Advocates take to the streets for the city's neediest residents.
The mercury is dropping fast.
The sun is
going…going…gone
into the western horizon as the work week draws to a close and a steady stream of cars begin their Friday night mass migration away from downtown.
Christmas lights lining the Plaza and farolitos perched atop the high-end hotels begin blinking to life. Tourists walk briskly through downtown on their way to Il Piatto, El Farol and La Fonda. Everyone else is heading home.
Except, of course, the homeless.
Yes, even cities given perennial accolades by the likes of Condé Nast Traveler have their own tired, poor, huddled masses. In fact, there are hundreds of homeless people living on the streets of Santa Fe on any given night. And on this given night, there are a few more than usual.
One of them is Lizzy Lyons.
Lyons is huddled on the sidewalk with her legs crossed, arms folded and blonde dreads tucked into a white
stocking hat. In front of her, rush hour traffic roars through the
intersection of St. Francis Drive and Cerrillos Road. Behind her, there is nothing but weeds, a decommissioned Santa Fe Southern train car and a dirt lot sprinkled with broken Corona bottles, crushed Ice House cans and abandoned shopping carts.
It's a hell of a place to spend the night. But comfort isn't exactly what Lyons has in mind. The 22-year-old College of Santa Fe senior-an advocate for the homeless and president of the student organization Roofs Over Our Friends (ROOFs)-is busy leading a 14-hour "Survive the Streets" demonstration to bring awareness to the issues facing the Santa Fe homeless community.
There are plenty to choose from.
For starters, the city's supply of emergency shelter and transitional housing only meets a fraction of the demand. Homeless service providers are also suffering (more than usual) from a woeful lack of funding. As a result, some organizations are struggling to provide basic services while others have been forced to at least temporarily suspend some of their operations.
But those issues are just baby toes on the biggest elephant in the room: simply convincing people that Santa Fe has a serious problem with homelessness.
"It's sad to see so many homeless people in a city that claims to be liberal and progressive," Lyons says. "Nobody wants to see people sleeping on the streets, but we have to move beyond
bumper-sticker politics and convince people to take action."
But she also knows that relatively few people even realize, for instance, that St. Elizabeth's Shelter alone served more than 1,000 homeless individuals and families last year or that Santa Fe Public Schools documented some 700 homeless children and teenagers during the 2005-2006 school year.
That's why Lyons is sitting here on the cold cement-beside a table covered with pamphlets on homelessness and neon placards that read "It's cold out here: give all shelter!" and "Homeless need homes/real solutions!"-speaking the words of an obstinate optimist.
"I really believe that I can make a difference," Lyons says. "There are a lot of people out there who just don't put out the effort. I believe that by making even a little effort, people can make things better."
It's not the first time that Lyons-who also works as a residential assistant at La Otra Puerta Emergency Youth Shelter-has exercised her efforts in the form of voluntary dispossession. Two years ago, she went homeless for 48 hours in Albuquerque as
part of an "Urban Plunge" program for brazen college students. That's where she met Maurice Martin.
Martin-manager of the resource center at St. Elizabeth's-is among the persistent few who plan to weather the protest from beginning to end. His rationale for engaging in a patently irrational act is simple:
"Homelessness right now is like a plain white piece of Kleenex tissue-it's an issue that doesn't have a face to it," Martin says. "We have to start putting a face to it if we have any hope of getting people to really pay attention to what's happening on these streets."
Martin knows better than most.
A native of Mississippi via Chicago, Martin, a 49-year-old Vietnam
veteran, talks candidly about his battles with substance abuse, his two suicide attempts, his alphabet soup of mental ailments-everything from PTSD and manic depression to ADD and his self-professed "flavor of the month" illness, bipolar disorder-and the five years he spent homeless.
Martin was homeless when he met Lyons two years ago. Even then he was a tireless advocate for homeless issues, frequently traveling to Santa Fe to lobby legislators for more funding. Five
months ago, he moved into a studio apartment in Santa Fe and started work as the resource center manager at St. Elizabeth's.
"I'm a testament of what can happen when people don't give up on you," Martin says. "I was the worst of the worst, but I had people who still stood by me. They didn't give up on me, and I owe them my life because of that."
As a result, Martin advocates for the homeless with the tireless urgency of a man who knows he probably should have died years ago.
