Chris Seaborn, From Portland to Hollywood to Reno, Hoping to Finish His Novel

A Supportive Mother and Unpredictable Father Led Him To Theater

Christian Seaborn leans back with a contemplative smile on his face. His winter overcoat is draped over the back of his chair while an Irish cap rests gently atop his head. A man of short stature, he never let that stop him from becoming a Hollywood actor, writer, and producer. 

But that’s not to say his life hasn’t come without hardship. In fact, Seaborn understands all too well the struggles of those that find themselves in a financial crisis, compounded by the lack of affordable housing in many cities across the country. He has felt first-hand the meaning of the word “betrayal,” particularly when it comes from the ones you love most.

Yet with a twinkle in his eye, he reminisces about how his love for acting got started when he was young.

Like many mothers, his was supportive of his passion for theater and the arts. Growing up in a house of looming conflict due to what he describes as his father’s unpredictable and violent mental illness, psychomotor epilepsy, Nora Seaborn recognized theater not only as Seaborn’s coping mechanism, but his escape as well.

“I started doing theater for a couple of reasons,” Seaborn said. “Looking back on it now, it was a way to be out of the house and away from that situation.”

One song in particular, Seaborn recalls, was his absolute favorite to sing and dance around the house as a child. “Hello, Dolly,” by Louis Armstrong, with its cheerful melody, rhythmic string sound, and its brass chorus never failed to lift his spirits. That goes without mentioning the distinct and authoritative voice of Louis Armstrong himself. Even today, Seaborn’s love for that song permeates with nothing but fond memories.

Growing up in Portland and Singing with Louis Armstrong

Growing up in Portland, Oregon, his family didn’t necessarily have much. Yet, that didn’t stop his mother from orchestrating opportunities for Seaborn to feed his budding passion for the arts. When Seaborn was eight years old in July of 1965, Louis Armstrong came to Portland for a free concert. Recognizing an opportunity, Nora took the young Seaborn to see Armstrong perform.

As any eight year old confronted by their idol would, Seaborn was bubbling with excitement at the opportunity to witness Armstrong play. The day of the show was a blistering 98 degrees and despite the heat at this point in Armstrong’s aging life, the famed musician played all of his popular hits throughout the show. When his performance concluded the crowd erupted in approval; that is, everyone except the eight year old Seaborn. Armstrong had teased “Hello, Dolly” at the start of the performance, but never played the song in its entirety. 

Seaborn’s disappointment, however, was short-lived as Armstrong soon came back on stage to perform “Hello, Dolly” as his encore. Seaborn was ecstatic.

Satisfied with the encore performance, the young Seaborn and his mother prepared to leave. But suddenly, Nora stopped and beckoned him to wait. She walked over and spoke to a young security guard near the backstage curtain, who then disappeared backstage. 

“I have no idea what cockamamie story she told him,” Seaborn laughs. “But [the security guard] comes back out two minutes later and motions me to come in. So pulling those curtains aside, there were these stairs in the back of the stage and here's Louis Armstrong sitting on the steps, still holding his trumpet from the show.” 

Louis Armstrong offered to play “Hello, Dolly” for the starstruck young Seaborn, but only on one condition: if Seaborn would sing the lyrics himself. Despite singing and dancing to the song for months at a time, Seaborn became tongue-tied and was unable to sing for Armstrong as he played the song for him. Even Armstrong’s banjo player soon joined in, playing his part to prod young Seaborn to sing. Yet, it wasn’t until about a third of the way through the song that Seaborn finally mustered his strength and started singing with his idol, forever solidifying his love for “Hello, Dolly.”

Another Hello Dolly Encounter

Although that wasn’t the end of the story for Seaborn and “Hello, Dolly.”

Two years later at ten years old, Seaborn learned of a Broadway Musical called Hello, Dolly, starring Ginger Rogers. It was coming to Portland and like any wishful young child, Seaborn begged his mother to take him. But due to their financial circumstances, his mother simply couldn’t afford tickets, leaving Seaborn dejected.

