Members of the sweeps-first, house-later constituency will often call tiny houses and tent encampments “inhumane.” The existing rotating door of temporary shelters works, they’ll say — it just needs to be expanded.
I believe that, yes, some housed neighbors think that. I believe that it’s simpler to accept, from those who are just tired of seeing homelessness or answering to the voters about it, the cynical, bitter line that somehow getting someone into a cot for one night — maybe two — will get them out of sight and, maybe, be the springboard to get them off the streets.
That belief is, in many ways, a death sentence.
This isn’t to disparage the people who work to keep shelters open every day and night. They are saints, and they are doing important work for a pittance. Many are, themselves, on the verge of poverty. But we must be clear: The existing system of shelters is essential survival. Unfortunately, that is the barest of minimums. We must be clear and draw the distinction between “what keeps people alive” and “what helps people live their lives.”
Unstably housed people are aged tenfold every day they spend outside. Exposure to the elements, poor diet, lack of access to health care, substance use disorders that often develop after someone becomes homeless, the constant pain of searching for a restroom: it’s a physically punishing existence. It takes a toll on the body; the average lifespan of a homeless person is between 45 and 50 years, depending on which report you read. The National Bureau of Economic Research found homeless people were three and a half times more likely to die during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.
This is all assuming violence doesn’t kill them first, which is often the case. As the March 2024 murder of Paul Ewell underscores, despite rampant fear of crimes by homeless people, those vulnerable folks asleep in doorways are most at risk of brutality.
Recently, I saw yet another name and face I recognized on the Leaves of Remembrance Facebook page. It’s upsettingly common if you were ever lucky enough to spend time with the population of Real Change vendors. The page is filled with people whose voices I can still hear and reminders of exactly how lethal homelessness is.
I sighed deeply, prompting my partner to ask what happened. I told him someone else I knew had died. He asked what she died of.
“Being homeless, basically,” was the best answer I could muster.
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Hanna Brooks Olsen is a writer living in Portland.
Read more of the Sept. 11–17, 2024 issue.