COVER STORY

Housing for the People is a column produced by the International Network of Street Papers from people on the frontlines of the housing justice movement in America and beyond. For Vicky Batcher, a regular face at The Contributor, simply liking a Facebook page set her on a road toward a roof of her own over her head.

For INSP’s Housing for the People column, she wrote about the rush of emotions that experiencing safety and security for the first time in years brought her. Her story, and others written as part of the Housing for the People series, are below.

How an affordable apartment changed my life

BY VICKY BATCHER

In the space of a weekend, my son Jason’s wife walked out, my other son Paul moved out of the RV he shared with me and in with Jason, who is also his twin.

I moved on. Soon after, a simple “like” button on Facebook turned out to change my life.

I liked the page of the Metropolitan Development and Housing Agency (MDHA), which runs Nashville’s largest housing developments, and started seeing their posts about waitlists opening up for real affordable housing, not income-restricted affordable housing. When a property came up for the waitlist to open, I felt like a runner taking the start stance. Everything was falling into place. My sons were in housing, now it was time for myself.

I filled out the online application, submitted it at the right time and waited. I had been living in that bare-bones RV, unless I was hooked up to electricity and water, which a church sometimes allowed us to do. The parks would soon be closing, and I had a little bit left over for the very first park we ever went to – 7 Points Campground. Then when I saw the first spot we ever camped, I felt it was a sign. Paul helped me hook up and off he went and there we were in the quiet of nature, relaxing. It was the final time I’d be in a park that year, or so I thought.

That next day I got a call from a number I wasn’t familiar with and hesitated to answer it. On the third ring, I thought I’d live dangerously and picked it up. I could hardly believe who was on the other end. She said her name was Erica and she was calling from MDHA. My heart just stopped. Everything came to a halt as I tried to comprehend what she was saying:

“Your name has come up on our waitlist and we have an apartment for you.”

Tears started to fill up in my eyes. Is this really happening? Would I get my hopes up like before when the tenant tried renting her duplex out in a scam? Or the many people who would contact me through the preceding seven years saying “I can rent to you” until the evictions came out. We made arrangements to meet that Monday to go over paperwork and the next day I could move in. It wasn’t until hours later I started making my list of questions, all the time knowing I didn’t care where or what it was. I was going to have a home. Monday arrived and the excitement grew until finally my ride picked me up at the church parking lot that I had called home for a few months, and off we went to Hadley Park Towers in Nashville.

After meeting with Erica and seeing the apartment, I felt this was home so went down to the office to sign the lease and make the payments. Then that moment came where she handed me the keys. It’s a moment I’ll never forget. A rollercoaster of emotions swept through every bit of my body. It was finally over. My journey of homelessness was finally over. Or was it?

That afternoon some friends helped with getting things out of the RV and down to my new apartment. My apartment. My affordable housing apartment! It was great, but also tough. I was moving to a city I lived near but never in. Nashville is big. Getting around was complicated and often filled with a lot of anxiety. I relied on friends to drive me or if that didn’t work, I’d call Access Ride. It would normally take me two days to get over the anxiety to call Access Ride, a door-to-door service WeGo provides for the disabled. It seemed like when I moved in, I was afraid to leave the apartment except to take my dog Faith, an emotional support animal, out. Writing was now my therapy, for real.

Selling The Contributor paid the rent on my apartment and other publications where I would write also paid me so I could pay up and stay ahead of the bills and anxiety. Feeling like I was put here to do more, I saw a Facebook post about needing someone with lived experience to serve on a committee and I applied.

That’s one thing I could really share, and maybe make improvements and save the lives of other people experiencing homelessness. I joined the Continuum of Care Homeless Planning Council with monthly meetings, usually through Zoom due to the pandemic. When opportunities for positions on other committees came up where I thought I could help make changes, I jumped at the chance. It was intimidating at times looking over the others that made up the council – important people, leaders in the community.

Pretty soon I started opening my mouth, which probably shocked a few thinking I might be mute. I told them about the affordable housing at MDHA, I started putting myself into the conversation and making suggestions. The financial protection of finally receiving social security was such a feeling of peace. I’m able to pay rent, cell phone and internet bills, take care of Faith’s needs and eat. After working with the Financial Empowerment Center, I’m learning to add to my savings account.

I just signed my renewal lease on my apartment for the third year. There is one thing I can count on with affordable housing – I can always pay my rent. True affordable housing is when your rent never exceeds 30 percent of your income. You can always afford it. If your income changes all you do is show them in the office and they change your rent. Ending homelessness is easy – build more true affordable housing. Nashville has done some incredible things this past year in their fight to end homelessness. Many new programs have appeared that are housing the unhoused faster than ever before. We still have a lot of work to do but we're on the right path.

