(It’s about a woman in DC that we meet, in a park.
She lives on the street. We named her Shantay.)

It was March 25, 1998, I was eight months pregnant and on the streets; life wasn't easy. Mr. John Henderson was the name. He tore me down, abused me mentally, emotionally and most of all, physically. Here you see, the cut on my face from that razor blade, the blood, tears, the 250 stitches, the scars I have to live with never let me forget.

Now I'm 46 but I still have never had a place to call my home. My son is my strength. This long-life dream of living the right way, just me and my son, it never happens. Instead reality always finds a way to interrupt.

Being a woman is tough, but I am still strong. I’ve endured assaults, rape, even in the shelter, there is no peace. That's what draws me back to the streets. To get clean, I go to my aunt’s house now and then to shower, but because of who I am, I only can stay an hour.

Being homeless is lonely and sometimes I turn to drink and drugs.

You think you can help me, but don’t you see?

You can't help, it's up to me!