Bogus Ass-freezing Exercise in Futility: HUD's Point in Time Count

[This post is longer than usual, and contains an informative link to NLCHP's similar comments. I’ve tried not to offend the good people who volunteer to do the HUD Point-in-Time count. But I’m sure I’ll step on a bunch of toes.] 

Frank. One of millions. He counts.

During the last week of January, since I’m part of the Carlisle, PA community for the time being, I volunteered to be one of the good souls that would go out and try to find and interview unsheltered homeless people in the Cumberland County jurisdiction. It was more curiosity than benevolence on my part.

Feeling somewhat guilty, I layered up, grabbing my seldom-used silk long undies, my extra warm socks, lined jeans, hooded sweatshirt, windproof jacket, waterproof gloves and shoes. All set to tromp in Snowzilla.

Pat and I met up with the band of volunteers at the chain grocery store cafe. This wasn’t my event to organize, so I could just hang back and nod in agreement. We signed our liability and confidentiality forms and headed out.

We hopped into the purpose-filled Element SUV driven by Ross, aka the Bike Guy. He retired from the railroad and is now, among other things, involved in providing those without bucks the opportunity to get bikes. 

I was in the back seat, and didn’t feel the need to know anything more than I did know, which is that HUD requires communities to conduct this count at least every other January so HUD can report the numbers to Congress. It’s a process that’s become more organized in the past 10 years or so. When I ran a shelter we just endured the Census Bureau and their awkward and annoying efforts every 10 years. 

Our train expert/guide was adept at finding places to drive along train property. His 4-wheel-drive vehicle made easy work of the ice and snow. And, I’ve got to say in sincere awe, he sure knows how to back up adeptly! 

The End of January Snow in Carlisle, PA, 

We wove in and out of Harrisburg, PA’s train yards on the NW side of the city. With 2’ of snow on the ground, we were spared the chilly drudgery of tromping aimlessly through the woods. If we didn’t see a trail of footsteps through the snow, our zealous guide astutely decided that no one was living in that area.

We only had to get out once, and stood as Ross tromped down a hillside to follow the possible hot trail. It was. A 50-ish white male was camping in a remote spot, polite but not interested in the questions we were supposed to ask, so Ross decided to give us the details which Pat dutifully chronicled, and we returned to the warmth of the car to continue what was a futile venture.

Homeless people in these neighborhoods wouldn’t be on sidewalks in front of buildings, they’d be in alleyways or the parks. But the training materials explicitly stated "No parks, alleys, abandoned buildings, etc." out of concern for the volunteers’ safety. My team saw not a single homeless person. That does not mean they don't exist in the zip codes we covered, but that all the likeliest places where they would have been, we were not supposed to go. Eric Tars, Staff Attorney, NLCHP "Personal Reflections"

As I sat quietly in the back, I couldn’t help but remember an interview I did with a group of homeless youth in Harrisburg back in 2006 for a documentary I was working on. They took me around the downtown, sharing their challenges and showing me where they slept (alongside the train tracks, under a clump of bushes), where they got food, and where they hung out. They spoke of staying in abandoned buildings (Harrisburg has plenty) and their struggles to stay warm and dry.

I looked out the window as we zoomed through bedraggled neighborhoods, wondering how you’d be able to conduct a decent census of those harbored illegally in this ghettoized city. I glanced at 24-hour laundromats and fast food joints, places of refuge as I’ve been told by those I’ve interviewed over my past 3 decades. We didn’t look there. We haphazardly zipped through a few parking lots, but tonight’s 10 degree temps might discourage the average car-sleeper. 

And we had no way of gauging the number of individuals and families who have desperately turned to a friend, relative or acquaintance to couch surf or sleep in a corner of the basement, without a doubt the most common way for families to survive their homelessness. (WOWM)

As we bounced over ice ruts, I tried to calculate the vast amount of resources being expended nationwide for this sacrosanct PIT count. Incalculable. 

