No Place Like Home

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And in saying that, he was speaking in part from experience. For this was not the Cochrans' first foray into homelessness. In the spring of 2000, when De-Shawto was between jobs and fell behind in the rent, the family was evicted from its two-bedroom apartment. The Cochrans moved in for a few months with De-Shawto's mother and her five other children in their Columbus apartment. But things got crowded and occasionally tense. That led to the Cochrans' entry into the shelter system. But De-Shawto, who had found restaurant work in the meantime, signed a new apartment lease within a few weeks of landing at the shelter, enabling the Cochrans to regain their footing that summer.

This time around, pride kept Phenom from asking her mother Wanda Purdie if she and her family could crash at Purdie's house. "I didn't want to invade her privacy," Phenom said, explaining that she would have found running to her mother for help more humiliating than taking her family to a shelter. For her part, Purdie says she has "cried many tears" over the family's plight. But she has not offered to house them, saying she believes that would send Phenom and De-Shawto the wrong message about the importance of self-sufficiency. "I guess you could call it tough love," Purdie says.

The hospitality network first arranged for the Cochrans to sleep together in one room at the Broad Street United Methodist Church. They remained there a week. For four weeks after that, they shuttled each night to motel rooms assigned by the hospitality network. In that time, they all took tuberculosis tests, and the parents went through drug screening while waiting for space in one of three 90day family-shelter programs overseen by the city's shelter board. During those first few weeks, Phenom kept up a brave front. "I waited to cry until I was alone in the car or in the bathroom," she says. "I didn't want to worry my husband."

Homeless families in Columbus can count on humane treatment. On a $9 million budget, the shelter board, which operates as a public-private partnership, seeks housing solutions for families as well as single men and women, no matter how complicated the underlying barriers. No one who needs shelter is turned away. "Our goal is to do whatever it takes to help you stay housed," says Rachel Ginsberg, director of the hospitality network. Last year 635 families received shelter through Columbus' so-called front-door system, while an additional 400 found other housing options with the agency's help.

On Oct. 8, the Cochrans transferred to the Barbara Bonner Family Shelter, run by Catholic Social Services. "We hope to get people out of this situation once and for all," says shelter director Wilhelmina Spinner. They are doing exactly that. Since 1997, the percentage of homeless families in Columbus who attain long-term housing solutions has risen from 30% to 70%. Enhanced after-care services, like financial and psychological counseling, also help families cope with stress and stay housed once they locate a suitable place. Officially, families are supposed to remain at Bonner no more than 90 days. But with the sluggish economy and fewer available jobs, some are taking up to six months to find permanent housing.

It happens that the Cochrans' current living quarters are more lavish than any home they have had during their eight years of marriage. The shelter is actually a three-bedroom, 1 1/2-bath town home. Catholic Social Services rents and maintains 21 furnished town houses within a private 5,000-unit rental-apartment complex, where a three-bedroom dwelling rents for up to $649. But what the family has gained in space, it has lost in ambiance. The scuffed, white living-room walls are barren except for some stray crayon marks left by previous occupants. Yet the kids don't complain. For the first time, they have their own bedrooms. Most nights, however, De-Shawto Jr. (nicknamed Little D) climbs into bed with his older sister, something he never did before they were homeless. "Sleeping alone is too scary," he says. Moriah says she likes having him there.

In no time, both kids made new friends at Prairie Lincoln Elementary, a short bus ride away from the shelter. But they have not told anyone they are homeless. And much of the time, neither do school officials. Principal Kelly Jacobs says the teachers are informed that an incoming student is homeless only when there is a compelling academic or social reason to do so. "We want all kids here to feel safe and accepted," she says.

Moriah's and Little D's teachers proclaim that the kids are fitting in well at the school they love. "De-Shawto's a very nice boy with good writing skills," says second-grade teacher Beth Smith. "He's right on the mark with spelling, and his math is good." Fourth-grade teacher Amanda Beck (who did not know Moriah was homeless until a reporter asked for an interview) also gives a glowing report: "She has a great work ethic and is an excellent kid. She's a tiny bit behind in some areas. But I expect her to catch up if she stays here."