Safety and security for the first time in seven years was an emotion that would take time getting used to. I was dealing with other feelings – fear, nightmares and the occasional note from the management threatening evictions if rules weren’t followed. Even though I was in compliance, that word eviction just sent chills through me. I can’t lose my apartment, I can’t. And I won’t.

“We have to go beyond people just attaining housing”

BY LARMARQUES ‘MISHA’ SMITH

For this essay for INSP’s Housing for the People column, Denver VOICE contributor Larmarques ‘Misha’ Smith writes about their journey from temporary to stable housing, their experience of shelters throughout the pandemic, and how ensuring housing is a right enjoyed by all should be done intersectionality with multiple goals in mind.

In 2010, I did a year of service with Americorps with the Homeless and Housing Coalition of Kentucky (HHCK) and the Kentucky Domestic Violence Association (KDVA). I learned a bit about homelessness, the people experiencing homelessness, and domestic violence. It gave me a new perspective which has helped me throughout my experience.

My name came up recently to receive a housing voucher from the Tenant Based Rental Assistance Program. I’d signed up for housing assistance about three years prior. Before that, I was housed because of my employer. When I lost my job, I was forced to deal with homelessness head-on.

Before the shutdown in March of 2020, I mostly slept at one of two shelters. Usually, there were two to three busloads that took us to the shelter, which amounted to about 250 people in that space.

Sometimes, I’d have to stay at a different shelter. So, when they announced they were converting part of the Western Stock Show Complex

(which I’ll refer to as the Complex) into this “all in one shelter”, for us to stay during the shutdown, I was relieved that something was finally going to be done.

At the other shelters, we could only stay overnight, and they would wake us at 5 every morning. Then, we’d have to leave and wait outside until our buses came.

It was nice to be moved to the Complex because we didn’t have to leave during the day. We had a small storage space to keep our things. Our belongings weren’t “secure”, but at least we didn’t have to take them whenever we left for the day. We could get all of our meals at the Complex. We were able to take showers, and a local non-profit provided mobile laundry services.

It was nice, for temporary housing, but I had just recently gotten a job as a barista at a coffee shop that I needed to get to early most days, so my schedule did not line up with the hours of service the Complex provided. I could not shower before work because the showers were not open, so I had to make sure I always showered the night before. The same with laundry. By the time I had to leave for work, they oftentimes would not be accepting laundry because the laundry area was not open yet. By the time I got back to the shelter after my shift, I would have already missed dinner and would have to hustle to take a shower at night before they shut them down.

We didn’t have to leave the Complex during the day, so if it was too hot or cold, we could stay. We could also take a nap if we wanted. Pre-pandemic, if I wanted to take a nap during the day, I would have to go to Saint Francis Center, one of the day shelters here in Denver, or I would take a ride on the RTD light rail back and forth until I got enough rest for me to function. It was nice for once to be able to sleep during the day in the same cot that I slept in the night before.

When the Complex first opened, we had an 11 p.m. curfew, but over time, they moved it to 8 p.m. That made it difficult because I had to take a bus to get to and from work. Sometimes, I wouldn’t be off work until 7:30 p.m., which meant I wouldn’t get to the Complex in time. Even if I had a note from work, the shelter wouldn’t let me in, so on those nights, I had to find somewhere else to sleep.

I don’t think my boss understood what it took to get to work on time. At the Complex, there were so many of us needing to catch the bus, and there was room for only so many people. Once we got to where the buses took us, we had to find a way to get to our final destinations.

At one point, I was given a bike to aid with me being at work on time. Shortly after that, I contracted COVID and had to inform my boss and fellow employees about my diagnosis, and then I had to quarantine in a designated hotel. It was the Fourth of July weekend 2020, and I was

concerned about testing positive for COVID and how this will ultimately affect me. I finished my quarantine, and my test came back negative, so I was able to return to work. And since I was immunocompromised, I was able to stay at a hotel specifically for those who are homeless and were immunocompromised for whatever reason.

Now that I’m in stable housing, I don’t have to worry about being shut out because I’ve arrived too late or wondering how I am going to pay my rent.

If we’re going to talk about housing justice, we have to go beyond people just attaining housing. Housing justice means everyone has a right to be housed; no matter their race/color, faith, or gender preference. No one should be unhoused, and everyone should be able to stay someplace where they feel safe, where they know that if they leave, their belongings are secure and will be there when they come back. Just a couple of months ago, I wasn’t in secure housing, so I know how different both experiences feel. A lot of people fail to realize that many of us are one paycheck away from being homeless – they may not be homeless right away, but a loss of income will quickly affect the rest of their lives and those of the people who live with them.

