Dallas' Homeless Turn To The Bridge for Food, Shelter and a New Start

A silver bracelet dangles from her wrist as she clasps her cell phone in her left hand. She wears sparkling gold sandals, which reveal freshly painted maroon toenails. Her black sleeveless blouse and pressed blue jeans look recently laundered.

Denise Way looks nothing like the stereotypical homeless person—soiled, weathered, beaten down by life—and this early June afternoon, she has an appointment. It's her weekly meeting with Kevelyn Oaks, her care manager at The Bridge, the innovative homeless assistance center on the southeastern edge of downtown Dallas.

Aside from her appearance, there's something else that sets Way apart from the vast majority of The Bridge's homeless, who its staff refer to as "guests." She doesn't have a mental illness, drug addiction or criminal record.

She could be your friend, neighbor or aunt. But for the grace of God and the recession, she could be you.

Yet Way has found herself among the thousands who have flocked to The Bridge since it opened in May 2008. The $17.4 million facility is the key component in achieving Dallas' 10-year plan to eradicate homelessness by 2014. It's often referred to as a one-stop service area for the homeless, providing not only food and shelter, but also access to care managers like Oaks, onsite health care facilities, legal aid and job assistance as it seeks to move its guests from street chaos to shelter care to independent living.

In an era replete with the frustrated bond-package promises of the Trinity River Corridor Project—the contentious high-speed toll road is massively over budget, citizens have seen little of its parks and amenities, and its signature Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge won't have access ramps when completed, making it the Bridge to Nowhere—Dallas' homeless shelter is a city-subsidized success story.

From its troubled beginning, The Bridge faced fierce opposition from a business community opposed to its downtown location, criticism from other social service agencies at odds with its nonjudgmental philosophy toward its "guests" and nagging doubts about its ability to safely manage the crowds of homeless who at times seemed to overrun the facility. Yet in its first year of operation, The Bridge placed more than 400 people into housing and assisted nearly 800 with finding jobs.

"We wouldn't be around if we didn't hit it out of the park," says Mike Faenza, chief executive officer and president of the Metro Dallas Homeless Alliance, which operates The Bridge. "There was just too much pressure."

Council member Angela Hunt, who represents most of downtown, views the city's 18-year commitment to provide up to $3.5 million annually toward The Bridge's operating budget as tax dollars well spent. Its 2009 budget is projected at $7 million, with $1 million contributed by Dallas County and private donations solicited to cover the remaining gap. Historically, says Hunt, money has been spent on the homeless indirectly through their involvement in the jail, court and health care systems. Better to spend the money wisely, efficiently—where it can do the most good.

"What the assistance center does—and what it accomplished in its first year—is trying to use our funds in a smarter way so it's not an endless cycle and a black hole," she says. "We're actually changing people's lives so they're out of this homeless cycle."

Way's descent into homelessness began in January 2005, she says, three months shy of her 20-year anniversary at the Dallas office of Fulbright & Jaworski when the law firm fired her because she wasn't keeping up with her duties. Fulbright & Jaworski refused to comment, only confirming the dates of her employment, but Way admits that she may have pushed herself too quickly to return from taking a two-month leave of absence after she was diagnosed with diabetes in March 2004.

Landing a job as an accounting manager earning more than $60,000 a year at one of the largest law firms in the country was as easy as answering a newspaper ad, she says, but finding similar success nearly two decades later proved much more difficult. Divorced with no children and 51 years old, Way rigorously searched for jobs throughout the city, but she found no takers. Her entire 401(k) savings eventually dried up, and she became homeless for the first time last year, seeking shelter at the Austin Street Centre near Fair Park.

Way's parents died in the 1970s, so she reached out to her two sisters in Connecticut and Georgia for help, but both left her to fend for herself. She had no idea her relationships with them were so poor. "I thought it was cool until I really needed them."

Way's sister in Georgia has a daughter in Dallas, but her sister discouraged their relationship. "She doesn't want me to be involved with her daughter because she thinks I may pull her down."

A cousin in Washington, D.C., who pays Way's cell phone bill, stepped up and offered to pay for a room at the InTown Suites. And when Way found work in September 2008 at a car auction in Oak Cliff, her life appeared to be back on track.

Way's car, however, was repossessed in November, so she could no longer drive to work, and the rent at the InTown Suites became too much of a burden on her cousin. With her resources exhausted, Way became a guest at The Bridge in January.