A day in the lives of the city's homeless

JULIA TIERNAN/YH

Every afternoon around 4:00 p.m., a line begins to form under the long red awning outside Columbus House, perhaps the most well-known of New Haven's homeless shelters. The doors open promptly at 4:30, and as long-term residents (called "clients") know, the shelter's 54 beds--36 for men, 18 for women--can fill up quickly.

For more than a week now, this queue has included Anthony H. He is 41 years old, but he looks younger. He served in the military from 1975-79. He keeps a journal every day. He speaks softly, with an unwavering grin. Except for his surroundings, it's hard to imagine that Anthony is homeless.

A year ago, Anthony lived in Philadelphia. "I was doing pretty well. I had nine months clean time," without drug or alcohol use, he explains. "Then I had a relationship that didn't go so well with a girl. I wanted to marry her, but I found out that she'd made other arrangements. I needed to leave Philadelphia and start over. It was just too painful to stay. I had $35 for a bus ticket. I didn't have a whole lot of plans. So I asked the person at the bus station where I could go for $35. I knew I couldn't go very far, but I was looking for something new. When I heard `New Haven,' I thought, that is the place for me."

While Anthony waits for his 30 days of "clean time" to be documented so he can be admitted into a rehabilitation program, he lives in and around the shelter. "I wake up at 6:00. I come down and eat breakfast, which is probably the best part of the day," he says. "You have to be out by 7:30. I usually go to Labor Ready [a temporary employment agency] and sit around there until 9:00, check the paper for jobs. Then I go to the library and read up on jobs, do some research. I want to go to Stamford or somewhere in Fairfield County to work. A book I read said they have 56 of the top 100 companies in Connecticut there. I want to work. It's boring to have nothing to do but read all day."

The numbers game

Like 90 percent of New Haven's homeless population (according to the Mayor's Office), Anthony used to use cocaine. However, he is controlling his addiction through the limited counseling the shelter offers. "I realized I was running away from things," Anthony says. "I think the geographical change made a change in myself. Now, I want to start over. When I was growing up, I never thought to myself that I wanted to be a homeless person. Columbus House has really helped me out."

Other homeless may not be as fortunate. Some end up staying at facilities that were only intended as "temporary, emergency housing" for more than five years. "Homelessness is a problem New Haven needs to prioritize more," said Maria Damiani, New Haven's director of special projects and one of the mayor's advisors on homelessness. "Shelters are inadequate. They are dealing with a problem whose scope goes way beyond their original mission. Shelters are supposed to be short-term, maybe a few nights. But ours are sub-standard permanent housing for lots of people."

Figures from the Mayor's Office look grim. According to preliminary surveys, 85 percent of shelter residents admit to having a drug addiction and/or a serious mental illness. About a quarter use heroin regularly; many more engage in other hard drug use, especially crack cocaine. Eighty percent have a history of being physically abused; many are frequently victims of violent crime, from battery to rape. Forty percent come from foster homes. And these numbers only account for those shelter residents capable of filling out the assessment.

Moreover, federal aid cuts of $3 million from Housing and Urban Development (HUD) could cripple the city's homeless resource providers. Smaller, grant-driven facilities like Pendleton House and the Fellowship Inn could face severe cutbacks when their fund- ing runs out in June. "[The cuts] could mean a serious crisis for New Haven," Tony Cheever, a director at Fellowship, said. "HUD isn't paying attention to the whole infrastructure of services. We'd end up providing just shelters, not programs."

Although Fellowship and other agencies have asked HUD to reconsider the cuts, their main hope for revitalizing and sustaining homeless care in New Haven may now depend on the city rather than the federal government. In September, HUD will upgrade New Haven from an "enterprise zone" to an "empowerment zone." With this change in federal status also comes $100 million over the next 10 years. But this funding falls to the city to administer, and Damiani admits New Haven has little experience dealing with homeless support on such a hands-on level. Although much of the empowerment zone money could be used for shelters and treatment centers, there's no guarantee it will.

In addition, some providers are skeptical that the money will reach those who they believe need it most: single people, staying in shelters like Columbus House or living on the street, each of whom requires individual treatment. At a "Mayor's Night Out" forum last week, Mayor John DeStefano, Jr., gave grassroots homeless activists ambiguous answers about the future of funding and homeless resources. "We're afraid that most of the money will go to administration rather than services," Cheever said.

One thing is certain--the structure of homeless care in New Haven will change. Instead of several small agencies collaborating or competing for federal and state money, city funding will now be awarded top-down. New Haven is intent on creating an integrated system of services, from shelter to transitional housing to permanent re-integration into society.

But this new system cannot be based entirely on the numbers and well-documented research that won the city a HUD grant, for they must take into account the diverse needs of the homeless. "Homeless people are not just one group," Damiani said. "They are as different as every one of us is out in the community, and they each have different needs. Every one of them has their own story." In New Haven's proposed network of homeless care, will figures and funding win the day, or will the city take time to listen to every story?

The flower lady

Annette, who sells flowers on campus, is nearly as much a landmark of the area surrounding High Street as Harkness Tower. Like Anthony, she returns to a shelter every night. Sometimes it's St. Luce on Dixwell Avenue, others she opts for Emmanuel Baptist on Grant Street. But unlike Anthony, she has been offered little assistance finding training or a job. Instead, a job found her.