“So about a week passes and I get home from school and [my mother] goes, ‘There's something on your bed,’” Seaborn explained. “There was an envelope with a single ticket for the matinee performance.”

Once again, his mother had taken matters into her own hands to feed her son’s growing passions. The ticket didn’t come without stipulations, however, as Nora was still cautious of her son being downtown by himself at such a young age. So she gave Seaborn his ticket with explicit instructions: under no circumstances is he to talk to or follow any strangers anywhere, whatsoever. Seaborn agreed, not wanting to disappoint his mother.

On the day of the show, he was giddy with excitement as he took his seat beside the aisle. Before the performance started, however, something unusual happened. An usher approached Seaborn and invited him backstage to meet Ginger Rogers at the intermission, per Rogers’ request. Not intending to disobey his mother’s strict instructions not to talk to or follow any strangers, Seaborn declined. The same usher then returned at the intermission, giving Seaborn a handwritten from Rogers wishing him well.

“Now obviously my mother has set all this up,” Seaborn reflected, a lighthearted smile on his face. “So when I got home after the show she goes, ‘Well, how was the show? Anything special happen?’”

“I told her, ‘No, not really.’” Seaborn said. “‘But an usher asked me to go back and meet Ginger Rogers. But I told him my mother said don't go anywhere with any strangers.’ She was like, ‘Oh God, I'm never telling you anything again for the rest of your life!’”

Seaborn soon got involved in theater himself, acting and performing in professional plays in Portland. Acting had not only become his passion, but continued to foster his escape from a troubled life at home. By the time he graduated high school, he had a resume of nearly 25 productions. Then after a brief stint at the University of Portland, he decided it was time to move to Los Angeles to try and make a name for himself there. 

Getting a Shot with Rhoda

Yet soon after arriving, he realized that any young actor trying to make it in Hollywood needs two things: a Screen Actors Guild Membership and an agent. Seaborn consequently found himself in the office of Freida Granite, who at that point had been an agent in Hollywood for nearly 50 years. Upon entering the room, however, Granite immediately dismissed Seaborn as unsuitable for an acting career. 

“And I said ‘Excuse me,’” Seaborn explained. “‘You don’t even know anything about me or anything I've ever done.’ She listened to my spiel for about two minutes and then goes, ‘Damn, you've got gumption. Okay, I'll sign you.’”

Just like that, Seaborn had an agent in Hollywood. Granite got him a job delivering resumes and casting submissions to all the directors in town. It was a way for him to meet all the prominent directors without being too forward. The first delivery he made was to Lori Openden, who at the time was a casting director with Mary Tyler Moore Entertainment’s (MTM), show Rhoda. 

“[Openden] tells me, “You have a really unique look about you,’” Seaborn said. “A lot of people have told me because of my size I’m very unique or memorable. But I never considered myself [unique] in that way.”

So Seaborn sought additional means to ensure all the casting directors he was meeting would remember him. As an avid Charlie Brown fan, he started sending Peanuts-themed Hallmark cards to casting directors at every holiday. Then in early January of 1977, he received a call from Openden, the first casting director he had met. 

“She called me and goes, ‘Are you interested in being on an episode of Rhoda? It's what we call a featured part so there's no dialogue, but it will get you a Screen Actors Guild Card.’” Seaborn explained. “I agreed and then she says, ‘There is a hitch: Do not ever send me any more Peanuts cards for any more holidays.’”

The Peanuts holiday card strategy had finally served its purpose, so Seaborn scratched Openden’s name off his card list. 

The scene Seaborn was to be featured for was as the main character Rhoda’s prom date. Valerie Harper, the actress who played the role of Rhoda, was significantly taller than Seaborn dressed in his 1950s-era cumberbun and tuxedo costume. Yet, they filmed a dancing scene together, the contrast in height providing a moment of comic relief for everyone at the shoot. A technician at the scene was particularly amused, grabbing a Polaroid camera to document the two of them in-costume together after the shoot. When Seaborn finished his scene, he simply got out of costume and returned home. The scene aired in an episode a month later and that was it for Seaborn, or so he thought.

