Patricia Griffith lived on
and off in the juniper forest just east of Redmond for 20 years. On a recent
cold February afternoon, Griffith, who was previously known as John, drove a
white Honda Civic through a network of dirt roads buried beneath six inches of
fresh snow.
The snow didn’t stop the
60-year-old from finding her way to the spot where her camp once stood. Along
the way, a maze of camps arose in openings between the trees surrounding the
site. There are lean-tos made of pallets enclosed with tarps. Trucks and campers
stand on cinder blocks, along with RVs, school buses and other vehicles that
have been parked and may sooner rot and disintegrate before leaving the area.
A pair of black dogs
emerged from the trees and brush, barking playfully and snapping at the rear
wheels of Griffith’s Honda. They eventually grew bored and disappeared just as
suddenly as they appeared.
Griffith stopped, shifting
the Honda into park.
“It all started
here,” said Griffith, her lanky frame unfurling as she climbed out of the
car. Her dog, Suzy, barked from the back seat. Griffith pointed toward a wooden
cross that she’d made to honor the memories that came to pass on that spot.
“It started here, and it ended here.”
Griffith was referring to
her choice to move to what’s known by many as The Junipers or “the dirt” — and leaving it when she was offered a small cabin in a nearby
shelter that offers transitional housing. Though Griffith faces significant
challenges to finding long-term housing — she’s a felon who is required to
register as a sex offender, she’s a trans person, and she has a medium-sized
dog— she dreams of finding a place to call her own.
Boxed In
But Griffith said she feels
boxed in by barriers that will make that dream difficult to obtain.
Formerly incarcerated
people are 13 times more likely to be homeless than those who don’t have a
criminal record, according to a study by the U.S. Interagency Council on
Homelessness. The study went on to say that homeless people are also more
likely to be incarcerated — especially in places like Grants Pass, Oregon, where criminal charges may
be filed against those living unsheltered, creating a cycle that becomes
increasingly difficult to escape.
The upheaval within the federal government at
the dawn of President Donald Trump’s second term is also yielding new
complications. Within days of being confirmed as secretary of the U.S.
Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), Trump pick Scott Turner
issued an order that will halt pending and future actions
related to the Equal Access Rule, which was meant to guard
against gender-based discrimination.
Turner said in a press release that the rule
“tied housing programs, shelters and other facilities funded by HUD to
far-left gender ideology.”
“We, at this agency, are carrying out the
mission laid out by President Trump on January 20th when he signed an executive
order to restore biological truth to the federal government,” Turner
stated. “This means recognizing there are only two sexes: male and female.
It means getting government out of the way of what the Lord established from
the beginning when he created man in His own image.”
Yet, one in three transgender people will
experience homelessness in their lifetime, and 70% of trans people who have
used a shelter have experienced harassment, according to a statement from the
National Low Income Housing Coalition.
While emotional support
animals are protected by the Fair Housing Act — the webpage of which has since been taken down — landlords may deny potential renters who own certain
dog breeds, like pitbulls and rottweilers, among others.
But in spite of the high
odds against her, Griffith has no intention of giving up.
An Oasis
A little over a year ago,
Griffith joined the ranks of those who’ve moved away from “the dirt.”
That’s when she was invited to live in a tiny house that’s part of Oasis
Village, a cluster of 20 cabins for those who need transitional
housing.
She recently gave the Homelessness: Real
Stories, Real Solutions team a tour of the grounds, facilities and her cabin.
Oasis Village is the result of a years-long collaboration between Jericho
Road, Hayden Homes and a slew of
others, in the aftermath of Gov.
Tina Kotek’s emergency order on homelessness and housing dating back to April 2023.
Though Oasis Village is
less than a half mile from Griffith’s former camp, it feels like a different
world. In addition to the shelter each cabin offers, Oasis Village residents
have access to heat, running water, showers, use of a communal kitchen, WiFi,
mailboxes and personal storage.
That last one provides
peace of mind for Griffith, as theft is rampant among The Junipers.
“There are people back
there who will steal anything,” said Griffith, who stood in the center of
her cabin, basking in the safety it provides. “Someone stole one of my
dogs a few years ago. I still miss that dog. I don’t care about things,
objects, but your people and animals can’t be replaced.”