Standing on the sidewalk, rubbing his hands together for warmth, Martin talks for an hour straight-barely pausing for breath-before he's finally interrupted by someone whistling to catch his attention.
A man in a battered black van parked in the dirt lot a few yards away motions Martin over to the window. The two talk for a minute as the man leans over and points toward Lyons and a Santa Fe Community College student named Nicole. A few moments pass before Martin walks away, shaking his head. The man in the van has offered to take one-but only one-of the women home for the night under the auspices of providing her food and shelter.
"That's a perfect example of how people take advantage of the homeless." Martin sighs. "There are people who drive around looking for homeless people-women especially-and
they offer to take care of them for the night, but they're really just trying to use them."
But salacious men in unmarked vans aren't the most pressing danger for the homeless. More serious is the constant struggle to dispel preconceived notions about the homeless. The first is that homelessness only happens to someone else.
Julie Tambourine says she is a prime example of how susceptible people are to becoming homeless. Tambourine-a 45-year-old former United Airlines flight attendant-was involved in an accident in 1995 that resulted in her hospitalization for "severe toxic exposure."
She now suffers from extreme chemical allergies and was forced to leave her home in July after an exterminator mistakenly sprayed her home with pesticides. Tambourine-who derives a small income from disability and Social Security-fell behind on her house payments and has been living out of her car for the last four months.
"I think people assume that someone must have done something to deserve being homeless," Tambourine says. "But sometimes things happen beyond your control and your life changes overnight. I never in my wildest dreams thought that I could be homeless, but if it can happen to me, it can happen to anybody."
Martin rattles off a list of common misconceptions about the homeless: They don't have jobs. They don't have family. They're dangerous. They're addicts. The list goes on and on. But one presumption in particular raises his ire.
"There are some people who have this perception that the homeless want to be homeless," Martin says. "I've met a few people who didn't have enough sense to get out of the rain, but that doesn't mean they want to be homeless. Nobody wants to sleep out
here in the cold or go over there and shit beside the train tracks.
Nobody
wants to do that."
Martin estimates that a majority of Santa Fe's homeless population works at least part-time, but many people simply can't afford to live in Santa Fe.
"Even with the living wage, they just don't make nearly enough to pay rent or a mortgage or even to feed their families," Martin says. "I mean, I have a job and a tiny studio apartment-my first real place in five years-and rent still costs me $625 a month."
So why the hell would a homeless person stay in Santa Fe, especially in the winter? It would seem that anyone with a little sense, wherewithal or pocket change would have left town weeks ago.
"If I could…I'd leave and go to Arizona or somewhere else warm, maybe San Diego," 35-year-old Roger Brown, who has been homeless in Santa Fe for four years, says. "But I don't even have a tent anymore…I have nothing."
Brown was born in Baltimore and grew up in southern New Mexico. He served more than 10 years in the state penitentiary for forgery before he was released on New Year's Eve 2002. He has been homeless ever since.
Brown sells newspapers for the Santa Fe New Mexican but says the money is barely enough to survive. Even if he could afford to pay rent, Brown says no landlord will take him in because
of his criminal record. Even family-Brown says his mother lives in Nambe-won't offer a helping hand.
"My mother's words were, 'You…um, you…um, you…um,'" Brown pauses, trying to reign in his stutter. "She told me, 'You made the bed, now you have to sleep in it.'"
In this case, his bed is a couple of blankets laid out in the dirt next to the sidewalk. Brown joined the Cerrillos protest by chance. He was on his way to procure a blanket from St. Elizabeth's when he happened upon the motley crew sitting on the side of the road.
But it's not just felons who scratch out a living on the streets of Santa Fe.
Gail Herling-coordinator of the Santa Fe Public Schools' Adelante program for homeless youth-points out one of the bigger misconceptions about homelessness when she arrives at the protest to deliver a stack of fresh blankets.
"I don't think people in Santa Fe have any idea how many homeless people there really are," Herling says. "In particular, I don't think they realize how many homeless teens and children there are."
Last school year alone, the Adelante program documented at least 700 homeless teens and children. The count is already at 475 for this school year, and the actual number is likely much
higher given the fact that most adolescents are reluctant to advertise their predicament.
"The kids are invisible," Herling says. "They're camping out in various places so they can't be found. They're living a hard life and it's not because they're bad kids, but they're just coming from some really bad situations."
