Inexplicable?

It is unacceptable that such conditions exist, and that so many are allowed to fall so low. To sleep outside, no matter the weather, while churches, temples and mosques shutter their doors to keep them out. So much of the most passionate and inspiring writing remains relegated to the comments sections of social media activists. Why aren’t the professional media people trumpeting this humanitarian crisis? Inexplicable….maybe not. It could be that the media has done all they are entrusted to do, and have done it well. 

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There is no shortage of intimate and revealing photographs of want and despair, degradation and madness. Stories, too. What is left is for the municipalities and business interests to marshall the resources and strategies to end the scourge. The scourge– in broad terms, that’s how it feels when considering the ubiquity of urban squalor that has taken root. Those out there in the streets, alleys and cars tonight, who have navigated the social services and judicial systems only to land back on their feet in pretty much the same place, wonder when will real change will come …

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#oneofusarts #oneofus 

“I trusted people too much because of my Christian religion. People would just take advantage and advantage and advantage of me and say, ‘trust me, trust me, I’m a Christian also and lend me, oh I see that you have great credit, but my credit is bad. Can I borrow your social security number?’ This was an escrow lady that’s living in one of my houses right now. Well, it’s her house now. I had sold to her and because of my good credit, she was able to buy my house, but before she could transfer her name over to my name, when the market crashed and everything, she stopped paying me. So the banks were foreclosing on me, not on her, even though I had already sold her the house. It was a big, big mess, a big paper mess. Everything was done crooked.”

* Robert “Bobby” Delgado

Art for art’s sake

Linda Zazanis has a need and ability to continue producing her nail polish-brushed canvases, knick-knacks and jewelry in the face of obstacles that are discouraging and sometimes outrageous. Those in the community who are aware and supportive of her can recognize the use of color and abstract creations as more than therapeutic.  

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Linda keeps a small black bag containing tiny bottles of many colors, some glittery, and she delights in showing off a new shade of green brought to her by a friend like Gracie in their camp. Her studio, as it were, is under the cover of a tarpaulin that shelters her from the elements. It’s a cluttered place to live and work,  and one that has been torn down and rebuilt more times than I can count in the last year. Few in the camp can put together a shanty like Linda’s.

Late last year, when the city sent a garbage truck to clean up what was deemed as an overabundance of personal property cluttering up a public space, Linda was not on site to salvage or protect her possessions, and along with a lot of other items not considered by her to be expendable were several of her artworks—finished canvases, and most of the jewelry, statuettes and other items she had been collecting. Linda, having survived on the streets for enough years to learn how to balance toughness with grace, is rarely prone to total despair, but during the conversation printed below she became understandably emotionally when explaining how the lost artwork affected her.

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So they took some of your artwork? What happened?

“They took it. They took it all. For two years I’ve been doing my artwork. For two years I’ve been collecting jewelry, so I could open a store. In January, ok, I had two of the counselors from LA Family Housing that were my helpers, that were willing to go and say that I was highly recommended to get this loan. Ok? I was going in January. I was ready for it and sanitation took it all. I mean, took my future. I tried for two years to get up out of here and it’s like now I’m right back where I started. It’s been 15 years, come on, give me a break! A person doesn’t try that hard and work as hard as I have, 18 hours a day, 7 days a week, to try and get out of here if they didn’t want to get out of here, get out of this situation. They wouldn’t do it. They’d say “Hey screw it!”

There was a three-day notice, but I wasn’t in town. And then I had some of my stuff over there and then this police officer comes up to me, and I had five carts sticking out, and he said, “How many carts are you going to take” and I said “Well, I’m gonna take all of my carts.” And he said, “No you’re not. You’re taking two.” You know? I mean who are you to tell me after everything I’ve done for the last two years, to get out of here? Who are you to put me back at the bottom? By taking everything I own that was of value, that meant anything to me”

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Canvases donated by friends and well-wishers have allowed Linda to resume her work.

