The Biggest Problem for the Homeless is the Homeless

The homeless issue is a tough one for me. Once you meet and become friends with people who are or have been homeless, and once you have been on the brink of it, you tend to have a more tolerant perspective. I own that perspective.

What I thought was a done deal is in the news once again. I received the following letter from a neighbor via email, and though I empathize with their concerns I can't get on board their train.

***

"To ALL Residents:

As you may know, the City had temporarlly approved the opening of the former Fire Station #39 as a homeless shelter this last spring. This site sits adjacent to the new Fire Station and is close to Senior housing, library, residential apartments, and retail stores. The permit for Project Share/Wheel, which runs other Tent Cities through Seattle, ran out in May and the current building is empty, however there are plans afoot to re-open it as semi-permanent shelter.

Seattle area churches, led by leaders from Seattle Mennonite Church, have been quietly campaigning to get this site open permanently. They have faced little opposition in their efforts, however, this project is NOT A DONE DEAL. The City wants to hear from Lake City residents. and is holding Community Meeting on July 13th to get your input.

We have since learned that this site would be opened as a homeless shelter for approx. 100 people for 2-3 years at a cost of around $2 million dollars. The building then would be demolished. At the same time, the City of Seattle is cutting their police budget by $2 million. There are several reasons why this location doesn't make sense, whether PERMANENT or TEMPORARY.

Lake City seems to get the 'lion's share' of social services and homeless resources. Some of these are essential to low income and struggling individuals. McDermott House houses 75 homeless/chemically dependant veterans and others with chemcal additions. Seattle Mennonite church runs a soup kitchen/day lockers for the homeless. The VA's office of Community Outpatient Services is also quartered here. At the same time, we witness daily the repurcussions of having too many homeless resources concnetrated into 1 area--dirty/trash-littered sidewalks, human waste in storefront doorways, panhandlers, and people loitering the streets. This turns patrons away from businesses that are struggling to survive in an already challenging economy. While not unsympathetic to the plight of the homeless, some of these individuals appear to be the 'bottom of the barrel' in terms of not wanting to get off the streets or into treatment. They just want to do their thing and not be disburbed.

Apart from these reasons, there's also the question of zoning and safety--Fire stations normally house anywhere from 8-12 people. How can this building safely accommodate 100? Some of the churches that are campaigning for this shelter are not in the neighborhood, so the problem is 'out of sight, out of mind' for them, but is placed squarely right on to the residents and businesses that call Lake City home. When the 3 year term for vacating/demolishing this shelter is up, who's to say these churches won't lobby to keep it open? When someone is turned away or booted out of the shelter for bad behavior, where will they go? THE STREETS OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, that's where!

No other neighbohrood in Seattle has been asked to host a 3 year homeless shelter. This plan should be scrapped. It's the wrong plan, at the wrong time, and in the wrong place. There's other ways to address the needs of the homeless and balance the desires of the Community.

Please plan atttending this meeting with City officals and tell them enough is enough! The meeting will be held Wednesday, July 13th from 6PM - 8PM at the Lake City Community Center, 12531 28th Avenue NE (just north of the Lake City Library). If you can't attend the meeting, please consder signing the petition in the Luminaire lobby! We will present signed petitions to Seattle Dept. of Neighborhoods.

Thanks for your consideration,
[names withheld]"

***

This is not only prejudicial, it points to its own inadequacies. No "other ideas" are listed because this isn't the type of problem that has a clean solution. We don't have any other way of housing people who don't have the means to pay rent. What we do have is a big, empty building that is serving no other purpose, and $2,000,000 isn't a lot of money to shelter and tend to 100 people for that amount of time.

The police funding woes are a separate issue and I'm having no luck finding a correlation. That doesn't mean there isn't one, nor does it mean they aren't pulled from completely different funding sources. I'll keep looking.

Meanwhile, the homeless are the least of our worries in this neighborhood. It's the guys selling drugs to the homeless then beating them up, stealing things, breaking into cars and robbing convenience stores with axes (see previous post link) that we need to address. These individuals are not homeless.

I'd like to hear some of the author's "ideas" that he didn't include, and perhaps offer to do some proofreading for him, so I think I'll audit the meeting with my snarky hat on.

***

Blog post from a different party with a comment from our mayor:

http://lakecitylive.net/2011/07/06/lake-fire-station-39-to-become-homeless-shelter-community-meeting-being-held-july-13t

The owner of the convenience store on my street was robbed by a man with an ox. She must’ve meant axe. Oxen are notoriously hard to conceal.

Please click the title of this post and head over to my other blog for the full story behind the headline...