Martin estimates that only about 15 percent of the homeless population in Santa Fe is transient. Which means there are hundreds here to stay.
"Everybody is happy to give you a bus ticket out of town because then you're no longer their problem," Martin says. "But that's not addressing the problem, it's just shuffling it on to someone else."
Many of the area's homeless are military veterans like Martin, who is a member of the Santa Fe chapter of Veterans for Peace. It was the prodding by Martin and Lyons that drew Ken Mayers-president of the local VFP chapter-out to the protest.
"From what I understand, about a third of the homeless population are veterans," Mayers says. "That's a staggering figure. But I think people in Santa Fe have a hard time
understanding how many people are actually homeless because it's not in front of their face all the time."
It's a common refrain. The perceived wealth of Santa Fe glosses over the underlying fissures between the city's Haves and its Have-nots.
"There is a lot of wealth in this city, but there is also a lot of inequality," Lyons says. "There are people in Santa Fe who live in mansions in the hills and then there are people living on the streets or in trailers without electricity or running water, basically living in third-world conditions."
Ultimately, Martin says, the only way to teach a real lesson is by example.
"That's why we're out here freezing our butts off," Martin laughs. "But as cold as it is out here for us right now, there are people who have to sleep out here
every
night."
And sometimes they don't make it through the night.
Being homeless is an ugly way to live, but it's an even uglier way
to die.
Of all the prospects, dying from exposure-freezing to death, or hypothermia-is among the worst. Exposure has three basic stages, the first characterized by goose bumps, mild shivering, shallow breathing and a drop in body temperature. The second stage features a continued decline in body temperature, violent shivering, pale
skin and discolored lips, ears, fingers and toes. The final stage results in a complete shutdown of the metabolic process, major organ failure and, ultimately, death.
William Ross died of exposure behind the New Mexico School for the Deaf sometime in the early morning hours of Oct. 26. His epitaph, written in the official synopsis of the subsequent Santa Fe Police Department incident report, reads simply, "A male was found deceased in a homeless camp."
Officially, the male in question was a 41-year-old homeless man from Missouri who succumbed to the elements. Unofficially, Ross was drinking heavily before he collapsed a few feet from his campsite. He lay on the frozen ground, unconscious, for several hours before dying.
His body was discovered behind NMSD by police shortly after 10 am, just a few blocks away from the site of the "Survive the Streets" protest and a few hundred yards away from St. Elizabeth's Shelter.
In a more perfect world, Ross might have spent the night of Oct. 26 in the dingy but adequate sleeping quarters at St. Elizabeth's instead of camping out behind a school in freezing temperatures. But this is hardly a perfect world.
St. Elizabeth's-which has had its own share of problems [Cover story, Nov. 23, 2005: "
"]-is the only emergency homeless shelter located between Albuquerque and Taos. Consequently, it's also the largest.
"St. E's is the only emergency center in the area and we have maybe 36 beds," Martin says. "There are about 1,300 homeless people in Santa Fe every year. If you do the math, it's
obvious that the numbers far outweigh our ability to take care of people."
There are other options. Several area organizations-like the Salvation Army and its seasonal overflow shelter-free up floor space and transitional housing for the homeless. But even a spot on the floor in the dining room at St. Elizabeth's comes at a premium. In the end, every square inch of available shelter space in Santa Fe is only capable of housing a fraction of the city's homeless population, and there is particularly limited space exclusively set aside for women and children.
"A disturbing trend that I've noticed is that there are more young families with no shelter," Herling says. "We know of at least 30 pregnant teens or teen mothers with babies or young families that have nowhere to go because our shelters don't have the resources to shelter everyone."
As the homeless numbers increase, the existing pool of resources have quickly dried up.
"We've gone downhill in the last five or six years in terms of the economy and the cutting of funding for services," Herling says. "But while politicians can make or break programs, it's the will of the community that makes the biggest difference."
When services are available, that doesn't always mean the homeless will use them. Martin says the prospect of death was the only thing that motivated him to finally seek help from the Veterans Administration.
"The saying down south is that you don't go back to the yard where the dog bit you," Martin says. "A lot of veterans are particularly reluctant to seek out help from the government because of their experiences in the military. The VA saved my life, but it took me getting to the edge of death before I went."
Martin initially sought help in Albuquerque, only to be brushed aside.