Is it a testosterone-fueled “search and count” expedition? Maybe, in part. Is it a do-gooder’s mission? Also in part. Is it futile? The numbers speak for themselves.

HUD reports to Congress yearly, part of the ritual of proving that the meager $2.25 billion they get to address homelessness is being well-spent. The declining numbers of “chronically homeless” people, including vets, might be seen as a sign that things are working. And for some lucky street-escapees, it has.

I know lots of dedicated people expend tremendous efforts to alleviate homelessness in their communities. And I know lots of people are grateful to get their own home, humble as it might be. But…

My big issue is with HUD and opponents of our grassroots, bipartisan efforts to expand the definition of homelessness to include those who double up with others due to lack of options, or seek shelter in no-tell-motels, or camp in dilapidated rigs or in the many other permutations that I’ve heard about and seen. 

The vulnerability of these arrangements is talked about in my HEAR US documentary Worn Out Welcome Mat - Kansas. To deny the vulnerable and fragile existence of millions of families, youth and single adults in these circumstances; to exclude them from qualifying for HUD services, including emergency shelter; to keep Congress in the dark about the abysmal and dangerous lack of decent housing for those most vulnerable…well, it’s appalling for starters.

We exert impressive efforts to pursue the impossible task of “counting angels on the head of a pin” as my friend and fierce advocate Mitch Snyder was fond of saying, but we can’t find the wherewithal to make sure babies, toddlers, kids, parents and adults have a safe place to call home. I call that bogus. 

'Our Ladies of the Highways,' A Kick-ass Group of Gals

Today I met Miss Lyn. The "Miss" is the Southern-style way of referring to women, no matter their status. Lyn Manz-Walters is the head honcho of the Pride of Mobile, AL, better know as 15 Place.

She's a kick-ass, take-no-prisoners kind of gal, and she's been running this center that cares for/with homeless folks, those most people avoid, for years.

Sitting down to write the post tonight got me thinking about the dynamic women I've had the honor to meet and see in action along my HEAR US journey. The thought left me inspired.

My too-tired brain is not going to try to list or describe these women. Someday, maybe I'll write a book about "Our Ladies of the Highways." But let me offer a few thoughts....

Women I've met, and many more I'd like to meet, are doing the work of compassion that most people run from--serving populations deemed too dangerous, too far gone, too much of a waste of time. These women do what they do, not for money, but because it's what we as humans are called to do.

They buck systems, stare down naysayer authorities, hug the "unlovable," stretch too-thin resources across giant needs, laugh in the face of absurdity, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable (Finley Peter Dunne).

They're the spark in their community. They're the sparkle in the eyes of the disenfranchised. They're the reason things aren't even worse in society. They're conscience and compassion inciters.

If you know someone who fits this description, emulate them. If you have young girls, let them see what women can do. Stand with them when the going gets tough. Encourage them to run for office. Clone them.

My day is better for popping in on a whim to see if I could catch this whirling dervish. Her southern charm not withstanding, I'd much rather be on her side than going against her. And I will do all in my power to return to this quirky little city of Mobile, where the phrase "Damn the torpedoes" was born.

Heat Changes Things on the Road

Unbelievable! I've finished my 6th year of traveling under the HEAR US banner. I start noticing patterns (that I forget as the year goes on). Winter is tough in an RV (and even tougher when you have less going than I do), but summer...well, it's another animal. Toasty Tillie (L) becomes the mobile version of a toaster oven.

When I walk out of an air conditioned building I cringe as the blast of heat and its brow-drenching humidity hits me. I long for winter. Did I just write that??! I'm the one who dislikes bone-chilling blustery winter weather. Happy medium, anyone?

Somehow I missed the in-between this year. I traveled from the verdant Pacific Northwest to good ol' Illinois just as IL soared into a mid-90s heat wave. Fortunately, I have options of cooler/warmer places to be. I have money that buys meals so I can linger in the few food establishments I'm known to frequent.


