The
message arrived on a Tuesday morning, around 10:30am. It was early October
2021, and that year’s exceptionally hot weather had finally broke in St.
George, Utah, where I was working.
“A
woman called to let you know that your mom has been evicted,” said Joseph Witham, my editor at the time. “She
said your mom’s living in her truck…”
“Thank
you,” I replied after an awkward silence.
Already
in shock, I wasn’t prepared to speak with my boss about my mom’s situation. It
was too personal, too raw, too devastating. It also meant that I would miss
time at work to travel to Tucson, Arizona, a little over 500 miles from St.
George.
“I’ll
give her a call,” I said, finally.
But
that call wasn’t necessary. I knew my mom was living in her truck. We’d been
talking about her situation for months. I’d been bracing for the looming
crisis. It was during that time that everything I thought about homelessness
was challenged.
First,
I thought that homelessness would never touch my immediate family. After all,
my mom had worked at a local hospital — first in housekeeping, then as a supply
runner and finally in the sterilization department — throughout my lifetime. If
she worked full time, and then received retirement or social security benefits,
how could she become homeless?
Second,
I believed that those who were homeless wanted help, and they’d do whatever was
asked of them in return. Finally, I believed, as many do, that if she somehow
fell through the social safety net, I could single-handedly rescue my mom.
I
was proved wrong on each account by the woman who raised me. The reverberations
of my lack of understanding, and the mistakes that lack made possible, are
still shaping the way I think about homelessness, the economy, the world in
which we live — and how I report and write about homelessness in Central
Oregon.
A Razor’s Edge
My
mom’s slide into homelessness didn’t come suddenly. It came in phases. As
mentioned, she worked at a Tucson hospital for 24 years. During the last two
years of her time there, she sanitized steel trays and surgical instruments.
That job came with a significant raise, and physical challenges she didn’t
anticipate.
Sure,
she enjoyed the higher pay, but her 50-year-old body struggled to acclimate to
the long hours on her feet coupled with lifting heavy steel trays weighted with
instruments. That combination eventually led to carpal tunnel syndrome and
nerve damage. She never regained full strength and range of motion in her hands
and wrists. She was constantly in pain, so she could no longer do that job.
She
applied for disability and was rejected. Thus began a years-long process of
court dates and deferrals. During that time, she cared for her aging mother, my
grandmother, Maggie Morgan, who was in the throes of dementia, and the latter
stages of Alzheimer’s disease.
Though
my mom was eventually awarded disability, it was seven years before she
received her first check. That income would be a lifeline for the next decade.
But
the pandemic economy would compel hordes of people who lived in blue states to
move to red states, including Arizona. That brought an influx of domestic
migrants looking to buy whatever they could afford and hunker down for the
foreseeable future. Those who couldn’t buy immediately saturated the rental
market, making it harder for longtime residents to find rentals.
For
the property owner who rented my mom a space on which to park her mobile home,
the opportunity to sell a piece of land situated in a neighborhood plagued by
gangs, drugs and crime was too good to pass up. Before 2020, that same piece of
land received little-to-no interest. But between 2021-22, Arizona was the seventh
most popular destination for those looking to move across state lines.
A Pew study found that rising housing
costs have a direct relation to spikes in homelessness. Tucson saw a 38%
increase to the homeless population between the years 2017 to 2022. But in the
years 2019 to 2020, the number of homeless people living unsheltered in Tucson jumped by 60%.
When
her landlord sold the property, my mom’s rent and utilities were paid. But the
incoming property owners had no interest in renting the space to my mom. So,
she was evicted.
“They’re My Babies”
After
her landlord sold the land on which her mobile home was situated, she would
have to move her mobile home. But it was in severe disrepair and could not be
moved. It would have to be demolished. She could not do that work on her own,
nor could she afford to pay someone else to do it.
To
her former landlord’s credit, he helped her demolish the mobile home, and he
gave her $1,000 to soften the blow. A reminder that, despite our efforts to
simplify things, the world is not black and white. He also paid for a haul-away
dumpster for everything she couldn’t take with her. This was no small task, as
my mom has wrestled for decades with hoarding disorder.