“ … you know, when you don’t have income… and now at 62 I can’t get a job, because I’m too old. You know? So, I tried… well, you know, somebody said ‘Linda, you know so much about jewelry, and about stones, and about emeralds, and about metals, when it comes to jewelry. Why don’t you try and open up your own store?’ And I have a friend, there’s a couple, that are real good friends of mine, and we all recycle and we have all found, beautiful, wonderful, expensive valuable things. And a lot of them aren’t valuable, but they’re beautiful and they’re still able to be sold. So, I was going to open a store and then that went into the trash. And they put it in a trash truck. A smelly, stinky, dirty trash truck. That goes around down the street and….and puts… you know, empties the blue bins and the black bins, and you know all of the bins that are in front of your house. That’s what they put our stuff in and then they want… you know, they say you have 30 days to go pick it up, by appointment. Get ‘em to answer the phone.”

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Most of the artworks in this last series of photographs were lost…

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“Anyway, she was all white when I got her and I happened to just start, you know, messing around with nail polish and painting, and trying to get a little color on her. And people were commenting and saying ‘Wow that’s beautiful.’ You know? And so I decide to paint her dress all black and I built her hat up to make it look like it had a feather on it. There was a lot and the thing that is so hard… I was gonna have my grand opening at night and I was going to auction her off for a shelter for single women. It was gonna go for good.”

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art & kindness

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Breaking down the current and enduring situation for our friends at the 405, life seems to have a taken on semblance of normalcy for the inhabitants of the camp along the northbound on-ramp. Of course “normalizing” the lifestyle is an absurd temporal trick the campers might seek solace in, and a dangerous fallacy the rest of society do better to discard. Linda’s stock response to any question of whether there’s been any new problems with city or state officials is a fatalistic and annoyed “not yet.” She has gotten her mojo back after receiving some small canvases from a friend, starting to produce new nail polish paintings. There is talk of having a little show at the nearby #North Valley Caring Services site soon, and I hope I am not making promises I can’t keep when telling Linda we would like to feature her artwork and profile on social media, ideally to her benefit.

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Meanwhile three very kind high school students stopped by with supplies for the camp; water, snacks, that sort of thing. There seems to be enough of that goodwill in the air to keep the stomachs and sometimes the hearts full. The girls expressed their desire to work with any local community agencies in the area…

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reflections

bottom line

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Resources. Shopping carts and tarps, cardboard and polythene. Often-dirty blankets, especially in this weather. Another rainy night in store for our friends and others outdoors. Chronic homelessness is an apt title for the living conditions of thousands of human beings. Not unlike the conditions of refugees and other marginalized populations, as they work the days and survive the nights, frustrating thoughts of the glacial pace of real change in their situations are dulled by the relentlessness and the seeking of stress relief. Good humor doesn’t exactly abound, but is in evidence rain or shine. Who can say– maybe it is not so much an indictment of the officials and advocates and charities who are at least trying, but of society as a whole. Structural issues need to be reconsidered, but for that to be recognized society has to consider all priorities. It does come down to resources. Unless a person has made this kind of living a lifestyle choice, and is on a permanent campout …

Dori

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When I first met and spoke with Dori last August at the St. Charles Borromeo Church in North Hollywood, the most enduring impression was her cheerfulness in the face of great hardship. As her story printed below testifies, Dori’s life was shattered by a tragic fate, a brain aneurism which derailed her dreams, put her at death’s door, and still affects her physically and otherwise…   

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Revisiting Dori’s story today, after finally locating her cluttered but homey RV (a camper shell) parked for now on a residential North Hollywood street, I’m struck by how little she talked about her early career in music. She had told me about a song she had once written that was included in a high-profile movie soundtrack, but not much more. Today she shared an old CD which contained that song and five other well-written and produced tracks, recorded by the band she sang and played keyboards in. The music is lovely, her voice sweet and strong. As she sang along with the CD, it was still her song, still her voice. Dori also took out an old 11x14 portfolio that held several high-quality black and white portraits of her in those salad days, portraits of a beautiful and sensitive artist. There were also pictures taken with Rick James, Gary Wright and other luminaries of that era. Most surprising, among the memorabilia stuffed in the side pockets of the portfolio, was a card (a love letter really) written to her by Prince. It’s envelope also held a color Polaroid of Dori and the legend, taken sometime in the late-70s before he hit superstardom. She mused about selling it to some collector, but seems to have decided that in spite of her dire straits, it’s not worth it. 