So, what about those who lack options to escape heat, cold and other weather realities? My experiences only make me more aware of kids and adults without a place to be day or night. I meet them everywhere. Ironically, I continually find more pleasant "have-nots" than "have-lots."

Nationwide, a shattering budget-crunch saga is closing one of the vital resources for homeless and impoverished people--libraries. Across our land, the one place that lets unconnected adults and kids log on to the Internet, ask for help finding information, hold a book in their hands, escape inclement weather while catching up on news, study with friends, attend enriching events for free...libraries... are slashing hours and closing. Even I've been kicked out of libraries because of reduced hours.

The heat goes on...and people do their best to survive despite massive efforts to oppress and impoverish them. When I sweat or shiver, it brings me in touch with those who can't escape the ravages of weather or the injustices of the economy. Losing touch would make me part of the problem.

The insane heat of budget deliberations in DC and state capitals reminds me that none of us will escape the blistering heat of injustice. So I guess I better spruce up Tillie the best I can and get ready for another year on the road. Makes me appreciate the generous supporters of this unconventional nonprofit organization. We're going to need all the help we can get.

I try not to bug you, but let me mention: If you can give, we're happy for either monthly donors--and it doesn't need to be a lot, or folks who buy our useful "stuff." Thanks!

The Wrecking Ball of Life

Now is as good of time as any to transform "Camper's RVue" to its new bent--a more personal/societal reflection. Today contains a dark cloud that needs to be shared.

Having worked for 25 years in human services, with perhaps the most in need of help populations, homeless adults and children, I'm no stranger to suffering, mostly of others, though I've had my share of "stuff." Today, a Friday, the day most emergency service workers will tell you is a magnet for disasters, especially right before closing, shift-change, etc., proved true to its reputation.

A woman I've been trying to contact for a few weeks called me back finally, and I settled into what passes for an easy chair in Tillie, ready to catch up. But her first sentences crashed down like a huge wrecking ball, not on my life, but on my image of what I thought her life was. Trust me, without hearing the gory details that I can't share, she has far exceeded the standard of "if anything could go wrong it did." And she doesn't deserve it, nor does her ever-so-fragile family that's swirling around in crises now.

I could only share this with the one person we have in common, and I was grateful for at least that gift of a knowledgeable, compassionate listen. But when I hung up, the cloud returned.

This Crises, deserving of more than just a capital "C," is not unlike what happens to other families. And this family has endured and survived a lot, though what they're going through now probably equals the sum of their history, a heavy dose concentrated in 3 months. It's more than I'd ever imagine being able to endure or survive, much less come out on top.

But that's what troubles me--this family HAS TO come out on top or they lose everything they've worked so hard to accomplish. And I'm not talking about a nice house, lots of cars, jewelry. I'm talking about the basics of life--a home they call their own, albeit a single-wide somewhat ramshackle trailer, a reliable car with lots owed on it, school loans and a few outstanding bills for stuff they really needed.

What most people don't realize is that the theoretical safety net--the one we imagine would be there if we had lots of bad stuff happen--it's not there. Sorry. It's gone, leaving in its wake the trail of bodies on the streets, in homeless and/or dire straits. And perhaps that's the worst part of this for me....

It's like watching someone drowning, with sharks patiently waiting nearby, with the entire family falling overboard.

I believe in a higher power, though I haven't settled on the design that makes most sense to me. Right now, I'd look for a knight on shining armor, charging in on a powerful white steed, to undo all the tragedies that swirl around this sweet family. But I guess I don't get to pick my form of divine intervention, and I suspect I have no control of the outcome.

My fervent hope--that the incredible mettle that has kept this family moving forward will be tested and found true. In my wildest imagination, I don't know how they'll do that. But that's where the unknown indomitable goodness comes in, the Grace that somehow keeps at least most of creation on the right track.

And I need to sort out my role in this. Why am I in the path of this wrecking ball, being splattered by debris? I certainly can't change the wrecking ball's trajectory, but perhaps I can extend a hand, maybe even gently guide my friends in a less perilous path. Or at least let them know I care. And I do.