COMMENTARY | We try everything to look "not homeless" to humanize our struggle
There are people walking around downtown Portland every day who presently are or once were homeless. You would never know based on their appearance. I am one of those people.
An investigation by The Oregonian revealed that unhoused people made up 52 percent of arrests in 2017. Far too much of the time and tax dollars spent by Portland’s law enforcement in 2017 was devoted to nonviolent, addiction-related and other low-priority infractions. I was homeless for most of 2017, and the specter of imprisonment for being poor was very real. To look “not homeless” is not merely a matter of pride, but also survival.
To look “not homeless” meant looking like I had money. I carried only what I could fit in a backpack. I never carted a sleeping bag or extra duffel. I definitely never carried anything but food in plastic bags. Above all, I never carried a garbage bag. Doing any of the above would have painted a target on my back for harassment by cops and branded a scarlet letter on my chest, ensuring avoidance by fellow citizens/store owners. Like many other houseless citizens, I sought sanctuary at the Central Library and Portland State University. I could pass for a student or patron of the arts.
I usually showered three times a week. I had to take opportunities where I could; otherwise, I had to go without. Remaining unwashed and smelly, again, meant unwanted attention.
Dad had a single room occupancy (SRO) apartment at the Patton Home. I could clean up there, for a while, but once the manager got wind of me doing so, she enforced an ostensibly pre-established regulation that guests could not shower while visiting residents. After that, I could only cajole Dad into allowing me to bathe maybe once a week. He only consented when the manager or custodial staff were off shift or otherwise occupied. Doing so meant he risked losing his own housing.
The unfortunate reality of poverty is desperation. Warm food, clean water, shelter, safety and hygiene are customary privileges for most people in the United States. When was the last time you missed your morning routine for a few days out of necessity? For people in poverty, however, these basic needs are never guaranteed.
I showered at shelters only as a last resort because some of my peers would take clothing, shoes and anything of durable value if they had no immediate alternative; acts of desperation. Shelters are afforded only the bare minimum when it comes to amenities because ending homelessness is an unpopular cause. So, I had no safe place to stash my belongings when attending to my hygiene. If I wanted to clean up at a shelter, I had to keep one eye on my gear while keeping soap from dripping into it. Tricky and only viable if I wasn’t already exhausted.
I rarely sat down to a hot meal in a safe place; certainly not in any place I felt at home. When I was alone, I bought meals exclusively at grocery stores and only if they had inside seating and accepted food stamps. I ate outside only in picnic weather. And when I did, I made sure I was at Pioneer Square or a public park during the day so as not to draw law enforcement’s attention.
Other times, if I could manage my PTSD symptoms and I had someone with me, I would patronize the often-crowded Sisters of the Road Cafe. We could buy healthy, hot meals for a buck and a quarter. They accepted food stamps and barter labor. We were waited on and treated with respect. Sisters of the Road ascribes to “gentle personalism.” As they put it, “Gentle personalism is profoundly about love.”
Free meals seem segregated to acceptable “poverty sectors,” however. Most meals are offered at the shelters, usually along Burnside in Old Town. I worry the programs there may be priced out by gentrification someday.
I was lucky to have family that still loved and supported me regardless of my income. Many houseless folks – especially the elderly and people with severe mental illnesses – are not. When my food stamps ran out, I could count on Dad for a sandwich or hot breakfast. When he had the money, we would go out to coffee and see a movie. Those days I felt the most legitimate like I was finally a part of the larger community again.
I saw other people use disguises similar to mine, although more nuanced. A couple of men I knew from the Portland Rescue Mission wore full suits, tie and jacket included. They each had only one such outfit and they meticulously cleaned them every day. One of the two gentlemen even had a briefcase. Perhaps they had jobs that required formal wear, but they returned to the shelter every night.
Dresses and blouses clogged the donation area at the Rescue Mission. However, most women I observed preferred work clothes often miscategorized as men’s apparel because they were baggy and durable. More than a few shaved their heads too. I can’t say for certain, but I imagine many of them feared the added risk of sexual assault.
Conversely, I have additional layers of biological camouflage. I am a large, white male, so I passed through psycho-social barriers without detection. I have never bunked down in a doorway worried someone might sexually assault or harass me. Additionally, I walked unimpeded through stores and other public places without concern for racial profiling. Provided I kept clean and unencumbered by additional belongings, I could sometimes purchase food, sit in a coffee shop and even get away with using the bathroom without buying anything.
People living outside are shuffled to the margins of society then blamed for falling off the edge. They send police to confine us, sanitizing the public conscience and keeping us out of your neighborhood. We ride public transit to the farthest terminals. We hide in Forest Park or the deep, undeveloped areas of the suburbs. We squat in empty houses and unused industrial areas. Yet, once found out, “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore ... the homeless, tempest-tost” are arrested, hospitalized or segregated in shelters. Portland’s “cesspool” is ruthlessly cleaned by police sweeps, but the baby gets thrown out with the bath water.
We are your neighbors, sons and daughters, grandchildren and grandparents. We try everything to look like you – not homeless – to humanize our struggle. We have a right to exist, unimpeded by prejudicial fears. Homelessness is inconvenient to store owners and commuters, but it is a life-and-death struggle for those citizens living through it. We are doing so much just to survive, just to get by.
Please, educate yourselves about the underlying causes of poverty, rather than judging on appearance. Engage in dialogue with us. I challenge you to take an elderly homeless person to lunch with you. These are creative, compassionate solutions to our mutual dilemma that are waiting for your talent and input. If you can’t contribute your time or money, at least use your voice to change the law instead of calling the cops.
If you see a person acting unusual in public and you don’t know what to do, call the County Crisis Line before you call 911:
Multnomah County Crisis Line
503-988-4888
Washington County Crisis Line
503-291-9111
This series is a first-hand account of the struggles and successes of overcoming trauma, mental illness, addiction, homelessness and more.
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