Griffith moved into her
tiny home around the same time Oasis Village opened in January 2024, said Josie
Anders-Mize, the executive director of Oasis Village.
“We’ve served around
23 individuals through Oasis Village since opening,” said Anders-Mize, who
has more than 20 years of experience in nonprofit and community services.
“They come to us through referrals from the Central Oregon coordinated entry system.”
Once an individual
experiencing homelessness is referred, Anders-Mize and her team will conduct an
interview to ensure the person is a good fit for the program. Though Oasis
Village is what’s called a “low barrier” shelter, there are still
rules.
“There’s a curfew, for
instance,” she said. “And we expect people to engage with services,
and begin looking for work — if they can work — and long-term housing.
“We also expect them
to be sober,” she added. “They can’t have drugs or alcohol in their
cabins, because many of our residents are in recovery.”
Anders-Mize said that,
though Griffith is facing significant barriers, she’s a good neighbor and a
valued member of the community.
“She’s kind and
respectful,” Anders-Mize said. “She also cuts through the B.S. If a
new resident is complaining about some rule, or doing community chores, she’ll
quickly remind them of how lucky they are to have their own cabin.”
Though Griffith still has
friends in “the dirt,” she doesn’t want to return to it.
“Without that tiny
house, I don’t know that I’d be alive today,” Griffith said. “Without
Suzy, my dog, I don’t know if I’d be alive today. I promised her that I’d give
her a good life. If I can do that, and help a few of the people out there to
live long enough to find their way into one of these cabins, I will die
happy.”
It’s Not Possible for All of Us
Griffith breaks her life
down into three phases, each lasting about 20 years. There’s childhood, during
which she suffered untold abuse at the hands of her biological parents in Green
Bay, Wisconsin, before being adopted at the age of 3 by the parents who raised
her in Oregon.
Her adolescence was defined
by an all-consuming confusion and pent-up rage. When Griffith was 19, she was
convicted in Umatilla County of rape, sodomy and assault on a person unknown to
her. Those charges resulted in a 25-year prison sentence. Griffith served 21
years but returned to prison three times for parole violations, the last of
which was in 2006.
And, at age 40, she
transitioned from life in prison to becoming a father and husband, and finally
to living in “the dirt.”
“When I first moved
out there, there were only three of us,” Griffith said. “It was much
better then. You didn’t have to worry constantly about somebody stealing your
things, setting fire to your home or vehicles. Or, as happened to a friend of
ours, being found shot dead.”
That last bit brought
another moment of silence, as Griffith reflected on the mysterious
circumstances that led to the untimely death of her 26-year-old friend River
Feldmiller.
Depending upon who you ask,
the number of people who live out there ranges from 100 to 300. While most of
the area’s residents treat each other like neighbors, Griffith said, it can be
scary at times.
“Some of these people
have done too much meth, too much Fentanyl,” Griffith said. “They’re
spinning out and you don’t know where their mind is, or what they’re willing to
do.”
Griffith said that most of
the people who live out there would trade their camps for an apartment in a
heartbeat.
“But it’s just not
possible for all of us,” said Griffith. “Due to my past, I can’t find
a job. I can’t rent an apartment. People see that I’m a registered sex
offender, and they think I’m a pedophile.”
Due to laws that prevent
sex offenders from living near schools, parks and other areas where children
gather, the number of homes available to members of that group are more
limited, according to a study by
the Colorado Department of Public Safety. In the study, called “Housing
Barriers for Sex Offenders,” researchers found that New York landlords
were less willing to rent to applicants who have criminal convictions,
especially for those convicted of sex crimes.
Griffith thinks of the
crimes she committed as a youth and said she deserved the punishment handed
down by the judge in her case.
“I was guilty, plain
and simple,” she said. “I am not proud of that. I’ve caused
suffering, and I’ve suffered for it ever since. I’m still getting counseling
for it.”
Griffith’s adoptive mother,
Pamela Ann Nelson, died of breast cancer in 2001, leaving a void in Griffith’s
life.
“Before she died, I
gave her a hug,” Griffith said. “And, she said: ‘That’s a good,
strong hug. You know, when you were a little boy, I’d hug you and you’d go
stiff as a board.'”
Upon her release in 2004,
Griffith spent her days collecting cans and bottles and sleeping rough in
various spots between Bend and Redmond. She also learned to “sign” —
standing in a visible, high-traffic area with a sign — to collect money from
charitable community members.