Neighborhood Watch 2011

Not one to enjoy a May Pole, I dutifully followed Sam-dog as he circled a telephone pole in search of a good pee spot, and chanced upon a sign.

It warns that the adjacent property is being monitored by police, which was true. I've seen many a squad car parked slightly to the north with their lights off. They'd hang out for several minutes, taking notes and sipping coffee. After a few minutes they'd swing around the block and re-park.

The building in question is a spider-infested, rotting mess. Most of it is obscured by trees, but there is a small patch of cleared gravel where "unauthorized assembly" took place. It's private property and this is a free country, but apparently there is still such thing as "unauthorized assembly".

The assemblers were a group of men and boys from Ethiopia who would flag down cars for the dealers inside. They'd lean into the cars and some sort of exchange would take place, and the cars would leave without bothering to park and pretend they were visiting. The Ethiopians were the Wal-mart greeters of the drug trade, and at first they did their job with broad grins and polite waving. Whenever I'd pass by they'd always have a smile for me. Eventually they stopped smiling and took on a tough exterior as gang life wore them down.

A neighbor friend of mine had befriended one of the men before he'd been swayed. They would have lively, heavily accented conversations about literature and art, he dressed in a snappy sweater vest with shined shoes and a laptop bag. When that changed, my friend voiced her dismay.

"Don't hang out with gangs, Amare!" she'd instruct. "They are bad news." He would nod agreement, pull up his over-sized jeans, pretend to tuck in his flashy sports jersey and change the subject.

Around the corner from the gravel there are a few dark doorways where the dealers worked. The doors were always open, and from time to time a pit bull or two would pop out to see what Sam and I were up to. The dealers were all of Hispanic descent. I'm not sure what country, but there is a large Mexican population out here so that makes the most sense.

The dealers were rough. They'd yell at each other and push other neighborhood dealers around, and these scuffles could be heard from half a block away. They'd head into the middle of the street, block traffic and carry on with their pit bulls by their sides. The squad car on duty would blip its siren, flash its lights and make arrests when needed.

I haven't seen any of the Ethiopians or their bosses around in the last few days. Though I'm certain the faded "Neighborhood Watch" sign didn't help, the constant harassment of police must have. The entire building is for lease. Eventually the owner will figure out that the "gang activity" warning is discouraging new renters and remove it, and it will be business as usual.

License to Dial

A large group of addicts and dealers had gathered on the lawn in front of the bank, openly selling and buying, ignoring their audience unless someone strayed too close. Then they would harass and cajole until the hapless pedestrian backed away in fear. They were drunk, and therefore oblivious their locale, which happens to be one of the busiest corners in North Seattle.

It was before 1:00 p.m. on a Saturday and the bank was still open. I could see the manager and a couple of tellers pressed up against the windows with their cell phones to their ears. I had mine ready just in case, with my trusty but uselessly small canine as back-up.

When the squad car appeared the bank employees hung up in unison, and we watched the loiterers scatter. One guy was cornered by an officer and began to make excuses for his very existence at the top of his lungs. An escapee exaggerated his relief by exclaiming, "Phew! Close one. Phew!" and ducked into the pub, while I showed my relief by high-tailing it home.

***

"Wish you could hear what I'm thinking, bitch." She and I had just passed each other in the alley, and she hadn't returned my smile--given her stumbling condition, a sign of trouble. I had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. She probably wanted me out of her territory, as would any angry, hungry, terrified dog. "Speaking of bitches..." I wanted to say, but I don't have a death wish.

Now 10 feet behind me, I could feel her glare. Instinctively, I didn't turn around to see if she was still there until I was nearing the street. Then she was gone. I'd won! I felt tough, invincible and large in charge except for the fact that my hand was in my purse, sweatily gripping my cell phone like a loaded gun.

***

"911, what are you reporting?"

"Yeah, there's a fight in progress. Again." I tried not to sound too apathetic as I watched the man and woman hit each other and throw things at each other while their falling down drunk friends tried to intervene. I dutifully answered questions and provided descriptions using the photo I'd taken. "Looks like a bunch of packages of something white in their trunk. Probably drugs, knowing what goes on around here." *sigh*

"Mmm hmm. Could be. Are you safe?"

"Yes. I'm on the fourth floor of a condo. Some of my neighbors are calling, too. They're safe."

"I can see the other calls coming in. We're dispatching a car, now."

"Thanks." *sigh*

While I'd been on the phone, my neighbor two floors down had had the same conversation with another operator. Her boyfriend had joined her out on the deck, phone in hand. Above and to the left of me, another neighbor on another call, and there were other phones being dialed up and down the street.

