I’ve experienced homelessness and it is unacceptable. That’s why I’m a YIMBY.
By: Angela Griffin
Tags: Homelessness, Housing, Bay Area, San Francisco

I struggled with drug use at one point in my life, and on several occasions, I became homeless as a direct result of my drug use. Before I dive into the meat of this article, which I hope will compel you to join YIMBY, I need to make it crystal clear that not all homeless people are homeless because of drug use.

Besides experiencing homelessness, I have close to 20 years of working as a case manager in San Francisco, providing direct social services to one of those cities’ most disenfranchised communities, the tenderloin. As a case manager, I have worked with clients who were homeless for many reasons. Some of my clients were homeless due to losing a job, and not being able to afford the rent any longer. Some of my clients were victims of domestic violence and had to flee the home for safety. I have worked with clients whose mental health issues contributed to their homlessness. The list goes on and on. My friend Angie B told me, “I had to leave, he would not stop hitting me; He was going to kill me if I had stayed.” In all my years of being a case manager, and my experience being homeless, I have met very few people who outright just chose to be homeless.

I also want to dispel the myth that homeless people are bad people, whatever that means. I have met some incredible people in both San Francisco and Oakland who took shelter nightly in tents, an assembly of cardboard boxes, a doorway, a bus stop, abandoned homes, under the bridge, and at times the sidewalk. If you have ever been downtown SF, you have undoubtedly seen someone laid out in the middle of the block on Market Street. These are the people who do not have homes. That is it, and that’s all. They are good people in a bad situation. Such a person was my friend Poet.

During my first experience of being homeless on the streets of San Francisco, I met Poet. One late night after being up smoking crack for four straight days, I walked down the Minna Street alley looking for someone with a crack pipe. I had broken my pipe moments earlier. I had crack, alcohol, and cigarettes, which significantly increased my chances of being provided a pipe. On the streets, when you need something it’s best that you have something. So back to how I met Poet; halfway down the block, I stopped and asked this Black man, who was sweeping the sidewalk, if he smoked crack. He said, “sometimes.” I asked if he had a pipe. He said, “in my tent.” I asked him if I could pay him $20 to use his pipe and smoke in his tent. He responded, “absolutely.” After he had finished sweeping, we walked to his tent. In his tent in the middle, there were layers and layers of comforters that served as the bed. There was clothing neatly folded on one side of the tent along with shoes, and books. On the other side, he had crates of food in ziplock bags, gallons of water and more books. There was also a briefcase next to his bed. The space was tight, but it was clean and comfortable.

I took a seat on the bed, smoked two cigarettes, and drank vodka while Poet looked for the pipe. He found it after looking for it for 15 minutes, which seemed like a year. I took it and loaded it up with crack. I took a hit and then passed the pipe to him. He and I smoked crack, drank vodka, and smoked cigarettes for hours. I shared with him that I had recently relapsed, and he said, “shit happens, you will be okay”.

It was during this time that I came to know that Poet was close to 70. I was shocked. He looked no older than 60. He also shared with me that he was from Texas, like myself, and had served in Vietnam. He also shared with me that he was a poet, and that’s why the people took to calling him Poet. Soon my body and mind became more interested in sleeping than getting high. I started to drift off and Poet asked me how long I had been up, and I told him 4 days and he suggested firmly that I needed to sleep, assuring me that I was safe. I took him up on his offer. His bed and pillows were heaven to my crack- and alcohol- ravaged mind and body. Before falling into a deep sleep, Poet gave me food and water. I ate two chicken sandwiches and four oranges before falling into a deep sleep.

I slept for three straight days, only waking to eat and take a pee on the sidewalk. Poet was a good man. I came to know him as the no nonsense man he was who demanded respect. Poet had a reputation of not being the one you wanted to fuk with. The alley he lived in became very active and chaotic with drug users at night. Poet had been in that alley for over five years; he was the shot caller in that alley. He was the 5 star general that kept the chaos in that alley at a minimum. He was like the Mayor of that alley; even the police officers respected him. After that initial visit I visited Poet at least 10 other times. We would smoke crack, drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes and talk for hours on end; but we never talked about his family, his time in Vietnam, how he had ended up in California, what his life was like before homelessness, or how he had become homeless. But what I do know about Poet is that he was one of the most respectful, courteous, caring, and generous men I have ever met. Several years ago, I asked someone about Poet and was told that he had died. I wonder if he was able to access housing before he died. I surely hope so.

Living on the streets is treacherous and very depressing. Imagine not having access to a toilet or a kitchen. Imagine every time you leave your house, you are concerned that someone may come in and take your things. That was Poet’s fear. Every time he went somewhere, he took his briefcase. That briefcase held the poems that he had written. Those poems in that briefcase were his most valuable asset, and he did not want to have them stolen.

I surely hope that he had access to stable, affordable, and safe housing before he died, a place where he could safely keep his most valued possessions, his poems. He deserved that. He was a good guy. Now I am not saying that good people deserve housing and others don’t. What I am saying is that homeless people are not always who you may think they are. And damn, what if they are? Does that mean they don’t deserve a stable, affordable, and safe place to call home? No. Everyone deserves stable, affordable, and safe housing. Providing stable affordable and safe housing is clearly the humanitarian thing to do.

Then there was Victoria. Victoria had severe mental health issues and was a severe alcoholic. She had been homeless for close to 10 years. Her place of residence was one of the alleys off 6th street in San Francisco. Her daily routine was to get very drunk, fight with someone about something, and pass out, most often in her wheelchair. Several years ago she died in one of the alleys on Sixth Street, in a tent. Her death was sad enough; however, knowing that she died as she slept in a tent alone just made her death even more painful. I remember that morning I found out that she had died. My first thought was ‘damn it was freezing last night’. No one should have to die in a tent on a frigid night in San Francisco.

Homelessness is unacceptable. The rent is too high, and the zoning laws are riddled with exclusionary values and principles that prohibit affordable housing. The lack of affordable housing fuels homelessness. Where is the humanity in that? There is none. Everyone who wants housing should be able to access housing that is affordable and safe.

That is why I wholeheartedly support YIMBY. I trust that YIMBY will move this country toward being more equitable, and inclusionary by advocating for policy changes that will open doors to affordable housing, particularly in areas that have restricted the building of affordable housing. I trust that YIMBY will be a valuable asset in the movement to end homelessness. It can be done. If you believe in this too, and you think that Poet, Victoria, Angie B, and everyone else who struggles with housing security deserves a better life, join the YIMBY movement: yimbyaction.org/join.