Housing Insecurity in an Independent Nation
Thoughts on the "problem" of homelessness
When I was sixteen I climbed out of my bedroom window and caught a ride to a friend’s house, where I’d been staying for most of the summer. This wasn’t a friend my age, but a friend in his late twenties, who was married with young children. I wasn’t the only teenager staying there. It was me, Sunflower, Ody, Serenity, John, and a bunch of other people whose names I’ve forgotten. My name was Wildflower. If you lived in Olympia back then, you probably saw me sitting on the sidewalk, asking for change.
By the time I was sixteen I had lived on the streets many times. My mom kicked me out for the first time when I was twelve. It became a pattern. We fought; I ran away. She married when I was thirteen, and I kept running away, until I finally left my home state of Washington and hitch-hiked to San Francisco. For the first leg of the journey a man accompanied me. He must’ve been in his mid-twenties. We slept in a car and on a beach, but one day a ride came along that he didn’t want to accept, and I ditched him.
I won’t go into the details of what happened to me after that, except to say that I survived and ended up on a small farm in Mendocino County— a county known for its missing girls and women. I was almost one of them, but instead I’m writing this to you.
I spent over a year of my adolescence living on the streets. I hitch-hiked and spare-changed and depended on strangers for everything. This was in the nineties, before housing prices rose and homelessness became a “crisis.” Still, few people treated me like I was a human being. Most walked or drove past me, averting their eyes. Others spat at me or hissed that I should get a job. Some gave me rides and money and food. Some exploited me until I learned that I could exploit myself, although back then it was simply survival. A trade. Body for money. I thought I knew how to keep myself safe enough to stay alive. Really I was just lucky.
Still, few people treated me like I was a human being. Most walked or drove past me, averting their eyes. Others spat at me or hissed that I should get a job. Some gave me rides and money and food. Some exploited me until I learned that I could exploit myself, although back then it was simply survival.
You can’t look at me now and tell that I’ve been homeless. (I won’t use the word “unhoused,” because it doesn’t resonate for me. I was without a home; without a family that cared for me. But that word works, too).
I am a 44 year-old doctoral candidate in creative writing. Now I get emails from my editor about my first book’s possible production schedule. Sometimes I avert my own eyes when I pass homeless folks on the sidewalk— not from disdain, but because I can’t bear to look at myself. Who I was and could have become.
A home is never guaranteed.
Last week I texted my landlord in Tallahassee and told him that my utility bill was $200 a month despite the place being less than 500 square feet. I set my a/c to 80 degrees when I left in late May (in Florida you have to leave it on). Why, I asked him, was the bill still so high? I’d done some research and found out that the city offered free energy assessments. Could we do that?
Two hours later, he sent me an email notifying me that he was not going to renew my lease, which expires on August 31st.
I read the email and the floor vanished beneath me. I was falling from a high cliff into pure nothingness.
He said I was a great tenant, but was clearly unhappy with the space. Because he couldn’t make me happy, he said, it was time for me to move out. The notice came less than 60 days before the lease ended, which is illegal. It was also retaliatory. I figured that out over the next day, and sent him a letter. He apologized two days later and said he was “triggered.” He wants me to stay.
I have to stay, because I can’t afford to move.
The building isn’t insulated, is the problem. He can’t afford to insulate it. Or to fix the roof. Or to weatherproof the windows. Or to do the many other things necessary to bring it up to code.
I am accustomed to living in the cheapest apartments I can find, with landlords who either can’t afford to repair things or don’t want to spend the money. A solid place in Tallahassee is at least $1100. I pay less than $1000 (plus my $300 utility bill). I have no washer and dryer. There are roaches and bugs— especially in the summer. But the cottage I live in is cute, and I had loved it for what it was. Now I hate it, for obvious reasons. Although my landlord apologized, it doesn’t matter.
His email cast in sharp relief what I already knew: that I can’t afford proper housing. I live on that familiar precipice. Now it’s crowded.
Fall, and you’re homeless.
The Supreme Court recently ruled that cities and towns can legally abuse homeless and unhoused people.
“The U.S. Constitution does not protect homeless people against cruel and unusual punishment.”1 As I write this, cities are in the process of, or preparing to, sweep homeless encampments. Many cities and towns want to be inhospitable environments for homeless folks.
The people living in these encampments— the people we see on sidewalks and under bridges and in the sprawling miniature cities that have bloomed over the last two decades— are the most vulnerable people. They don’t have cars, and they may not want to sleep in homeless shelters, which often have strict rules regarding behavior and drug use that are impossible for many folks to comply with. Most of the visible homeless and unhoused people are grappling with addiction and mental illness.