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“Because of my aneurism I might forget some of the things you ask me, My name is Dori, my age is 58. Before I had a brain aneurism, I owned a spa called the Oasis Day Spa in Studio City and we did facials, massage, nails. I had about ten employees and I was working about eight days a week. And I think the stress of it all just got to my head. One night I was working in my studio at home and writing music and then I suddenly started to feel lightheaded so I went down to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and I saw this black blood that was under my skin and I had white circles through my eyes, then I just fainted and then went in a coma from that point.

I was in the hospital when I woke up … I came out of that stroke and was like ‘okay I have to get back to work.’ You know, I was telling everybody I’ve got to get to my spa because I just started it four years prior and I really wanted it to do well. And it was, and I was very busy that day, so my receptionist kept calling me and she said you always answer the phone so what’s the matter with you Dori?  So she came to my house and found me in bed with the two dogs next to the bed lying there and I couldn’t move so she called the ambulance and they took me into the hospital and said that I was experiencing a brain aneurism.

Actually I could talk or think about what people were saying but I couldn’t respond. So that was what the scene was all about for three weeks. They were going to take me off life support and then Greg, my ex-husband, came up to me and said Dori, I want you to know that it’s okay if you go but if you want you can stay. But they are going to take you off life support so you need come to and give me a sign that you are going to come to so I squeezed his hand and he said ‘I think she’s awake come on in,’ and they all came running in saying ‘yep she’s out of the coma,’ so get it out so we can get her going.

Now I didn’t have my business because it had died probably a couple months before I was out of the coma because they just didn’t know how to keep it running you know, which I understand. So that died and then I had a house that was going to have to be put up for sale, which I went bankrupt on. So I went into bankruptcy from that, and then I got an apartment, which I could afford because I was babysitting dogs on the side too as well as getting money from the government.

And then the rents went up and from there I lived in a house on Irvine. For six years I rented a room and he let my dogs in and let me do music and everything so it was fine but then he decided he wanted to sell the house. And when he sold the house, looking at rents and stuff and how much they are, it was so expensive I couldn’t afford it. So I got an RV. And that’s where I live now, in the RV. Since probably, six months now. The police say that neighbors are complaining occasionally because I was living with a guy that we’d fight a lot. And so he’s gone now thank God. I got a ticket the other day for being there for more than three days because the police had come. 

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I love the homeless people that I meet. To me it’s like another family you know, it’s a good family and the food is good that we get too because we can go to different places everyday and get fed. So that’s helpful. I’ve never been homeless, I never ever thought I would even be in this position. I get money from the government. Every month I get like $889 for disability. And then I’ll house-sit on the side and (watch) animals you know, which brings in a little cash. And that’s really what I live on. Six hundred of it is already spent with the storage that I have and that kind of thing.

My family, both my parents died and my sisters, one lives in Nashville and the other one I’m not sure where she lives. They don’t even know. Because I don’t know if they know how expensive rents are …

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Yeah it would be nice if I could write a hit song, that would be good. That’s about what I want to do now. And I have a whole studio setup. I’m trying to get the electricity so I can plug it in and work on my keyboards. But I’ve got 15 songs that I wrote on my own that are pretty good.”