Getting a Break with WKRP Show but Setbacks Begin

By now Openden had taken a particular interest in finding Seaborn work as an actor, forming a professional relationship that isn’t necessarily commonplace in Hollywood. She offered him a role as a rehearsal “stand-in” for a ten-year-old character on the show WKRP, a popular sit-com on CBS from 1978-82. Initially Seaborn was reluctant to take it, recognizing that people of his short stature can get pigeon-hold solely into stand-in roles. But Openden encouraged him to take the role seriously, as the stand-in role was an opportunity for him to showcase to the directors his ability to act.

So that’s what he did. As Seaborn performed his stand-in role throughout the rehearsals, it didn’t take long for people to take notice. Fellow actors on the show began approaching him, telling him that Hugh Wilson, creator and executive producer of the WKRP series, had even taken notice of Seaborn’s ability. As the shoot for the final episodes of the 1978 season wrapped, Wilson himself finally approached Seaborn, offering to write-in a full-time role for him as a character in the series. Seaborn agreed immediately.

A few months later when it was announced that WKRP was picked up for another season on CBS, Seaborn sent a note to Wilson both congratulating him. The note also, however, was meant to serve as a subtle reminder of Wilson’s offer at the end of the last season. Three weeks later Seaborn was called in to provide input for the character they were writing into the show for him, a rare opportunity in Hollywood.

Then at the script-reading a few weeks later, something unusual happened. In the middle of the script-reading, a technician called out from the rafters of the studio, interrupting the reading when he saw Seaborn. Rushing down the rafters to the table, he presented Seaborn the Polaroid picture of him and Valerie Harper from the set on Rhoda a few years prior. 

Looking back now, Seaborn isn’t surprised something like that would happen at Mary Tyler Moore Entertainment. 

“Pretty much anybody who was on MTM shows or was connected with that company was really special,” Seaborn said. “Because Mary Tyler Moore and her then-husband Grant Tinker set that bar of hiring people they wanted around. They wanted it to be a family atmosphere and they strove to make that happen.”

Things were going well for Seaborn up until that point when in 1981, disaster first struck. His paternal grandmother had passed away. Seaborn wasn’t necessarily close with his grandmother, but in passing she had left an estate and trust fund designated in name to Seaborn’s mother, Nora, due to the unpredictable nature of his father’s illness. As part of the trust bestowed to his family were four valuable rings, three of which that had been appraised at $1500. Yet the bank was reluctant to give up the rings despite his family’s entitlement to it.

Coincidentally, at the same time the Screen Actors’ Guild strike and Emmy-award boycott started. When the strike first started, executive producer of WKRP Hugh Wilson had contacted Seaborn (despite union strike restrictions) to tell him that once the strike was over, they would be continuing his character’s role in the series. 

But finding himself unemployed in the meantime, Seaborn was in desperate need of money. So he threatened the bank with a lawsuit to exercise his right to entitlement of the rings. 

Family Inheritance Problems and Going MIA

It was also at this time Seaborn was first confronted with the publicity of being a Hollywood actor. Before the beginning of the trial, the judge addressed Seaborn directly, “Before we get started, I just want to make it clear that I thought you were very good on television last night.”

Eventually, the bank finally conceded at the trial, requesting that all the beneficiaries of the trust to come to Seattle where the rings were being held so they could close the trust and receive the rings. So Seaborn, his brother Charles, his mother, and father went to Seattle to finalize the deal. But due to his father’s psychomotor epilepsy, it was understood within the Seaborn family that his mother Nora would speak for his father on official matters, particularly given her additional background as a lawyer. 