"I was starting to deteriorate badly, so I went to see the VA in Albuquerque," Martin says. "They told me the earliest they could get me an appointment to see a doctor was in 90 days. So I said, 'Ya'll obviously have never seen
Rambo
.'"
Instead, he called his former VA psychologist in Chicago, who paid for Martin's bus ticket. Upon arriving in Chicago, Martin says a member of the VA staff was waiting for him at the bus station.
He stayed in the hospital for months afterward before getting on his feet again.
Not everyone is so fortunate. Health care for homeless people in Santa Fe is sparse, with notable exceptions like La Familia Medical Center's aptly named Health Care for the Homeless program. Part of the problem, Martin says, is with homeless service providers themselves.
"We are partly to blame," Martin says. "We haven't done a good enough job at explaining to the community exactly what the situation is and what we need to do to improve it. We have to stop shuffling our feet and really focus on our outreach to the community so that we can really sit down and talk about these issues."
Among the main issues, according to Martin, is getting the city to work on more affordable housing for the homeless and impoverished, not just affordable housing for "people who make $50,000 a year."
"It's not brain science," Martin says. "People are homeless because there isn't enough housing. We're starting out behind the 8-ball right away when we don't even have
affordable housing to put people in. But that's where you run into the not-in-my-backyard syndrome. People don't want the homeless to sleep outside, but they also don't want them in their neighborhoods either."
It's a sentiment echoed by Hank Hughes, executive director of the New Mexico Coalition to End Homelessness.
"Housing is much more effective than shelter in getting people off the streets," Hughes says. "Shelter is needed as an emergency solution, but we're really encouraging the state and the cities to get involved in building supportive housing because that's the sort of stable base people need to build on if they're going to turn their lives around."
Ironically, Martin says one of the most daunting problems preventing real progress on the issue of homelessness is goodwill. Martin says that there are many generous people in Santa Fe who provide materials for the homeless, but he says the problem is never going to get better until the charity case "dem and dose people" mentality is overcome.
"We have to stop treating homeless people like they're Christmas ornaments," Martin says. "People give us blankets and food and it makes them feel good about themselves and that's great. We need those things. But we can't be the object of your feeling good forever."
Lyons is feeling good.
At least for someone who appears to be gradually slipping into the second stage of hypothermia.
It's well past midnight and well below freezing. Lyons is wrapped in a cocoon made of a sleeping bag and blankets, but her breathing is labored, her skin is ashen, her lips look painfully chapped and her body is shivering violently. She's also apparently never been happier.
"I'm…really proud…of our…core group," Lyons says between clenched teeth. "We've had…a lot of people…stop by and…it's been good."
It takes a certain type of person to be able to put a smiley face on frostbite. Lyons is as bubbly as ever with more than nine hours down and less than five to go. Her enthusiasm flags for only one brief moment when she ponders the dozens of people who vowed to join the protest only to bail out at the last minute. That's when Mayers chimes in with The Starfish Story:
Hundreds of starfish have washed up on a beach. A young boy sees this and begins throwing the starfish, one by one, back into the ocean. A jaded old man happens by and scoffs, "There's too many, you can't possibly make a difference." The boy tosses another starfish into the ocean, turns to the man and says, "I made a difference to that one."
Lyons smiles.
"That's it!" she exclaims. "Although it also makes a difference for you to help someone. I know it makes me a happier person knowing that I made a difference in someone's life."
Lyons is a happy person. Toying with severe bronchitis maybe, but happy nonetheless. Dozens of people have come by to support her efforts. Some were friends and colleagues but others were complete strangers, stopping long enough to donate money and hear Lyons give a 20-second dissertation on homelessness in Santa Fe.
But that was hours ago. Now the streets are quiet. The night is clear. The temperature is somewhere between I Can't Feel My Toes and Oh God, Kill Me Now. Only seven diehards-including Lyons, Martin, Mayers and Brown-remain. One of them is 18-year-old Santa Fe Community College student Alex Den-Baars.
Den-Baars looks every bit the junior anarchist with a bandanna around his face and a major Minor Threat patch on the back of his jacket. He joined the demonstration-along with 19-year-old Lenora DeWilde and 18-year-old Ariel Bustos-because it was the most "hardcore" protest he'd heard about in a while. But even hardcore activism quickly devolves into something more basic in this kind of frigid environment.