Mama Gloria Kim

Extraordinary encounter this morning with “Mama” Gloria Kim of the Zion Gospel Mission, who we first saw praying from a mountaintop in Griffith Park, facing the Pacific Ocean. Squeezing my arm as I escorted the 70+ year old former nurse down the steep trails of Mt. Hollywood (after she conceded that her legs aren’t as steady as they once were), I learned that she has been delivering fresh vegetable soup and other foodstuffs to the homeless in MacArthur Park for the past 27 years. Reaching the bottom, she held our hands up for an extended prayer in the Observatory parking lot, then climbed into her van (loaded with bagels and bananas) for today’s mission work. I hope to see her again….

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Relentless

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Linda’s art making continues, despite having had most of her artworks trashed during a series of clean-ups by the city

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Necessity dictated that Gracie would have to panhandle to eat, so out she went to the ramp, damn it all…

The winter storms of 2017 have been a blessing for California, a succession of cold and heavy rains finally breaking the grip of several years of drought-like conditions. We can relax a bit, knowing there will no longer be a need to closely monitor our lawn-watering quotients and other givens, at least for the time being. On the other hand, those unlucky enough to be living outdoors are that much more uncomfortable and disadvantaged. So we find the fraternity of 405/Nordhoff, right back where they were swept up from and jailed less than a month earlier, but now banned from at least taking refuge under the expansive, concrete freeway bridge. “Where else are we supposed to go?” Linda asks with exasperation. The group is holding it together through ingenuity, teamwork (yes), and the resolve to endure. To think of them by this time as anything less than a family is unfair. 

Craig, Terry and Amy, lacking tents or even the materials to put up structures as sound as Linda and Gracie right now, spent the night under a narrow awning against the windows of the businesses that share the space with 7-11. The owner of the Thai restaurant was good enough not to be any more direct than was warranted when telling them it was time to open soon and they would have to remove their possessions– which included bikes and shopping carts– from the vicinity. So it was done with the help of Manny Flores of the local North Valley Caring Services, who arrived with red backpacks stuffed with tarps, food and plenty of warm winter wear. 

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Craig, always the most demonstrative, was profuse in his thanks for a new winter coat, a big improvement over the jacket which had left him, in Terry’s words, “shaking like a wet mouse… without teeth.” He said it with a smile and a cuff on the shoulder, everyone feeling a bit better banding together holding hot coffee. Craig gets good-natured ribbings like this from the others at times, like the  brother who is not above being teased. Manny called a contact he had at the Mission Hills Police to see if the ban on sleeping under the bridge could be relaxed until the rains passed. He reported that yes, he had been told that officers would not press the matter. Everyone seemed skeptical, with Craig relating loudly that Officer Diaz had been emphatic that there were no ifs, ands or buts about it. Everyone seems to believe that it is just this particular bridge that is off-limits, though no one wants to relocate to the Plummer underpass a half-mile north, where there are no freeway ramps and anyway it’s a huge ordeal to move that far, especially in this weather. 

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The recent incarcerations weigh heavily on the group, and Linda, living almost snugly now after combatting leakages all night, was content to stay put. She and Gracie both have small candles burning in their tarp-roofed abodes. They were both indoors this morning as the latest torrents beat down; Linda contentedly back at work painting small objects with glittery nail polish, pleased with a news shade of green Gracie recently brought her. Gracie herself was more restive, managing to put on a welcoming, friendly face for me when I stuck my head in. Noticeably feeling the weather, she told me she had been in custody for an entire week, due to what she alluded might have been a harsher judgment than some others received … Meanwhile Mike, under the awning with the other guys, vented boldly that he would like nothing more than to take a swing at the officer who had locked him up. 

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A more thorough report would provide the reader with details of the health conditions of this group. Though much younger than either Linda or Gracie, Amy’s situation is the most dire at the moment. She had taken shelter inside Jack-in-the-Box this morning, suffering from the flu and now, according to Terry, determined to kick her habit. A lot of negative influence and peer pressure from others in their realm will continue to make that a difficult proposition, Terry knows. 