By the time the police arrived, we'd watched as the antagonists had driven away with their trunk still open. Officers interviewed inebriated witnesses, quelled tempers and began inspecting the baggies. I went back to the couch.

Later that evening I found a stash of similar baggies behind a bush. They contained tiny white gym socks, breast pumps and bibs. Probably not worth a call to 911, but you just never know around here.

Welcome to the Hood, Wisconsin!

Coming back from walking my dog today--Christmas Day, juggling a Starbucks latte and a bag of pastries--I noticed a car had been broken into. There was a duffel bag in the back seat, unzipped, that kind of looked like a golf bag. That's a little too much temptation for some of the junkies around here, so I before I saw the plates I knew the owner didn't live nearby.

I'm a concerned citizen in a rapidly declining, gang-infested neighborhood, so I stopped to ask a few neighbors if they had guests (no), then made a call to the po po to do a little snitchin'. Here's the conversation:

"Non-emergency services!" said a chipper female who sounded like smiley emoticons were floating out of her mouth. No further prompting for me to speak, so I tentatively started in.

"Uh, I'd like to report a car that has had its rear, driver's side window broken into. Wisconsin plates. I'm not the unfortunate tourist owner."

"If you're not the owner, there's nothing we can do but wait for them to call in!" I pictured her in an elf costume with a jar of candy canes on her desk.

"Seriously? You can't run a trace and get their number?"

"No, they will have to call, especially if they are from out of state!"

"And if I try to call Wisconsin State Patrol and see if they can help?"

"They won't be able to give you any information for security reasons!"

("The ship has sailed on security, lady," I wanted to say, but didn't.) "Okay, well. Uh. May I give you their license plate number?"

"Sure!" She chirped. Has this woman ever had a bad day?

"It's 4**-***. I'd also like to give you the intersection where it's parked." I waited through 30 seconds of silence, half expecting to hear hold music in the form of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters' jazzy rendition of "Jingle Bells".

"Go ahead!"

"*****-**st Ave. N.E. Gang territory, as you can no doubt see, so please add this to all the other stuff that goes on around here."

"Oh... Yes... Seattle, Lake City area... Okay... I'll definitely do that!"

I thanked her and hung up quickly, in case she was tempted to breach protocol and wish me a Merry Christmas. It was like talking to a cruise director; useless, but pleasant nonetheless.

:)

Right to Heat

Seattle has a well-known, moving target of a homeless shelter called Nickelsville. It was sarcastically named after our former Mayor, who attempted to drive our homeless population out of the city by arresting the residents of a large cluster of tents. Ultimately the shelter was ordered to relocate every few months lieu of continuing this practice. If Hooverville comes to mind, well, you are historically correct and also an old fart like me.

Nickelsville is currently located in an abandoned fire station about four blocks from my place. There is a food bank within comfortable walking distance, and this happens to be my dog's most favored evening poop route. The food bank is open on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On those days, Sam and I are now joined by what can only be described as a pilgrimage of cackling drunks, limping disabled veterans and schizophrenic twenty-somethings, all headed toward their bi-weekly ration of stale hamburger buns and canned turnips.

There are those who think that beggars can't be choosers. But canned turnips?

Anyway, If you follow my blog you know that my neighborhood isn't exactly Beverly Hills. It's kind of a mixed bag. Some of my building mates have cars worth more than my 343 square foot condo. Some are barely hanging onto what they have, and steal what they don't have. It is, however, surrounded by large clusters of single family dwellings with landscaping, a Subaru in the driveway, a Grand Cherokee in the garage and an alarm system to keep out the riffraff.

Much of our canned-turnip-donating middle class votes liberal because they believe it's the right thing to do, so you'd think they would be open minded about a homeless shelter. You'd be wrong. In fact, there has been a surprising outcry against the current location of Nickelsville. Last week I read some op-ed pieces and responses to news blogs, by people who think their children are in danger from the influx of homeless. From my perspective somewhere between poor and middle class, I see fewer homeless people on the street than ever. They are spending most of the time inside. Wednesdays and Saturdays are the exceptions, and most are too busy trying to get to the food bank to bother terrorizing kids. You'd think opponents would have noticed the "improvement", but obviously not.

"Why don't they get jobs? They're just lazy drunks." The factors that go into making someone homeless are many and varied. It usually isn't one thing or another, but a series of events, that finally forces someone out their front door for the last time. To me this shows a strong will to live wherever they can. Let's face it, the other option is suicide. Survival is a full-time job for everyone.

