[Vision2020] Bush Tax Cuts Trickling Down The Slum Walls!

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    U.S. National - AP  
    
 Number of Homeless in America Has Grown 

Sat Feb 26, 3:44 PM ET
         U.S. National - AP 
    
By SHARON COHEN, AP National Writer 

The family sleeps in a single room, its walls bare and windowless, its 
cracked concrete floor crowded with plastic storage bins and three mattresses: one 
for dad, one for mom and daughter, one for the three young sons. Fluorescent 
lights will flicker on at 6 a.m., to start their new day. This room in an old 
red-brick factory-turned-shelter in Chicago is home for the Torres family. 

They consider themselves lucky to be here. They have a warm place to stay. 
They have three meals a day. And they have each other. The family is among an 
estimated 500,000 to 700,000 people who, on any given night in America, lack a 
real home. 

Homelessness exploded as a politically potent issue during the Reagan era of 
the 1980s, and according to some estimates, the number of those without a 
permanent place to live has doubled in the last 20 years. But some experts say 
more people now fall into that category only because billions of dollars have 
been spent to build shelters. 

Americans are troubled by this issue: An Associated Press poll taken Feb. 
11-13 found 53 percent consider homelessness a very serious problem, while 36 
percent say it's somewhat serious. Some 56 percent see the long-term homeless as 
victims of circumstances beyond their control, according to the survey. It was 
conducted by Ipsos-Public Affairs among 1,001 adults and had a sampling error 
of plus or minus 3 percentage points. 

Who are the homeless? Where do they live? How did they come to this? 

For a snapshot, AP reporters and photographers spent 24 hours earlier this 
month meeting with people who live on the streets and in shelters, following 
them to their jobs, watching them in court and talking with those who try to help 
them. 

Here are their stories: 


AFTER MIDNIGHT: PORTLAND, MAINE. 


Scotty Partridge is restless and pacing outside a blue tent pitched in the 
muddy soil among the barren spruce trees on the outskirts of Portland. 

"Hobo Jungle" has been his home for nearly a year. The months have taken 
their toll: Partridge's clothes are dirty and frayed. The skin of his windburned 
cheeks hangs loosely, like someone who has lost weight too quickly. 

On this 35-degree night, most of Portland's homeless are two miles away in 
the Oxford Street Shelter, sleeping on rows of mats four inches apart. 

But Partridge prefers a tent he has furnished with plywood, a radio, a 
battery-operated television and a discarded propane heater. He has a cell phone, too 
— paid for by panhandling and collecting aluminum cans. 

Partridge, 36, swigs a can of Milwaukee's Best and reminisces about the days 
when he had a good job at a printing company in Chicago, a nice apartment, a 
woman he was going to marry. 

But when the relationship soured in the early 1990s, he returned home to 
Maine and moved in with a friend who was using heroin. Partridge soon became 
hooked, too. 

On methadone for five years, Partridge survives day to day. 

"I can't get up and go to work out of a tent," he says. "I need a stable 
environment to get up and shave, shower, and clean, feel normal and go. When 
you're in a tent, every day is so hard. ... Your priorities are so whacked out. ... 
You think about, OK, how am I going to eat today and how are my boots going 
to unthaw because they're frozen solid? ... 

"I go and crawl into my tent and then it's another day," he says. "... Being 
homeless is a full-time job." 

___ 

ALMOST DAWN: NEW YORK CITY. 

John Mitchell rises for work with a siren blaring inside a homeless shelter 
in Harlem — a signal for the nearly 200 residents to line up for twice-a-week 
drug tests. 

A 47-year-old former crack addict, Mitchell says he was in and out of prison 
and homeless for more than 20 years, robbing people for drug money and digging 
through trash cans for food. 

"I was that type of guy that, guess what, you didn't want to see on the 
streets," Mitchell says. "I came to the conclusion this time around I learned what 
that word surrender means." 

Seven months ago, the father of two teens became sober and entered the city's 
"Ready Willing & Able" program that provides shelter (10 men to a room), hot 
meals and a job cleaning the streets that pays up to $7 an hour. 

Mitchell's infectious laugh and ready quips make him the unofficial leader of 
the crew working the West Side this morning. He sweeps the streets and dumps 
garbage cans, the steady rain dripping off his nose. 

His mind is on the future — he's studying at night to be a nurse's aide. 

"I gotta keep saying, this is not going to last forever, there's a bigger 
picture," he says. "It's like riding a bike ... right now I'm using training 
wheels. Before I know it, I'll be popping a wheelie." 

___ 

8:30 A.M.: CHICAGO. 

A 10-degree wind chill whips through the North Side streets of Chicago as 
6-year-old Angelina Torres, in her pink wool hat, and her twin, Angel, in his 
Spiderman gloves, make their way to kindergarten. 

Their mom, Eileen Rivera, leads the way on the seven-block walk. Her two 
older sons, Omar, 9, and JJ, 10, have already left for another school — a bus 
picked them up at 8 a.m. at the Sylvia Center, the shelter where the family has 
lived for eight months. 

