At the Homeless Shelter

Last Monday I volunteered to help the The Colorado Agency for the Homeless by working with people at the Boulder Shelter for the Homeless to complete questionnaires. It is part of a HUD program to collect baseline information about different types of homelessness and how we might best fund housing and services that help people who are homeless to become self-sufficient. The last Colorado count was on August 28 and at that point there were 11,890 homeless people counted in the state.

I spoke with two women and three men, each quite different in their situations and needs. I encountered a range of emotions including anger, frustration, anxiety, exhaustion, and cheerful acceptance. One question in the form was about what services they needed but were unable to get, and that was interesting. Almost everybody agreed that they could get food and shelter if they needed it. Employment and transportation were a different matter, and housing was a big issue, especially for the single males who are a lower priority for many agencies than the families. Some of the challenges included serious physical issues such as cancer and asthma, and equally serious mental health issues including bipolar disorder.

My brother Paul had trouble with bipolar disorder and drugs all his life, but there were also good times. He was witty, loved to play his fiddle, loved to ride his bicycle, could be a great uncle to my kids at times, carving jack o’lanterns with them at Halloween.

Toward the end it got increasingly crazy though. The bipolar ups and downs and the constant drug use in combination were too much. He was homeless for a while before he died last year, although in the last months he had managed to get “Section 8” housing – an apartment with a balcony that actually had a view of the Flatirons. He had a job for a couple of days, but they said that he was “too slow.” The whole story is too complicated to tell here. I have had tendencies to feel guilty that I didn’t help him more, although truth be told I did everything in my power and energy to help him over many years. In talking to the people the other night at the Shelter I realized how very fortunate he had been to get the housing and the opportunity to change his unemployed situation. Nevertheless, he died of a methadone overdose last May.

When we went with the detective who was investigating his death to clear out his apartment, we found it occupied by a cadre of homeless young men and women who had no idea he had even died, but knew they had a place to sleep and had been taking advantage of it. The cop was seriously unamused to find them there. He called for backup and then lined them up for questioning along the balcony, all eight of them. At first it seemed sinister or scary, and I thought perhaps one of them was to blame for my brother’s death. But as I spoke with them it became clear that most of them were just lost people trying to get by, with their own family and drug and mental health issues, who had perhaps benefited from my brother’s hospitality in the past and had no idea what had happened. When they were told, I could see they were sad and upset.

So...why are people homeless? There is no one reason, no one to blame, but one thing is clear; there is no simple or consistent answer, and assumptions help nobody.