Our society does not have support for them. Rehabilitation programs are underfunded, and mental health services are abysmal. Rent prices are too much for many people. Where are they supposed to go?
Supposedly we live in a wealthy country.
My question is: what is wealth?
I am someone who does not have the option to go home to my parent’s house if things fall apart. They’re both dead. I received no inheritance. I am watching, and will watch, my friends and peers inherit things from their parents: hand-me-down furniture and cars, houses, cash…whatever. And that’s good. I want that for them. But not all of us have that resource.
What if wealth is sharing?
What if wealth is equality? Connection? Mutual Aid?
Last fall, someone sent me money. It was a gift. It saved me and helped me. That time was the most productive for this newsletter, because I had that influx of financial support and could turn down other work. This person wasn’t family, and they expected nothing in return. It was truly a gift from the universe.
We can think differently about wealth.
The framing of the “homelessness crisis” is based on a scarcity mindset that assumes there isn’t enough for all of us. But there is. Sweeping human beings from their makeshift homes— the possessions they’ve gathered in order to retain some sense of comfort and humanity— doesn’t say anything about them. They are not draining any system or funds. We have enough to take care of them. More than enough.
It says everything about us as a country and population. That we are willing to stand by while this happens. That we are not chaining ourselves to structures and environmentalists once chained themselves to trees. That so many Americans vote in candidates who think human beings should be swept away and discarded.
It’s so easy to believe what the United States wants us to believe: that we are a country of individuals. But really, we are all interconnected and interdependent. Some of us hoard wealth. Many landlords raise rent prices because they can; not because they need the money. Landlords raise rent prices and people lose their homes, because they can’t afford to pay it despite working 40 hours a week.
That’s not right.
The decision to sweep (that’s such a gentle and misleading word) away human beings as if they are trash to be cleaned up and thrown away is inhuman and monstrous.
When I was homeless, it wasn’t other homeless folks who hurt me.
It was people with power and money.
Our independence is killing us. No one is safe when we abandon each other.
I can’t help but think that our online culture, with its Instagram stories and tweets and TikToks and Facebook posts, has lulled us into thinking we are powerless.
We aren’t.
Each of us lives in a community.
Each of us has the power to be involved in some way.
The news is overwhelming. It feels like the world is on fire. There are so many terrible things happening and we are inundated with them constantly.
But we are not powerless.
It starts where you are. Where I am. In community.
Whether that community is a physical place or an online space or friends and family across the world. It starts there. Here.
Don’t give up.
I often tell myself that my writing is activism.
In many ways, it is.
Today I received editorial notes on my memoir. It’s going to be pubished in 2025. In the book, I write about the history of fire in the United States and the oppressive gender dynamics of firefighting. I hope it changes something. I hope it has a positive impact.
And.
I want to do more. Something tangible and active. Perhaps when I get back to Tallahassee I can find a couple hours a week to volunteer my time. Time is scarce, but volunteering feels vital at this moment. What if I volunteered instead of doomscrolling? What if I found connection with my community, wherever that is. I think that feels much better than sharing an Instagram post. It definitely feels better than reading the news.
I feel so grateful that I’ve been able to teach in Honolulu this summer. It’s a gift to be here. Although I’ve been working the entire time, I’ve also rested. I’ve slept in. I’ve spent time in other’s people’s houses, caring for their sweet pets. Things are good.
That gratitude is where I want to draw my energy from. Not scarcity. Not fear. Because we have each other, and that is more than something. That is everything.
National Homelessness Law Center: https://homelesslaw.org/jvgp-scotus-decision/
I'm glad you're writing about this. Over and over I'm surprised by how easily so many people assume there are family members to help one out in a financial crisis, or struggle. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. "Maybe your parents can help you over the rough patch." Uuuuhhhh ... no. Some of us do not come from families with that capability! I'd wager that most of us don't! But that's not who controls the narrative, which makes your voice here SO important.
Amazing article. I am glad you are safe.
A few months ago an old man on the bus stop asked if he could borrow my phone while we were waiting for the bus. I dialed the number, he talked with someone for around ten minutes. The conversation was heartbreaking. I don't know who the other person was, maybe a family member, or a friend, but it didn't sound as if they were going to offer any particular help. The old man was explaining how he'd been at the hospital and hadn't eaten anything since they had let him out. He was unable to cash his disability check because the account had gone into overdraft and he didn't know how to pay his rent, which was due. He seemed so tired. As the bus came I fished out a 20$ bill and offered it as I took back my phone, saying I hope things work out. He said thank you. I think of him really often. There are more and more homeless people here in Montreal. People say 'oh well there are shelters, there are programs, they get food, they are fine'. They are not fine. We need to stop looking at other people as if they are a different species to us. None of us would be fine in that position. If our kids were in that position.