"We started out talking about anarchy and the utopian society," Den-Baars says while delineating the difference between standard burritos and chimichangas. "Now we're talking about Taco Bell."
A few hours earlier, the students were procuring cardboard from behind McDonald's and using it to paint a sign
reading, "Santa Fe needs more funding for shelters now!" But that urgency has been replaced by a more immediate survival instinct. The cold makes it hard to breathe, let alone form coherent treatises on affordable housing.
Not everyone is having trouble. Brown snores peacefully on the ground, Martin in the tent and Mayers on his cot. They don't move when-sometime after 3 am-a voice shatters the calm.
It's coming from some tortured soul lost in the darkness beyond the Tin-Nee-Ann souvenir shop across the street. The one-sided, expletive-laced tirade continues for the better part of an hour. It's difficult to make out any particulars except that every third word is "fuck" before the salty soliloquy ends with an ambiguous, "Only God lives happily ever after."
Lyons absorbs the theatrics in stride. She hunkers down for the remaining hours before the protest is officially over. There is nobody left to tell about homelessness. Nobody to notice her holding vigil in a lawn chair on the side of the road at 4 am in mid-November. She has made her point. Anything further seems like needless self-flagellation.
Lyons, nevertheless, is resolute. She is emboldened by principle and the barely visible sight of two blanketed figures lying prone beneath the Santa Fe Southern train car several yards away. Underneath the train-and the blankets-are two homeless men. Lyons has never met the men. She doesn't know where they came from or where they'll be tomorrow. But they are the reason for her resolve.
"Every time I get cold, I just look over there," Lyons says, motioning to the figures beneath the train. "That's what's keeping me here. As long as they're still there, I'm not going anywhere."
Gimme Shelter
By Marlon Heimerl
Emergency shelters and transitional housing are only one step in trying to keep the underprivileged from falling through the cracks. Food, clothing, health care, violence prevention, job assistance and many other services complete the puzzle. The local organizations listed below are among the service providers offering help for those in need. They are always seeking volunteers and donations.
Esperanza Shelter for Battered Families
With a mission to empower the victims of violence in Santa Fe, the Esperanza Shelter for Battered Families offers security, deterrence training, education, public awareness, organizational development and fund raising while providing an outlet from the cycle of violent behavior.
Residential shelter 473-5200, 24-hour crisis line 800-473-5220,
Health Care for the Homeless
Respecting the needs and privacy of underserved Santa Feans, La Familia Medical Center's Health Care for the Homeless program takes a courteous approach to health and dental care, welcoming people of every economic standing and expressing sensitivity to cultural differences.
La Familia Medical Center, 1035 Alto St., medical contact 982-4425, dental contact 982-5048,
Health Care for the Homeless of Santa Fe, 818 Camino Sierra Vista, 988-1742
Life Link
An organization devoted to aiding the homeless and families suffering from hardships, Life Link's La Luz de Santa Fe Shelter provides food, housing and outpatient treatment for addiction and mental health issues.
2325 Cerrillos Road, 438-0010,
New Mexico Coalition to End Homelessness
Understanding that the homeless come from a wide variety of backgrounds and situations, the New Mexico Coalition to End Homelessness respects every individual by providing services and advocacy for the state's homeless population.
802 Early St., 982-9000,
http://pages.prodigy.net/bonneyh
St. Elizabeth's Shelter
St. Elizabeth's Shelter works to accommodate those in need with a warm bed and a hot meal by assisting more than 1,000 homeless people a year at five different facilities. Volunteers are always needed and welcome.
804 Alarid St., 982-6611,
Salvation Army
An American tradition-from bell ringing to clothing and furniture donations-the Salvation Army has earned a reputation for aiding those in need,
when
they need it, for more than 100 years. The SA also operates a special overflow shelter for the homeless during the fall and winter seasons.
1202 Camino Carlos Rey, 473-7735,
525 W. Alameda St., 988-5715,
Santa Fe Public Schools Adelante program
The SFPS Adelante program provides school supplies, clothing, encouragement, tutoring, emergency funds, scholarships and food to some 700 homeless youth in Santa Fe.
467-2000,
Youth Shelters and Family Services
Youth Shelters and Family Services caters to the needs of homeless youth and their families with a focus on social services and the mental health of its patrons using progressive counseling and emotional support.
4435 Airport Road, 983-0586,