Stigma & chagrin

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Much of society ends up treating the marginalized outdoor people differently in ways that are, intentionally or not, dehumanizing and sometimes even darkly comical.  Our culture dictates that there can not be enough collective will and inspiration to find solutions that outweigh the costs; how can the average citizen, not to mention those who live tangled in safety nets, be expected to understand the intractable economic inequalities and social injustices this breeds? 

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Most self-respecting homeless folks in the San Fernando Valley know about the generous feasts offered at St. Nicholas Episcopal Church in Encino. Photography is not allowed at the Tuesday night dinners, I learned from a tall, deep-voiced gentleman who sidled over to me with the muted warning. Minutes later a young, fit man with slicked black hair, matching black clothes and a plastic-coated identification badge pinned to his pocket approached me with the demeanor of a no-nonsense bodyguard.  Without a greeting, I was told to delete whatever photographs I had taken. With some impatience he immediately offered to delete them himself. Instead, like an idiot photographer I told him I knew how to operate my equipment, and showed him the few randomly composed snapshots I had taken of the crowded room. He was about to repeat his order when I told him why I was there. His tune changed quickly upon learning that I had come mainly to introduce myself to the pastor and learn about the dinners. He seemed as skeptical as he was apologetic when telling me that he had thought I was one of the “clients.” I imagine he had been watching me mill around the crowded dining room, chatting, maybe acting a bit too comfortable. When, as sometimes happens, I’ve been mistaken for a member of the homeless community, I find it disconcertingly humanizing. Orders to delete my photographs ceased.

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Attention turned to Shane, in his 40′s a playful, lunkish Bill Murray kind of guy I met at a community breakfast at the North Valley Caring Services months earlier. We had a jolly reunion under the circumstances, until cold water was thrown on it when Shane himself was admonished, even though this was several minutes since he had used his own cellphone camera to make a selfie of us. The friendly Polish-American with the bull neck and shoulders didn’t take kindly to what seemed at the moment an unnecessarily strict rule. He snapped back, keeping himself in check though fuming, and for a moment could not be placated. “It’s OK,” I offered to the guard in our mutual confusion, “he’s my friend.” As though my credibility overrode Shane’s violation of the no-photography rule.

The guard, or whatever his official role is, was only reacting to the stresses that come with experience and knowing that Shane was just one of many in the room of 200+ experiencing emotional trauma and other issues, some bubbling under the surface, some on full display. The room was loud, conversations flowing freely, as men and women enjoyed a warm meal and a few hours indoors. Keeping the lid on is likely part of the job description, resulting in the occasional heavy-handed rebuke or warning … One can begin to understand why such a large percentage of homeless people prefer life outdoors to shelter systems and other institutional oversights. I compartmentalize the sadness of remembering Nancy, who when returning to meet us at a church breakfast where we were working on portraits and interviews last summer, met a harsh rebuke. Entering a side hall from the dining area, the aging, still proud southern former debutante was humiliated after being scolded for entering a section of the building that was off-limits. Weeping, she complained about being treated like “retarded kindergartners.” Goes with the territory sometimes, to be filed under tough love.

In an effort to mollify Shane and diffuse the situation, our guard leant in and apologized. Like a finger snap Shane was on his feet going for a hug. Life is  better these days, he told me. Turns out he has found employment again as a waiter, something he had talked about enthusiastically months earlier. He’s met Wayne Gretzky at his Malibu café, and later texted a selfie he took with a game Cindy Crawford. Still homeless. 

Listen to an interview with Shane, from August 2016.

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the junkie slip

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“Most addicts will have similar stories – they are victims of rape, child abuse, and all manner of horrors. Many lack even the barest chance to get help, or any kind of family. I think what many fail to realise is that every man and woman has a breaking point. I’m no longer homeless, yet to this day it upsets me to see people ignore the homeless rather than give them money ‘to spend on drugs.’ If you’re going to be generous, if you’re that lucky to be able to do so, then do it without moral judgement. Those who use drugs will stop when they are able to, not when they run out of money.”