This past week nighttime temperatures dipped into the low teens. Seattle rarely sees temperatures so low that exposure can be fatal within hours. Realizing what they were railing against, even the most public opponents of Nickelsville kept to themselves. Maybe a few of them learned that those "lazy drunks" don't deserve to freeze to death no matter why they're homeless.

Shelters exist to protect from the unexpected, not the expected.

Indirect Route

Being hotly pursued on a dating website is nothing new, but this guy was persistent. It takes me several weeks to agree to a date. I need to suss out the situation, decide if my suitor is safe, if they have controlling personalities, or riddled with bitterness. Thankfully, most people are transparent enough that a quick review of their emails tells their story. His did not.

After the first date we were a reluctant couple. We were giddy but still guarded, and intense but we couldn't verbalize our feelings. He was recently divorced, had slept around considerably and was still being obsessively texted by two or three girls. I was involved with a couple of other men. He was nine years my junior, and was in the habit of bedding down girls half his age. "Self-proclaimed bondage sluts with daddy issues," he confessed.

He claimed he met them in all different places and ways--some online, one at a mini-mart, two were friends of friends of friends of someone else... too many to be a coincidence. I asked him if not getting that sort of thing in bed with me was going to be a problem, and he responded, "I'm not into tying up and torturing, but they wanted it so I did it." He was offended that I would even dare ask such a question, and he pinched me very hard under the guise of teasing. I told him to knock it off or leave, and that he was only confirming my suspicions. He left and didn't call for several days.

When he did call, he attempted nonchalance, then asked if he could come over. I told him he could as long as we practiced some mutual respect. We then entered into a phase of general calm, enjoying each others' company and keeping the sniping to a minimum. He would reprimand me if I cut him off in conversation, but I didn't ever bother to point out that he only talked about himself. Endlessly. I decided to pick my battles and adjust, and would wait until he was even boring himself before stepping in.

Then came the big blowup. We were supposed to attend a party together but he was called away to help his ex with an emergency she could have handled. Because he was afraid of her and her power to take away his children, he usually jumped when she said jump. He kept telling me he'd be done "any minute" so I kept waiting, until I finally called the hostess and told her I was going to try and make it on my own. "Oh. It's over, already." I'd missed her daughter's birthday celebration entirely. 'Hurry up and wait' at its finest.

When he finally arrived I tried to explain to him why I was upset. He had a bad habit of assuming I knew better than to question his actions, so he sat there. Saying nothing. Until I burst.

"I understand she has you by the balls, but this is happening way too often. She's acting like a child and you're playing into it, and you'll have to figure out some way to explain all this to me because I'm not getting it. I don't read minds, I read people, and I get why you're afraid. The details are what are escaping me. I'm sorry I'm mad. It's a gut reaction to a frustrating situation, and it's not just frustrating for YOU! What does she have on you?"

He felt like he deserved respect no matter what his actions. I felt like that was absurd. It's my belief that respect is earned, day to day, one action at a time. We went to bed angry.

The next morning we fell into an old habit of morning sex, but at one point he pulled my hair and pretty much forced me to do something I didn't want to do. He wasn't staying hard, and maybe that was his solution. When I told him that was never okay with me and asked if we could try again, he yelled, "Don't start something you can't fucking finish!" I realized, to my horror, that he'd said that once before. He'd taken out his inability to perform on the one person who was trying to love and understand him.

While we were apart for the next few weeks... I went on a date with a man I'd met before, with a completely different set of problems. For now, let it suffice that seeing him made me think my "current" situation wasn't so bad. I made a phone call. I needed to know my ex-not-ex understood how frightening his behavior had been and maybe we could AGAIN start respecting each other.

But I didn't respect him. I couldn't and I wasn't even aware of it until it was all I could think about. And the more he spoke about his life, the less I understood this strange, cold man. I realized he didn't love his kids for who the were, but because they were his creations and reflections of his virility. How sad. A manic mother and a cold father. I wanted to kidnap them and take them away from the madness, and I hadn't even met them.

***

His main source of income I'll keep to myself. Well, it's probably best to keep his other two jobs out of this, too. What I will say is that over 10 years before we met he was part of a drug dealing ring. He was the money guy.

For those who don't know, volume dealers rarely touch the drugs, the money and the gun at the same time. Never the money and drugs, as that's a dead giveaway to law enforcement. Part of the busines is collections--yes, coercion, threats and physical harm fall under that umbrella. Should the muscle be unable or unwilling, someone needs to step up, and on at least one occasion he stepped up, beat the hell out of someone, was arrested but never convicted. There were other arrests without convictions for various other deeds.