Her arms folded against the cold, Rivera walks briskly, noting her twins have 
stayed in shelters about half their lives. "They just blend right in." She 
pauses, then adds: "It's sad." 

Her husband, Jesus Torres, recently found work operating a forklift, earning 
$7 an hour. The husky, outgoing father has been a handyman, pizza delivery 
man, ice cream cart driver, cashier and drug store clerk — sometimes working in 
exchange for welfare checks. 

The Torreses are on waiting lists for public and subsidized housing. 

Rivera tells her children this is just a steppingstone. "Guys," she says, "we 
have to do this just a little longer. We have to go through this to get to 
the shining star." 

Rivera knows exactly what that will be: "Your own toilet. Your own tissues. 
Your own bath. Your own window. Things that are yours. Just yours." 

___ 

9 A.M.: MIAMI. 

Retha Ann Cain shuffles her shackled feet into a sixth-floor Miami courtroom. 


The 19-year-old was homeless before she was jailed for prostitution. And when 
her latest 180-day sentence is up in March, she will be again. 

Cain has been on and off the streets, in and out of foster care since she was 
14. She says she was molested as a child by two male relatives. She ran away 
from Akron, Ohio, at 17 with a boyfriend and moved to sunny Miami. 

The two live in a tent. Her world-weary face belies her youth — except when 
she allows herself a smile. 

Cain was already serving time for prostitution when she appeared before 
Circuit Judge Mary Jo Francis to face two counts of obstructing traffic to pick up 
tricks. She has agreed to plead guilty in exchange for credit for time served. 


Francis orders Cain to take part in an AIDS (news - web sites) education 
course — Cain says she is HIV (news - web sites)-negative — and tells her she'd 
be eligible for a county residential treatment program that includes housing 
and job training. 

Cain isn't interested. She enrolled in the program once and backed out. 

The judge offers her some free bus tokens. 

"Thank you, thank you," Cain says. 

"OK, Miss Cain," the judge replies with a smile. "Good luck." 

___ 

LUNCH TIME: CINCINNATI. 

Brent Chasteen slings a backpack over his shoulder and heads out on the 
streets. 

An outreach worker, the 42-year-old Chasteen was hired by a business group 
called Downtown Cincinnati Inc. after the city enacted panhandling laws that 
require licenses for anyone who verbally begs. 

Chasteen, dressed in cargo pants and hooded sweatshirt, works his way through 
downtown, handing out discount food cards to the needy, offering help to a 
woman bundled up and sitting in Fountain Square amid tote bags stuffed with 
clothes. 

He later heads west to a desolate place near the railroad tracks where a 
shopping cart is filled with cans and bottles and covered with ragged green 
carpet. 

"Hey, Wolf!" Chasteen calls into the winter air. 

A purple sleeping bag tucked in a cardboard box moves. A man with a dark 
beard emerges. 

Wolf has been homeless for 10 years. 

"Trying to do what other people do — it's a losing battle," he says, sipping 
a can of beer. "I sit and look at everybody out there and I go, 'Nah, I'm OK 
where I'm at.' " 

Chasteen makes no judgments. 

"I know that we may seem to be in separate worlds on the surface," he says, 
"but many of them share the same kinds of problems that affect me and everybody 
else." 

___ 

3 P.M.: WEST VIRGINIA. 

A light snow falls in the mining town of Monongah, W.Va., as nurse's aide 
Harleigh Marsh does a final check on his patients at St. Barbara's Memorial 
Nursing Home. Finding a plastic baby doll atop a medical cart, he returns it to the 
waiting arms of a patient named Dora. 

He leaves and by 3:15 p.m. arrives at Scott Place, a hillside shelter for the 
homeless in nearby Fairmont. 

Marsh, a 48-year-old former sailor, is one of nearly 250,000 veterans who are 
homeless on any given night in America. 

He lives in a dimly lit 14-by-14 room. A Zane Grey western and toiletries sit 
on his dresser top. He lost most of his family photos in his travels. 

After leaving the military in 1979, Marsh tried college, but wanderlust 
returned. He worked as a drywall hanger and painter, renting rooms by the week, 
living from a suitcase. 

In Milwaukee, he met a woman and fell in love. They had a son. Marsh was 
heartbroken when she found someone else — and almost overnight, he was homeless. 

He ended up in Scott Place last year, struggling with depression. "But with 
the psychological help of the VA ... and a lot of time to think, I just worked 
it out," he says. 

Marsh loves his job but after $300 monthly child support payments, he's left 
with just $140 a week — not even enough to travel to Milwaukee to see his 
13-year-old boy, William Ray. 

They talk, but haven't seen each other since August 2003. "It tears both of 
us apart," he says. 

This fall, Marsh plans to apply to nursing programs at two local 
universities. If accepted, he'll work full time. 

For now, he has a room, a pine bed, a comforter and a sense of peace. 

