a packet of own brand biscuits, a bag of sugar, coffee that was and remains, undrinkable, tea bags, a carton of orange juice. It was a strange selection. I had gone to prison during the pandemic, so my access to human interaction was zero for the first few weeks in prison, my cell door was opened and closed to slide bags of beige across the pad floor once a day and no more, with masked officers, who never said a word. So this strange bag of items was facinating.

Today, I packed a little grocery bag and could not help but feel it was sending the same message and to that end; I was reluctant to include it. My entire premise is to take women as far away from the prison experience or the foodbank as possible, but here I was, packing noodles and tins of baked beans into a bag. What an odd thing; for me to pack a bag with love, care and consideration, and know that on the inside of the prison walls, it's just cheap shit, slung in a bag, and then deducted at astronomical cost from your prisoners money the first week you're in jail. I didn't want this bag of things to say - I don't care. This is your worth. I wanted it to say - have a cup of tea when you put your curtains up and enjoy the biscuits, you're home. I don't suppose Marks and Spencers shortbreads would have any bearing on that sense of self or sense of belonging. Perhaps it's my jaded, faded priviledge that makes me feel so.

But still, I'm curious.

For those who have received parcels of essentials, does the budget and bargain basement effect ever leave you feeling uncared for? Or are we trapped in the cycle of gratitude and charity, where we get what we are given and we are grateful.

After all, is it just biscuits? Or is there more to it?