Fragrant rosemary bushes flanked the forties-era Oak Cliff home, and a handwritten note on the door said, âKnock loud!â I did, and a sixty-year-old woman with a squat frame and a spiky haircut opened the door and welcomed me in. âThis is our little family,â Debra Starkey said, gesturing to two women at the dining room table drinking coffee. âThis is Valerie and Regina.â Valerie was in pajama bottoms and a baggy top, and Regina wore a black sparkly sweater and square glasses. âThey look like nice girls, donât they? See, if you just met them on the street youâd never know they were hardened criminals.âÂ
Starkey runs a halfway house. With 1,500 square feet and four bedrooms, there are only four spots, which Starkey reserves for women who have been recently paroled or released from a rehabilitation facility. âThey have to want to change!â Starkey barked, smiling at Valerie and Regina. She calls her house Grace Unlimited.
Starkey grabbed her coffee mugâwhich read, âIâm good enough, Iâm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!ââand sat down at the table. âNow, all this was donated,â she said looking around the living and dining rooms, which were furnished with clashing sofas, new electronics, and well-worn recovery literature. âEven that big-ass TV. Not that the girls have much of a chance to watch it. They have to work.â Valerie just got a job at Braumâs ice cream store, and Regina has the overnight shift at UPS. Both use public transportation.
Twenty years ago, Starkey was where her girls are now. She had been a professional female football player in the seventies, but when her playing days were over, she became âa mean and nasty drug dealer.â She has two prison stints under her belt, for repeated DWIs and dealing drugs. A long time ago she grew up in Pleasant Grove.
After her release from Gatesvilleâs Crain Unit, in 1992, she found work as a mechanic and continued attending twelve-step meetings (sheâs been clean since December 12, 1989). But she kept hearing from women who were struggling with addictionâboth current inmates and recent parolees. âThey had nowhere to go. They didnât know how to live outside.â In 2006 she found a house in Oak Cliff, registered Grace Unlimited as a charity, and asked the recovery community for help. Within two years the house was paid for.
Starkey is strict. Up at 6 a.m. Beds made by 7:30. Mandatory twelve-step meetings five times a week. Smoking is not allowed inside (thereâs a fine of $5 if caught). No boyfriends or girlfriends. Lying is fined too. And relapse means dismissal with no possibility of return (especially when the relapse involves selling all the meat out of the freezer for crystal methâyes, that happened).
The spirit of recovery pervades the house, from the framed portrait in the entryway of Bill Wilson, one of the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, to Saint Anthonyâs âmiracle prayersâ tacked to the bedroom walls. Regina and Valerie know that their sobriety is essential to having a bed. âIt helps that weâre a little scared of Starkey,â Regina said. âShe donât take no crap,â Valerie added.Â
âWeâve got an opening, by the way,â Starkey said. âI just kicked a girl out for smoking weed.â She took a sip of her coffee and cussed at herself for spilling a little.
âNo one teaches you this shit when you get out of prison,â Starkey continued. âHow to live. Not to lie. Not to steal. You donât even have an ID when you get out. So how can you get a job?âÂ
âIâve never even had a driverâs license,â said Valerie, who got hooked on speed when she was 9 years old. Now 32, she has lived at the house for two months, since she left Gatesville, where she served seven years for dealing drugs.Â
âThe longer theyâve been locked up, the more I like âem,â Starkey said. âTheyâre more willing.â
âI canât even believe I live in a house, with kind of a family,â said Valerie. Her eyes began to water as she pulled her legs onto her chair, her knees touching her chin. âI just want to stay sober.â
âStarkeyâs house was the chance of a lifetime for me,â said Regina, who heard about Grace Unlimited while in prison. The mother of two had a successful career as a nurse before an addiction to crack drove her to strip cars and sell off the stolen parts.Â
âIâm forty-six years old,â Regina stammered. She cleared her throat as her eyes, too, began to fill with tears. âI have four felony convictions. Iâve been to prison twice. I donât think I have another run in me. This is my last rodeo.â Her final sentence sounded more like a question. Regina looked to Valerie and Starkey for an answer.Â
âYou got that right,â Starkey said.
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