She
had to let go of thousands of objects that hold no meaning, or value, to anyone
but her. While I still struggle to empathize with the pain wrought by that
particular situation, I know she suffered immensely as she and her landlord
moved a mountain of junk.
By
the time she was living in her truck, I’d exhausted every option I could to
help her land on her feet as she faced the possibility of eviction.
I
tried to help her find a home. That wouldn’t be too hard, or so I thought. I’d
lived in various regions throughout the U.S. and had developed a knack for
finding rentals from afar.
I
spent a few days researching property management companies, private owners and
various websites, including Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace, which are
still the best options for those seeking private owners instead of complexes
run by corporations.
I
sent a list of rentals situated throughout the city. To my surprise, and
frustration, she declined each one. Though many were offered below market value
— there are places in Tucson, as in many large cities across the U.S., that
defy gentrification and easy understanding. But they were “too expensive,” she
said.
While
I couldn’t understand what she meant by “too expensive,” there are thousands of
senior citizens across the U.S. who know exactly what she’s talking about. In
Central Oregon, 45% of chronically homeless people are aged 55 or older,
according to the most recent statewide Point in Time count.
While
various mental illnesses and other chronic health conditions contribute to that
number, living on a fixed income is also a common factor. When rents suddenly
spike in a given area, social security and disability benefits don’t increase
with them, which pushes an increasing
number of people into homelessness.
A
few of the rentals I shared with her were in areas that were “too far.” From
what, I still don’t know. Another batch was rejected on the grounds that they
didn’t accept pets.
Finally,
the few remaining options allowed for one or two dogs, but my mom had seven.
I
had many difficult conversations with her about her beloved dogs, as did our
elder family members who live in far-flung eastern states like Florida, Ohio,
Tennessee and Maryland. Some of them invited her to live with them, with the
stipulation that she let go of all her dogs but one or two. I pleaded with her
to give all but one or two dogs to friends and neighbors, anything so that she
would at least have a chance to live with those relatives.
“I’m
not giving up my dogs,” she’d say. “These are my babies.”
I
admired her for the courage, commitment and sacrifice required to say such a
thing in the face of dire circumstances, but the harsh reality of her situation
dimmed that light.
I’d
hang up the phone, defeated, wondering how she could choose a path that would
surely lead to sustained homelessness. I had to adapt my approach, I decided,
but I didn’t know how.
False Saviors
I
suggested on multiple occasions that she let it all go to come live with me. I
had an extra bedroom, but she refused on the grounds that my landlords didn’t
allow pets — and St. George was not Tucson.
“Tucson
is my home,” she said, sounding surprised that I’d even asked. “What few
friends I have live here, my doctors are here.”
I
asked if she’d applied for any of the resources I shared, and she said she had
but none of them had offered any help.
“They
can’t do much, because of the dogs,” she said.
Soon
enough, I’d tried everything I could — and I’d failed.
During
weekends, I applied for jobs in Tucson to be closer to my mom but received
almost no interest, a fact that still bothers me to this day. The rising cost
of living in my hometown meant that I couldn’t simply accept any job and expect
to make ends meet. In which case, I could wind up on the streets, too.
This
endless loop wreaked havoc in my life. I tried to be a good collaborator at
work and to my partner at home, but I was in a constant state of alarm. That
perpetual sense of heightened awareness, bracing for the blow to come, dragged
me down most days and pushed me gingerly toward burnout.
Talking
with friends, which should have offered some kind of release, didn’t always
help.
“You
need to go get her,” one said, as though I somehow hadn’t considered the most
obvious, direct solution to the problem. But, as I tried to explain to them, my
mom was not an invalid or a ward of the state. She was, and still is, a
fiercely independent woman who does things in her own way and on her own time.
I couldn’t show up and bundle her into my car and drive off.
Eventually,
I did what my mentors, secular and nonsecular alike, had taught me to do: I
handed my worries about the situation to God.
I
had to release myself from the need — and the utter failure — to “save” her.
That was a fantasy. The reality was, and still is, this: What I saw as
solutions, she saw as more unbearable than living on the streets.
I
had to accept this painful fact because my willingness to impose myself upon
her situation was more about my own need for comfort, certainty and closure.
It
became clear that, in my well-intentioned but misguided approach, I had fallen
into the trap of doing all the talking. Which meant that I wasn’t listening.