So now we have bondage, abuse, illegal activity, dangerous hobbies (included in one of his other jobs), a punishment mentality toward me and others, and all manner of other frightening behaviors. Naturally he was abused as a child, and he came out of that with the attitude that if he could survive the pain, so could everyone else. It didn't bother him one tiny bit to watch someone else suffer. My reaction to childhood trauma was to feel too much, and that's where we clashed the loudest.

We began to drift apart. His ex-wife's behavior was growing increasingly bipolar and manipulative, so it was difficult for him to find time away from his kids. At that point, we'd been together for almost 10 months. I asked about meeting them and he said, "Yes. That would be nice." I asked for details on how we could make that easy on them and the ex. He didn't offer much. After that he didn't call much, either. He'd been calling every day up to that point. When I asked him about that, he claimed to not remember the daily calls. I found that odd, but then again, he forgot lots of things. Stress, perhaps.

A month into this relatively distant period, he called to let me know his ex had given over complete control of the children. She'd been a neglectful, inconsistent, addicted mother as it was, but I'd never known anyone who would do such a thing. He couldn't believe his luck, that she would just back down and let him move forward with them, hire sitters to get more of a social life, see me more often, have more fun time with his kids, etc. Things seemed like they might be improving.

One of the last times we spoke, he called with some disturbing news. To him it was merely odd, but it cemented everything I'd ever wondered about. He underwent frequent background checks for his job, and there had never been a problem. It was almost as if his arrest record was sealed. It was almost as if he had had help with the sealing of it, and what came next made me think that maybe his ex had let some sort of cat out of the bag. She'd met him when he was involved with drugs, because she was a client living in the same crack house his boss controlled. She knew everything.

He had innocently applied to volunteer for a cause I won't disclose, and part of acceptance was a background check. Up popped several things. It was, I suspect, the beginning of his undoing. His primary job wasn't doing well, and his other more nefarious activities weren't reliable. The stress he must have been under, well, I can't imagine. And now this. Did his ex cause this out of bipolar vengeance? Did someone protecting him decide to suddenly stop?

It dawned on me that maybe I should be a little more concerned about my safety. Not that I thought he'd try anything with me again, perhaps misguidedly. His frustration with not being dominant over someone was obvious. His ex may have had him by the balls at that point, but she had been the sub in their marriage.

No, my concern grew as I started to realize that some of his business dealings could get him killed. He sold a certain product to a certain group of people who, well, let's just say they are capable of making the biggest bad-ass cry like a baby. After he would meet with them, he'd visit me because I was close by their favorite restaurant. Months later I thought, "Oh, shit. I hope he took an indirect route, because I never want people like that to know where I live."

This charming crew of career criminals are also rumored to be in the sex trade. Specifically, they are allegedly involved in the peddling of sex slaves, bondage films and torture pornography. If what I was thinking was accurate, it was through them that he kept meeting bondage sluts. He had stories for how he met each one, but that didn't mean they were true.

I'll never know how things ended up for him. A few days went by, then he called and asked if he could come over on his lunch break. We sat in silence. My head was resting on his shoulder, swimming in conjecture, dying to ask what was really going on and drowning in sadness. He left me with a kiss on the forehead, then felt like it was coming from a desperately frightened man.

I called about a week later and got voicemail, and left a message offering friendship if he ever needed it. It was a difficult holiday after that, because what got me through the bulk of the relationship was my vision of the future for us and his kids. They were still very young and needed a mom, and I wanted to be one; and it was, as it turns out, most likely my last chance to be one.

Survival of the Least Fit

On nearly every street in my part of this paved jungle there has recently been erected a "Block Watch" sign. These signs have a disquieting effect on me, because they're reminiscent of the ultimate keep out signs: heads on stakes.

If you happen upon one of these signs, what might your reaction be? I've seen whole groups of people turn and walk the other way, looking behind them at some indefinable threat. If you don't know what to fear, it's only natural to fear everything. Signs like this give criminals ultimate power and turn the concept of survival of the fittest on it's ear.

One evening, while walking Sam-dog past an array of ignored signs, I saw a small band of my perkiest, most hope-filled neighbors sipping cider and nibbling on junk food in the middle of the street. Traffic cones laced with yellow tape barred cars from picking them off, one by one. They were "taking back the streets" by encouraging each other to stay safe, make that 911 call if needed and make this a family oriented neighborhood once again. Be a hero. Squash evil. Assert yourself, even if it means blocking traffic and eating your weight in potato chips.

A hundred yards away stood a prostitute, busily flashing her boobs at potential customers. I imagined some of the same brave men at the block watch party furtively pulling her into their cars. I ducked around a corner so no one could see me laugh.