♦
♦
A room with a view: One year on in housing
BY LEO RHODES
C O N T R IB U T IN G C O L U M N IS T
ec. 7, 1941, is a day that will live
infamy, as President Roosevelt put it.
Coming from Arizona, this day was
and still is a big date as the USS Arizona
became the first ship to sink into Pearl
Harbor that December morning. In the
Northeast corner of Arizona is the Navajo
reservation where most of the Navajo code
talkers came from. My hero, Ira Hayes —
one of the men who raised the flag at Iwo
Jima — came from my reservation. Also on
my reservation were two internment camps.
Years later, I was asked to write poems for
the 20th anniversary of the memorial for
the camps. What I was going to write was a
comparison of how they treated the
Japanese-Americans to how they treat the
homeless today.
Change of plans.
My first day in my new place was Dec. 7,
2011, and since I’ve been inside, people
have been asking where I’ve been and what
I’ve been doing. So instead, I thought I’d
write this column about my first year in my
own place and the time leading up to that
day.
When I first was on the streets my Native
brothers and sisters would always say to me,
“Why are you on the streets? You’re too
smart for the streets.” They would take me
to fill out job applications. I usually got the
job. Sometimes I lost it because of drugs or
alcohol. Then there were the times I lost my
sleeping spot, my blankets or a backpack full
of clothes and other important stuff to
sweeps. A couple of times I had mini
breakdowns. With the pressures of street
life, the obstacles of trying to get out of the
streets all seem to cave in at once. My
friends helped me and I helped them.
In 1999 I started having a nightmare. I
couldn’t sleep more than 10 minutes. My
good friend Joann Martinez told me I
needed to go home and find closure with my
family. So I went home. First thing I found
out was that my biological mother had died.
For eight years, my reservation was trying
to contact me to tell me. A few weeks later,
my biological father ended up in intensive
care. I told the family he wanted us to pull
the plug, that we had made a pact that if we
were to ever end up on life support, we
wouldn’t want to live like that. My nephew
kept asking me to help him get out of gangs
and alcohol. I didn’t believe him at first but
he convinced me and I told him I’d help.
D
Leo Rhodes is a street activist and homeless advocate. He is
also a vendor with Street Roots and a regular conributor to the
newspaper.
Hours later, he got shot. I patch him up.
Then he dies, I give him CPR and he came
back to life. He dies again with the
paramedics no more than 50 feet away from
us. A few months later, my favorite aunt
dies. I decided to go to Alaska and catch a
fishing boat to clear my mind. In Seattle, I
found out all the ships were full, so I ended
up homeless in Seattle.
In December 2001, when I first arrived in
Seattle, I filled out applications for housing.
The first one I went to the lady behind the
desk was excited to tell me that they had an
opening. All I had to do was fill out an
application and I should have a place that
night. I didn’t believe her, but she assured
me I would have a place that night. It didn’t
happen. Another lady came into the office
and both of them went to another room.
When they came back the lady behind the
desk said I wouldn’t get the place. I asked
why but she wouldn’t tell me. So I asked
when I would get a place. She said they
would put me on their waiting list, so in
about five years I should get a place.
Shocked, I asked why she told me I was
going to have a place that night. She never
did give me an answer.
Homeless providers and homeless
supporters would often try to get me into
housing. Most of them were shocked to
learn that a guy like me — clean and sober —
didn’t fit the criteria of people theywere
looking for. They were looking for drunks,
druggies, the mentally ill and criminals. I
didn’t fit any of those categories. It became
so crazy that whenever someone told me
they could get me a place, I refused. A lot of
homeless people told me that if you want a
place you have to play the game and just say
you’re a drunk, druggie, mentally ill or a
criminal. It’s rough being clean and sober.
I found a shelter under 1-5 and Jackson in
Seattle’s Chinatown district. It was in a
parking lot. It was run by SHARE (Seattle
Housing and Resource Effort), an
organization of homeless and formally
homeless that has 15 indoor shelters, two
tent cities (one that I helped start) a
housing-for-work programm storage lockers,
and is self-managed with very little staff
their my mentors. Its sister organization
WHEEL (Women’s Housing Equality
Enhancement League) deals strictly on
women’s issues.