That needed to change.
Back to Square One
As
the months went by, I called my mom every day to ask how she was, whether she
felt safe, if she needed anything. The unspoken truth of those calls was that I
needed to know whether she was still alive and whether she needed help.
After
about six months of living in her truck, spending her days at neighborhood
parks and parking overnight in church parking lots, she was becoming used to
living unsheltered. I struggled to discern whether that was good or bad. On one
hand, learning to survive in the face of difficulties is necessary and
commendable. She knew where to go to sleep, use the bathroom, find food and
other supplies.
On
the other, she was constantly in the presence of younger homeless folk, some of
whom were addicted to heroin, crystal meth and Fentanyl. My mom doesn’t drink
or do drugs. I feared that they may see her as an easy target, but other than
occasionally poking around in the bed of her truck for something to steal, they
left her alone.
Her
level of comfort in those situations may have indicated that she’d resigned
herself to homelessness, and had lost faith that she may live otherwise. I
continued to offer whatever I could, and she declined all of it. Because of
that, I’d given up. But she had not.
After
two years on the streets, she finally caught a break. A man who lived in her
old neighborhood offered to let her park her truck on his property, and said
she could sleep in a small trailer used to haul motorcycles.
“I
cried when he said that,” she told me recently. “It felt like God had answered
my prayers.”
She
accepted graciously but unforeseen challenges would reveal themselves as she
settled in.
“The
first time I tried to stretch out on a bed in that trailer, I learned that I
couldn’t stretch out my legs,” she told me. “I’d slept in the truck for so
long, my limbs could no longer extend.”
She
was happy to have the shelter, and her dogs to have a yard to roam and protect.
But that arrangement was short-lived. Some of the neighbors noticed that she
was living in a toy hauler, and they complained to the city. The property owner
was subsequently told she would have to move, or he could face fines and other
penalties.
My
mom called me in tears, saying that she would have to return to the streets.
Again, I offered everything I could. And, again, she declined all of it.
We
were back to square one.
Listen…
A
woman who lived nearby said that she had an RV parked on her property. She told
my mom she wanted to rent the RV for $400 a month.
When
my mom told me about this stroke of luck, she sounded disappointed.
“When
are you moving in?” I asked after a pause.
“It’s
too much money,” my mom said.
“You’re
not going to find anything cheaper in Tucson,” I said, nearly losing my temper.
“You’ll be sheltered from the weather, you’ll have a bed… If she’s willing to
accept you and your pack of little dogs, you need to take it.”
Though
my mom gave no indication she would take the place during that phone call, she
moved into the RV a short time later.
She’s
still living there three years on. While it may sound like substandard housing
to many, including me, she’s immensely grateful to have it.
As
we’ve talked through the years, I’ve learned to listen more than I speak. My
ideas, desires and needs are not hers. When I read comments on stories about
homelessness, I see many people — if they are actual people, rather than bots — making the same mistakes I
made.
They
offer several “solutions” to problems they don’t understand, and in which they
have no real stake. They lack empathy, which is often an indicator that
commenters are bots or, worse, people who behave like bots pushing partisan
rhetoric rather than seeking solutions to problems in their communities.
On Norm Macdonald Live, Larry King shared the
philosophy behind his approach to his decades-long broadcast career.
“I
never learned anything while I was talking,” said King.
“Can
I interrupt you there?” Macdonald cut in — but not before King’s point lands.
As
I report and write the stories in this series, I strive to be a good listener.
It’s through listening that the human being behind the problems emerges. When I
speak with people experiencing homelessness in Central Oregon, I’m aware of the
fact that they are fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, aunts and uncles,
brothers, sisters, friends and neighbors.
Throughout
my process, I remind myself time and again that the greatest service I can
offer is to tell their stories without the benefit of my judgments, opinions
and ideas.
I
learned that from my mom.
That
perspective shift opened our communications. Two summers ago, she asked if I
could buy a window air conditioning unit for her, and I was happy to help. A
few months ago, she asked for hairnets that she could no longer find. And, more
recently, when she complained that her cell phone wasn’t working properly, I
offered to replace it.
If
I’m lucky, when she asks for help, I’ll be here, listening.
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 20, 2025.
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