"I have a place to go in the morning." 

___ 

MID-AFTERNOON: CHICAGO. 

With the school day over, Eileen Rivera's four kids are home; the boys watch 
cartoons, Angela plays with Barbie dolls. 

Rivera, 38, slips off her long-haired dark wig — a stress-related illness has 
left her bald — and sits on a bed in the vault-like room. 

"Sometimes," she says, "I feel like saying to someone, 'Give my kids a home. 
Just a taste of it. For a bit.' " 

After the apartment building they lived in burned down in 1998, they lost 
their home; Rivera's husband, who was a handyman there, also lost his job. They 
moved to his mother's home in Puerto Rico but eventually returned to Chicago. 

Now, Rivera knows the written rules to shelter life — and the unwritten ones. 


"My kids already know we've got to make friends — we can't make enemies," she 
says. 

Though they have little space, the Torreses proudly save every 'student of 
the month' certificate, every blue ribbon their kids win. 

Jesus Torres, 43, also keeps a letter he wrote to social service officials. 
"I want permanent and stable housing for me and my family," it says. "I want to 
... take responsibility as the head of the household. I want to be a 
productive member of society." 

Torres is saving money — the shelter requires residents to set aside 75 
percent of their earnings. He pays $43 monthly to store his family's belongings 
until they find a home. 

He's an optimist. His wife tries to be. 

"Sometimes I feel like it's not going to come and I'm just fooling myself," 
she says. "My kids will see me sad and say, 'You said we were going to get a 
home.' ... They make me feel like there is hope." 

___ 

SUNDOWN: HOLLYWOOD. 

Nicole Hudson has a roof over her head — for now. 

Sitting in Covenant House, a shelter for homeless and runaway teens, she 
ticks off the places she has lived in her 20 years: eight foster homes, two group 
homes, two shelters, one transitional apartment. She's also stayed with her 
mother three times and her grandparents twice. 

This is Hudson's fourth stint at Covenant House — she has been kicked out 
three times for breaking the rules. 

She's been on the streets three times in the past year, living on-and-off 
with 25 other teens in a narrow alley off Hollywood Boulevard. 

"It's just horrible," she says in a husky voice with a hint of a Southern 
drawl. "We don't even like to walk past older people on the street and see them 
still sleeping all wrapped up in stinky blankets, dirty mattresses, their hair 
not combed." 

"What happened to the blue skies, you know, and the sun-shining days when you 
were little? It's like the world just crashes when you get older and your 
mind comes to reality." 

___ 

LATE EVENING: LAS VEGAS. 

A few blocks from downtown Las Vegas' casinos, Clarence Woods is on his way 
to buy a pack of cigarettes. 

A week ago, he lived on the streets. But work as a day laborer has allowed 
him to move into a $370-a-month hotel. He doesn't know how long his luck will 
hold. 

The 53-year-old Woods is a father of five but says he's too embarrassed to 
tell his children where he's living. He says he ended up homeless because he was 
irresponsible. 

"It's like hell," he says, his cranberry stocking hat pulled snug over his 
ears in the desert chill. Woods says there aren't places to help homeless people 
like him. 

He once did well in Las Vegas and owned his own upholstery shop, he says. But 
he went bankrupt and ended up without a home. 

He calls himself a recreational drug user, drinker and gambler. 

"It's a real trap," he says, the neon signs flashing behind him, "but it's 
what Las Vegas is all about." 

___ 

9 P.M.: SEATTLE (MIDNIGHT EST). 

The lights are about to go out on another day at Seattle University where 
about 100 people live in a homeless camp on asphalt tennis courts. 

"Tent City" is both a haven and a political statement — the homeless 
shouldn't be hidden. Volunteers cook meals and students and faculty organize legal and 
health clinics for residents. 

Among them are Russell Mace and Angela Cope. He says he once made a handsome 
living running his own catering and house-painting business in Texas, where he 
fell in love with Cope. But she returned to Seattle to try to reconcile with 
her two kids and their father. 

Mace, 45, says he turned to the bottle for a time. Then he and Cope, 49, 
reunited. They lived in cheap hotels until their money ran out. Now a tent is 
home. 

In recent months, Mace has lobbied city council members and state lawmakers 
on homeless issues. "I have a sense of pride, a sense of dignity, a sense of 
community here — and a sense of purpose," he says. 

But he hopes his homeless days are numbered. He's trying to resurrect a Web 
site he had for handmade eye patches; he wears a silver-plated patch over his 
left eye, which he lost in a hunting accident years ago. 

After the camp goes dark, Cope shaves her partner, next to the only bulb 
still aglow at the front desk. 

"We gonna get any coffee or are we going to bed?" Mace asks. 

"Go to bed," she replies. 

They walk into the darkness, his arm around her back. 

On the other coast of America, midnight has just passed and another day for 
the homeless has just begun. 

----------------------------------------------------

V2020 Post by Ted Moffett
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