                                   * John Doe, from an article in The Guardian

Update (Jan. 10-11) A chance meeting with Rachel and Rebecca on Sepulveda Boulevard provided some insight into what transpired back on December 30, and the fate of some of the principles…. it appears that the proverbial last straw was not a wheelchair-bound man’s tumble off the curb, but an incident in which one of the heroin users in the vicinity was found lounging in a folding chair on the makeshift patio her group had constructed on the southbound onramp, nodding out with a needle sticking out of her arm. Just then, if the story is to be believed, the local politician and their arch nemesis (and this is odd– everybody has stories about this man but none know his name or actual title)– happened by with a Caltrans worker. He allegedly vowed then and there to clean up the area once and for all. He had been raging and blustering threats to the campers for a long time, even, I was told by a Caltrans supervisor, considering having the homeless sprayed with a high-powered hose. So the signs that went up in early December, which were followed by the issuing of tickets, turned out to be not a bluff but a definitive strategy for clearing the area. Craig, at least from a pragmatic standpoint seemed impressed. “He said he was going to do it, and wow, he really did it!” What, how and with whom exactly our mystery protagonist did it with remains unclear, and could be the subject of some real investigative journalism, if such a thing still exists at the local level. 

Contradicting what I overheard one officer explain on the day of the eviction, that if they had followed the law closer and not blocked the sidewalks during the daytime, they might have stayed, within the strictures of the existing and inconsistently enforced laws regarding camping on city property, authorities recently nipped in the bud any thoughts of re-establishing the camp, naysaying two small domiciles that had already sprung up on the sidewalk under the bridge again. One might have been Gracie’s, and the other one was Craig’s, identifiable by the large propane tank he insists on keeping for warmth, even though he has set a few accidental fires with it already, burning his own legs and hands in the process. Fireballs have been seen rising from his quarters, miniature mushroom clouds, Rebecca recalled with some alarm. 

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The words “no loitering” and “no soliciting” on “the entire block” on the signs planted with jackhammers in the sidewalks on both sides of the street indicate to Craig that the actual letter of the law (which allows citizens to sleep on city property between 9pm and 6am) no longer applies to bridges in general, or maybe just this city block under this this particular bridge. Still, just as plants sprout from the cracks, they are here. Craig, Mike and Terry are working the ramps again, while Amy reportedly just got out, Rebecca explained, because she had threatened suicide upon incarceration, but was inexplicably not sent for evaluation until after she was released from her cell several days later. Craig tells me that the two folks I had encountered scavenging under the bridge in the aftermath of the crackdown were wanted by the law, homeless grifters at least. They cannot be trusted at all, the word is out;  in this subterranean world, there is a code of ethics, honor in poverty, even among thieves if survival dictates. 

These days Gracie and Craig are waxing philosophically about their predicament. Craig has helped his friend and ally realize and accept that the way their presence affects property values and such makes their claims that this is “their turf” moot. Powerless they may be, but cleverness, luck, stoic determination and whatever lubricants can oil the joints between these variants are the currency. In the cold late afternoon gloom of this remarkable winter, unconcerned that President Obama would in a short time make his farewell address to the nation from Chicago, Craig boasted that he never got the stay-away order the others received, and is free to eke out his living and feed his habit with some sense of security. I ran into him just two days after seeing him in handcuffs, when he was the first one back on location. He explained how he parlayed a severe heroin withdrawal into an early, unconditional release. Showing a “get out of jail” card he was given by a police officer (really a standard-issue business card), he explained how he has been befriended and somewhat buttressed psychologically by the police, asked to at least help keep an eye out for the grifters, (still in the vicinity and sneaking in a few ramp shifts now and then).  Officer Diaz in particular, who heads the homeless task force in the area, has been supportive, compassionate and reasonable with him, and is willing to take an “out of sight out of mind approach” to his transience as long as he stays out from under the bridge, no ifs ands or buts, rain or shine. Get a tent, that’s advisable. 