Griffith eventually moved
to Sweet Home, where she built houses with her adoptive dad. Griffith, who
identified as a man then, had a son with his then-wife, Rhonda Dodson, in 2007.
While Griffith said she was happy then, her life unraveled through a combination
of bad decisions and the circumstances that followed.
First, Griffith was fired
from her job after offering crystal meth to a coworker. Then, in 2019, Dodson,
a diabetic, died from complications related to the disease. Following that,
their son, Jeremiah, was adopted by a family who lives in the area.
“Boy, I miss him
today,” Griffith said. “His name means ‘God-given,’ and that’s how I
think of him. He was a gift to us, never a burden. If he reads this, I want him
to know that I love him like no other.”
‘I’m Here for a Different Purpose’
Back in The Junipers on
that February afternoon, robins flitted to and fro, alighting on the juniper
branches overhead and all around the cross. The bright sun shone on the snow,
bathing the world in harsh, revealing light. Though it wasn’t quite 2pm, the
moon hovered low in the sky to the west.
Griffith said she moved
there to find some peace and stillness amid the chaos that had engulfed her
life at the time. It was lonely, but she needed solitude.
“In the beginning,
around 2007, it was me, Bob and Dan,” said Griffith. “Bob disappeared
one day, and years later they found him dead by the canal.”
Their names are written on
the cross that Griffith built on Jan. 20, 2022.
“That was the day I
quit the dope,” Griffith said, squinting while looking up at the sun.
“I’ve written the names of friends who have died, or moved away, to honor
their memory.”
Griffith kicked her meth
habit after catching COVID-19 — twice. She’d injured her back after sitting on
a faulty chair, which gave way from under her.
“My back went
‘pop,'” she said. “Come to find out, I was millimeters from severing
my spine. After an operation, I was on painkillers for three weeks. That’s when
I realized I could quit the meth.”
Griffith said you’ve got to
quit something if you want something else. After kicking meth, she was able to
save enough money to buy the Honda. She applied and was approved for disability
benefits. And she’s been approved for $1,600 a month in rental assistance. She
also began taking estrogen pills to block her testosterone, after meeting with
a doctor who visits “the dirt” to offer services to its residents.
“I owe Mosaic Health
for that,” Griffith said. “I’ve always felt like a woman trapped in a
man’s body. I’m not going to get a sex change operation or anything like that,
but the treatment I’m receiving has improved my life significantly.”
“I’m becoming myself
more every day, and I’m finding that I love myself,” she added after a
pause. “I’m not into men or women anymore. I deserved to die, but God let
me live. I’m here for a different purpose.”
That purpose, she said, is
to help people in The Junipers to stay alive, as she does with her Facebook page, and transition to places like Oasis Village as they’re
ready. Griffith knows from personal experience that nobody leaves The Junipers
before they’re ready.
Editor’s Note:
Patricia
Griffith was introduced to the Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions team
by Redmond houseless advocate Bob Bohac. He works with people living in The
Junipers southeast of Redmond. He says they have the decks stacked against them
when it comes to finding permanent housing. Griffith lived in The Junipers for
20 years and recently moved into a tiny home at Oasis Village. Bohac knows the
challenges she’s faced and the barriers to her finding a home, and he was
awe-struck by her willingness to share her story with the Real Stories team.
Journalists
are honored when people, especially the most vulnerable, trust us enough to
share their stories. We’re not only asking the person to trust us during the
Real Stories project, we’re also asking our partner publications, advocates,
care providers and our advisory group to be confident that we did our due
diligence.
Before
publishing the story, we made sure Griffith knew how widely her experience
would be shared. We let her know what was in the story’s final version. We
spoke with our advisory committee. We talked to other journalists and some of
our partners. The conclusion: We all agreed, her story is a truth about
homelessness that needs to be told. —Jody Lawrence-Turner, Real Stories
project manager and editor
Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions is a journalism lab funded by Central Oregon Health Council under FORJournalism, an Oregon nonprofit dedicated to supporting journalism statewide. Sign up for weekly newsletters to receive updates.
This article appears in The Source Weekly March 6, 2025.
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I’m sure being transgender makes it more difficult, but she’s a sex offender. That’s way more of an impairment, and one for which we should have zero sympathy.