After working on about 15 projects in
Seattle I got burned out and came to
Portland to rest. Then I started to advocate
for shelters and tent cities. Everybody told
me they were going to put the homeless in
housing. Housing is good, but you can’t keep
up with all the homeless. Criminalizing the
homeless shouldn’t be an option either. We
need shelters and tent cities until there’s
enough affordable housing for all.
I was on a committee to figure out what
we could do for the homeless to keep them
safe and secure. I write a column for Street
Roots, and a member of the organizations
board of directors. I’m also involved with
the Empowered Voices Media Project to
make documentaries about homelessness
through Sisters of the Road, and I also
worked with Right to Survive on the Pitch-a-
Tent campaign and Right to Dream too
(R2D2).
I sell Street Roots at 39th Avenue and
Sandy Boulevard in front of Whole Foods. I
try to dispel the myth of homelessness by
my presence and talk to anyone that listens.
In my poem “Excuse Me If I Don’t Cry
I’m Putting on My Game Face RIP” I stated
that I will fight the fight until everybody gets
in or my health gets bad. Well, I’m inside
now. And it was one of the hardest decisions
I ever made.
I went through the VETS program. When
I signed the papers to get my housing I
became ill. I ended up in the hospital with a
temperature of 104.1 had pneumonia. I
barely get my papers to get a place and I got
sick.
When I got the message that I was
accepted in the Morrison I was really
excited. I imagined getting the message
during a meeting and shouting out, “I got
housing.” It was actually during the mayoral
candidates’ forum on housing. I didn’t yell
but started to text everybody. Signing the
paperwork felt weird. For years I’d been
signing on behalf of the homeless and now I
was signing for just me.
People were happy and excited for me. I
wasn’t happy.
Even though I did a lot, it’s not enough. I
go outside and through my window I see the
homeless. In my placed still hear their cries
for someplace safe, secure or understanding.
Then I hear the decision-maker’s side of
why they can’t or how they’re limited in
what they can do.
I used to tell people that when I got my
own place I would lock my doors and grieve
for all my friends who died on the streets.
That took four days.
I also had to get to know my body again.
One thing I knew was my body needed rest
and lots of it. I put my body through a lot. I
had to get the survival mode out of my head.
When I first started my advocacy I put my
personal life on hold. It got filled up with
mental and physical abuse. Going inside, all
these pains and ailments — both mental and
physical - came crashing down on me.
I have a case manager, Emily with the
veterans housing program, who I meet
every month. I always ask her if the place is
still mine and her answer is always yes.
Once she asked why I always ask her that
question and at the time I didn’t know why.
But I think it’s because, on the streets I was
told I could sleep in certain places, and then
I was told I couldn’t. Sometimes when I was
inside they would tell me the same thing.
I have friends like Wilbur and Joann that I
turn to for help. Wilbur and I used to drink
together on the streets, Joann and I did
some serious talking. Wilbur is clean and
sober like me. He also helps the homeless
any way he can.
One of the biggest adjustments is having
everything in one area. On the streets
you’re on a time schedule. You eat here, you
sleep there; you get out of the rain for a few
hours here and there. From the time you
wake up to the time you go to sleep, my
friend says, “It’s like a freight train hitting a
brick wall.”
I’m writing more. I’m writing a book on
Tent City 4, a play, and outlines for different
projects, future columns and poetry. I also
want to make a PowerPoint on
homelessness. Soon I’ll work on my
documentaries.
I am glad I have this place. I’m still trying
to get used to it.
Next year I’ll be out more. This first year
I was just trying to adjust and get my
bearings. It is a lot bigger than a tent. I can
also do a lot more stuff.
I want to thank everyone who helped get
me into my place and the people who
supported me through everything.
Family fare from Oregon fields and farms since 1980
JOINS
2012
Multi-ethnic vegetarian,
chicken & seafood dishes
Largest, healthiest
children’s menu in Portland
COAT
DRIVE!
Transition Projects needs
warm coats for winter.
You can help by hosting
a donation barrel.
Call or email for information
volunteer@tprojects.org 503.280.4741
Transition
Projects
Many choices for all special dietary needs
Gluten-free ■ Lactose-free ■ Soy-free
OLD WIVES’TALES
1300 East Burnside - Portland
503-238-0470
www.oldwivestalesrestaurant.com
Breakfast Anytime • Lunch • Dinner
Beer & Wine ■ Salad Bar ■ Soups
Children’s playroom