Sitting on a deflated rubber mattress along the fence on the wide expanse of concrete that borders the northbound ramp, he spoke frankly about his heroin addiction. Craig assured me that unlike others in the area he was not a “junkie,” that is to say not all-consumed by the narcotic. Still, his need for the drug and a general sense of independence makes him, like so many others, reluctant to surrender to the strict regulations of cold-weather shelters. He spoke without a trace of desperation, buoyed by comments made to him by officers and others. He is a capable person. There are some people who would like to see him rise up out of his predicament. He appreciates that his better angels, and his intellect and reasoning skills are recognized, and that he is not considered a hopeless case.

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Scratching the surface is the layer of inquiry that still seems too much like voyeurism, not leading to any solutions quickly enough. The prospects seem glacial.  Society definitely needs to put a higher premium on finding lasting solutions to poverty and neglect.  

A Bitter End

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It was a harsh and dehumanizing end to the encampment, inevitable under the circumstances. 

A garbled, hurried text message from Gracie, before she was put in handcuffs clutching only her phone and an avocado, informed me that the police were on site at the 405 & Nordhoff. Linda had already been taken away and others were also being detained while officers and Caltrans workers moved in to clear the area once and for all. That the bottom fell out of their tenuous little community settlement was not surprising. A miniature skid row had formed in the vacuum created by lack of cohesive and comprehensive policy. Proper intervention requires compassion for those members of the public often derided as bottom-feeders, and are in fact survivalists hindered by their own impoverishment, vices and bleak prospects. The sidewalks had become unbearably overcrowded and filthy, with trash piling up in bags and pooling up in loose piles against the walls. There were as many as 8-10 separate makeshift living quarters in use, and complaints from residents had increased. Students from nearby Monroe High School and other pedestrians were finding it increasingly difficult to pass. The tipping point, according to accounts from both the campers and the police I spoke to, occurred when a man in an electric wheelchair could not navigate past some of the temporary structures on the sidewalk under the freeway bridge, and toppled off the curb. (see update for clarification)

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The good-natured twenty-something leader of the orange-clad Caltrans team (ten or so workers) told me that he had tried to warn everyone that “something big was coming,” and it was clear that he was taking no joy in this operation. It was true, the oddly contradictory  Municipal Code 41.18 signs that had been planted on the sidewalks a few weeks earlier declaring “no loitering or solicitations,” and the tickets citing violations such as “illegal encampments” that had been written just days earlier were all a portent of doom for the squatters. Now Caltrans and city workers ripped apart the tents and other makeshift shelters, exposing a hoarder’s bounty of all manner of personal possessions, some essential, many not. 

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Terry and Amy were handcuffed, standing fifteen feet apart against the wall under the bridge. Stressed out, they snapped at each other like the old married couple they have become. Amy, who had been on yet another drug-fueled downward spiral in recent weeks pleaded for matches or a lighter so she could have one last smoke before being loaded into the squad car. Sitting against the wall with her hands behind her, she asked me to take her Chihuahua so that it wouldn’t be confiscated. The police agreed I could save the dog, which I ended up leaving with Rachel and Rebecca, who had a pup of their own. The mother-daughter team had been living in the most expansive tent/compound, on state property (the northbound onramp). They were being allowed to hang onto most of their supplies, including their tent, having convinced the police that they were going to receive enough money later that day to afford a motel room. They didn’t get off completely unscathed though, as the usually good-mannered and thoughtful Rachel lost her cool when told she couldn’t salvage her dog’s bowl, and injured her foot kicking a post. 