Larmarques ‘Misha’ Smith sells the Denver VOICE street paper in Colorado.

“I was homeless on the road raising a child”

BY DETROIT RICHARDS

In this deeply personal piece for INSP’s ‘Housing for the People’ column, the writer tells a story of displacement and homelessness that spans continents in an attempt to escape the horror of domestic violence and to give her child the chance of a better life, even if it meant experiencing a period of transition living outside first.

I remember leaving my apartment. I had one last long shower, put some make up on my black eye, grabbed my 7-year-old child's hand, put his backpack over his shoulders, and hauled mine onto my back.

It had taken me eighteen months to work up the courage to go — knowing I did not have another home to go to. We were living in the far east, with my dual passported husband working between there and the USA. There would be no hope that my husband would renew my visa. My child and I would both become undocumented as a result.

The violence had become frequent and extreme, causing me permanent injuries. My husband often told me he was going to kill me, and no one would care. The police in the jurisdiction did nothing to protect us.

When my husband asked me to go look at houses in Los Angeles, as his work was moving him permanently to the USA, I took the opportunity to run. I took my child out of a situation where he was constantly downtrodden and ridiculed, with abuse that was turning not just violent towards me, but towards him. I threw

us both onto an uncertain future, but one we had a better chance of surviving.

I had been homeless before. I knew what it was like to sleep outside and have no privacy. To be constantly cold and wet, or too hot and parched. I understood what it was like not to get clean or have a bathroom to use. I feared how my child was going to cope but knew anything was better than the violence we were both facing. We walked out the door and did not look back.

An old friend had a van, and lived on the road in the USA, and invited us to join him. We jumped into the small elderly class C camper van, that came to be named 'The Beast', and took off out of California, driving north up the 101. I felt simultaneously free and terrified. I figured if I kept moving around, my husband would not be able to find us. There was only one problem: we were now unhoused and penniless.

We found a space in a Walmart parking lot where a few unhoused people were staying. There was a bathroom that was open much of the day and night. We had access to water. We stayed there, for a couple of months, moving around occasionally. We tried to stay quiet and low profile. Eventually Walmart security called the cops on us. They banged on the door at 7am, screaming that we needed to get out of the parking lot immediately. Life continued like this for more than five years. Living in parking lots and campgrounds, mostly up and down the west coast.

It was a constant struggle to find a place to exist. In the summer, vacationers took all the spots in cheap campgrounds. They closed in winter. We had a tent to sleep in, as the van was small, and my friend didn't always want us living in there with him. When it was possible, I'd start a campfire and play the guitar and get my son to sing along with me trying to distract him from the situation. We would often wake up cold and wet in winter, the rain having soaked through our sleeping bags when the tent leaked. Getting clean water was a daily chore. The very basics of living became all consuming.

People never had the decency not to stare or have an opinion about my homelessness. A housed vacationer informed me and my child that we had spoiled her vacation by being unsightly.

We were often moved on from campgrounds even when we had money to pay. The shame of having to steal showers from state campgrounds sometimes became too much to bear. I had tried to ask for support, but the fact I hadn't managed to take any documentation with us when we fled made things almost impossible. I felt safer living outside than relying on people I did not know. I have no family, and at the time, I had no assistance beyond the friends who were also homeless alongside me. Obtaining a divorce proved to be impossible, even though my husband was now based in the USA.

The pandemic made it impossible to carry on. All the campgrounds closed. There were no showers or bathrooms open. We were being moved daily. It would have been so simple to let the homeless campers stay for free at state or national campgrounds, and let us socially distance that way, but the campgrounds refused to allow this, and threw out all the people who were living in tents and RVs.

We stayed in an Airbnb, paid for by a housed friend who took pity on us. I managed to find a place in a shelter in San Francisco. Eventually, we were given a hotel to get on our feet. There were beds. Hot water. Privacy. I think I must have had four showers on our first day inside. We had not slept on beds with access to a bathroom and shower since 2015.

Living outside, I could only afford to eat a few times a week. For the first time in years, I had daily access to food. After ten months in the hotel, we received a subsidy for a year and moved into a one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco. My son has just started high school and has friends. He feels like he is now part of society and has a future. I am very concerned about how I am going to be able to pay the rent, but at least for now, we have a break from being outside. The help we received saved our lives.

Detroit is a regular contributor to Street Sheet, the street paper in San Francisco, USA.