"I was standing there on the corner of Church and Grove and a man came by and asked me if I needed a job." She told him she already had a job working for a temp agency. "He was about to walk away. I said, `Hold up, wait, wait...in a couple of days, I won't have my job.'" The man, named Dax, told her to stop by his office on Temple Street. "I didn't go for a week. But the man was still there waiting for me."

Annette began by cleaning up after Dax's dog. "Then he called me into his office. He asked me if I could do anything else. I told him I know how to paint. I went to school for 10 weeks to be certified as a painter. I went shopping with him to get the paint."

Annette says a lot of people have walked by her over the years. "There've been a lot of rich people who had the power to give me a job," she says. "[Dax] probably passed me a lot of times. I stood out here for years asking for change. Nobody ever called me for no job. This man, he's given me a chance, he's given me a chance in life."

While her luck may be unusual, Annette's past living arrangements were not. "I've been living in and out of vacant houses," she said. "In another month, I should have me a place." It will be the first place of her own she's had in 10 years.

The road to Wellville

Liz and Anthony C. both regularly attend Fellowship Inn, a unique half-day program for homeless people with histories of both mental illness and substance abuse. Fellowship brings different providers, including nurses, drug and alcohol counselors, money managers, and vocational advisors, to one "hub" site off Dwight Street. For some of Fellowship's clients, the full-scale, personal treatment is the only way they could ever get their own apartment or job.

Anthony C. is a relatively new client at the Fellowship Inn. He's only recently started to think about finding work and counseling. Before, when his moods became difficult for his mother and sister to handle, "the police threw me out of my house," Anthony says. "They didn't even listen to me. They just threw me right out onto the street. I've tried to live at Columbus House, but I find no peace of mind there. The people there have too many problems."

Anthony's solution, when he's homeless, is to sleep on the street. "It's better than being in a shelter. It's like having your own place--except it's cold and outdoors. But no one can tell you what to do, and no one can bother you there."

Liz, on the other hand, has found an apartment near Science Park where she lives with her boyfriend. "It's great," she beams. "There's no rules to abide by, and you can do anything you want to do."

Liz has lived in Columbus House several times, once for nearly five years. "It's kind of rough there," she says. "If you're late with your payments, they throw you out. They didn't really help me." Liz also attends mental health group sessions once a week, "but it doesn't do anything for me at all." She values her independence more than any amount of counseling. In addition, Fellowship has helped Liz find stability after the death of her child and time spent (wrongly accused, she claims) in jail. Soon, she will "graduate" from the Fellowship Inn to her first job in years, a position in Fellowship's on-site convenience store. Living on life's terms

Billy stands about 5' 10". He is 42 years old, clean-shaven, and dressed in a button-down shirt and chinos. He talks with the sweeping gestures and uninhibited eloquence of an inspirational speaker. "I'm learning to live life on life's terms," he says.

You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but Billy spent 18 years of his life addicted to crack cocaine, panhandling and stealing on the streets of New Haven, "sleeping in abandoned cars, breaking basement windows--you know, those little ones near the ground--and sleeping next to people's furnaces to keep warm," he says. "I didn't use drugs occasionally--I used every chance I got. I was a wreck." During that time, he fathered three daughters and worked temporary jobs removing asbestos from old buildings to maintain his habit. He relied on a closely-knit family of 13 siblings to rescue him from debt, the police, and himself.

After a rocky three-month marriage in 1996, Billy's wife called the police, claiming physical and psychological abuse. "I think I offended her one too many times," Billy says. "Things just went downhill. She asked me for a divorce, and I wouldn't give it to her. I thought we could work things out." After several days in jail and several months living in Columbus House, Billy was referred to Connecticut Valley Hospital for rehabilitation. He has been clean ever since.

Billy has spent the last nine months in Davenport House, a transitional housing facility located one block away from Yale-New Haven Hospital. He and the 14 other men in the House have cable television, backyard barbecues, and parties. Many hold full-time jobs. It's startling to realize that all of them were, at one time, homeless.

Certainly, you couldn't tell from how they live. Although Davenport House feels institutional, with an industrial kitchen and a pantry that stores months of canned food, you have to look closely to find any differences from a normal boarding house--perhaps the Alcoholics Anonymous homilies on nearly every table or the security camera in the administrative office will tip you off. Its brochures call Davenport House an "Academy for Independent Living," rather than a halfway house.

Billy attends GED classes during the day and attends and supervises Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings most nights. He expects to stay at Davenport House until he has time "to get back on my feet and start college to get a degree in business." Billy's dream is to own his own business--a mini-mart and gas station.

"Drugs almost ruined my life. When I moved in with my friend [a few years ago], and he got me back on cocaine, I used to think I could never escape," Billy says. "But NA gave me support and helped me realize there is no such thing as a lifelong addict."

At the end of his time at Davenport House, does Billy expect to be "cured," once and for all? "This is something I'll be working on my whole life," he says. "I'm trying to be a good person and to get a good life for myself.

"Homeless people aren't bad people," Billy continues. "They're good people who made bad decisions. Everyone needs to realize, they could be homeless like that--maybe they lose their job, maybe there's a natural disaster. All of us are always only one step away from being at the end of a shelter line."

Matthew Matros contributed to this article.

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