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Across the street, Gracie, Craig and others were being sequestered along the freeway onramp. Those with previous warrants like Gracie (”misdemeanors”), along with Craig and another man named Mike were in handcuffs. Sixty-six-year-old Gracie’s hands were bound uncomfortably behind her back.  Craig, apparently in the early stages of narcotic withdrawal, was completely despondent, wondering aloud what was going to happen now. After sitting slumped in a plastic chair for more than an hour, he told the officers he preferred to lay prostrate on the warm cement while waiting to be taken away. His posture led one officer to approach me and ask how my photographs would be used, well aware that images of a man laying on the ground, hands bound behind his back while officers hovered around, didn’t look very good from a public relations standpoint. I assured him that I would provide the proper context. Rebecca and the others sort of rolled their eyes, telling us that Craig, the former child actor, tended to be “dramatic” at times. 

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Still, it always pricks the conscience to see humans shackled… 

I watched as Gracie, and later Craig, were escorted in cuffs to where their things were, as an officer asked them what was essential, sifting through the piles of clothing, foodstuffs and personal effects for the items, stuffing them into black plastic garbage bags. Everything that was not salvaged would be trashed. I managed to find one last piece of Linda’s fingernail polish-painted artwork and tucked in my back pocket … 

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The police were professional and patient, for the most part displaying at least a requisite amount of empathy, bound as they were by the statutes they are entrusted to uphold, and their own daily involvement with these situations. “We’re basically social workers with guns,” one young officer with a military background half-joked. He spent several minutes explaining all of the various programs available through the city’s new H.O.P.E (Homeless Outreach Pro-Active Engagement) program, revisiting the litany of reasons why many homeless don’t feel comfortable or even able to stay in shelters or seek other forms of assistance. Watching a young woman light another cigarette, he expressed quiet frustration at Emmy Lu’s refusal to accept an offer to move into a woman’s shelter, preferring instead, even in her seventh month of pregnancy, to live in the street and indulge in bad habits. She was hurriedly and tearfully trying to gather whatever belongings she could pull together before their domicile was destroyed. Mike, her child’s father, sat on the sidewalk across the street with his hands cuffed behind his back, taking everything in stride with disconcerting calm.

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If anything this incident points to the serious need for consideration and thought on how to avoid these kinds of environments from being necessary at all… 

I rode back to the site on my bike several hours later, in the late afternoon, and found Rebecca and Rachel still waiting on a corner with the possessions they were allowed to keep. By nightfall they would be in a motel room … Terry, Amy, Craig, Gracie, Linda and Mike were presumably in the Van Nuys jail. Another couple, who had been living under the bridge for the last month or so, (part of the influx of new campers that Gracie had warned was making the place too overcrowded and dirty), was sifting through the meager remains, debris that had been left behind, deemed to small to be swept into the trucks. The man told me that they had “ducked out” when the law enforcement first arrived that morning, and had waited until now to return, to see what if anything was left behind for them. 

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As his partner Debra poked through the detritus, someone yelled at her from across the street, warning her to “keep your hands off that, it doesn’t belong to you!” It was a pathetic scene, heavy with portent. I asked Debra where they would go now. She glanced around furtively, and told me that she didn’t feel safe going anywhere after this. They had been warned not to even panhandle on the ramps any more. (Note: in a later post it will come to light that this couple Jeff and Debra, are among the lesser-liked for reasons legal and otherwise). It seems that there has been a shift in policy, though what it is exactly is unclear.  One hopeful thought to hold onto– one of the officers confided openly that he thought this should lead to a more cohesive squatting policy between city and state bodies. 

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Hard to believe that just a few weeks ago Gracie had stood in front of the North Hills East Neighborhood Council and tried to plead for understanding on just this issue. She specifically expressed the desire of the more responsible members of the Nordhoff group to keep the area clean and not be a nuisance to the community, which she said in her characteristically straightforward manner, “gives to us so generously.” Yet while she may have been listened to politely, nary a finger was raised on her behalf or on behalf of the others, and the alternative to her laying in the soot of traffic (lest we forget her respiratory health issues) turned out to be a jail cell. That we can’t do better than this for our most unfortunate citizens is just a low-down dirty shame …