Seaborn had spent the last of his money getting up to Seattle from LA for the deal. Before arriving, he had come to a mutual agreement with his mother and brother that they would divide the rings evenly among themselves. Seaborn intended to appraise and sell his ring to a dealer in Seattle, so he could have enough money to get back to LA and survive until the end of the strike until WKRP could start up again. But after the trust was closed and his brother Charles took possession of the rings, the family deal was suddenly off. Unbeknownst to Seaborn, his mother had instructed Charles not to give Seaborn his ring to ensure that under no circumstances the rings would be sold.

“I had a nervous breakdown,” Seaborn said of the betrayal. “I just never saw that coming from these two people that I survived my dad's illness and attacks with. I trusted them.”

Consequently, Seaborn returned to Portland with his family and became stuck there, unable to get back to LA. He got a job working for a local cable company, writing and producing commercials for them. It wasn’t until three years later, in 1984, that he had finally saved up enough money to make it back to LA. When he arrived, he found out that his apartment and everything in it had been sold at a Sheriff’s auction in the years he had been away. 

Luckily, though, he still had a phone book with the names and numbers of the people he had worked with at WKRP, even though the show had by then gone off the air. So he called up one of the show’s writers, Dan Guntzelman, to meet him for a cup of coffee. 

“[Guntzelman] goes to me, ‘Where the hell have you been?’” Seaborn explained. “‘In October and November of 1981 we spent weeks looking for you. We had six more episodes written for [your] character and nobody had any idea where you were.”

Having a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity squandered, Seaborn became further devastated by his family’s betrayal over the rings. For while he was stranded in Portland for all those years, he missed WKRP’s return to production after the strike ended.

To make matters worse, by then Mary Tyler Moore Entertainment shut down and shuttered its doors, coinciding with the divorce of Mary Tyler Moore and Grant Tinker. Tinker went on to become Chairman and CEO of NBC Entertainment, taking Seaborn’s agent Lori Openden with him as the Senior Vice President of Talent, a position she would hold for the next 17 years. 

“I think it's a good prospect that based on the personal interest [Openden] had taken in my career, that I probably would have had some work on a few NBC shows during that period,” Seaborn reflected. 

Moving to Reno in the Late 1980s

By Thanksgiving week in 1987, Seaborn had moved to Reno, Nevada. He was working as a banquet set person at The Nugget and battling bouts of depression, stemming from his family’s betrayal and the subsequent missed opportunities in Hollywood. Eventually, his fight with depression ended him up in Nevada Mental Health Institute.

“Are you familiar with the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?” Seaborn asked. “This facility looked very much like something right out of that. I had never been around a mental health facility before, but this was not a good introduction to those.”

In order to get released from Nevada Mental Health, however, a patient must receive clearance from the facility’s only doctor. But to exacerbate the situation, when Seaborn went to the doctor’s office, he found half-filled cardboard boxes stacked and scattered across the floor. The facility’s only doctor had just resigned; and Seaborn was told it may take well into the following year before they get another one.

“I'm not crazy, I was just depressed,” Seaborn explained. “So I got on the phone with my mother and said, ‘You caused this problem in 1981, you’re a lawyer so figure a way to get me out of here.’”

When Nora utilized her law connections, Seaborn’s circumstances made it all the way to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Nevada, who in turn contacted the director of Nevada Mental Health. They agreed to release Seaborn, but only if a family member would pick him up. His brother Charles, in New Mexico for the holiday, then came to pick him up on Thanksgiving Day, a holiday that Seaborn consequently has never enjoyed since.

It was at this point, however, that Seaborn’s relationship with the city of Reno really began. In particular, a local psychologist named Martha Nims took a measured interest in Seaborn’s well-being. Although she was in her seventies and semi-retired at the time, she agreed to continue meeting with Seaborn even after his medical insurance no longer covered it. She became someone Seaborn could rely on when he needed her, no matter the time of day or night. 

Back to Acting in the Theater and Commercials

Throughout the 1990s, Seaborn began his return to theater. The Reno Little Theater at the time was putting on a production called Wild Oats. Although he was initially seeking only to volunteer with the production staff, Seaborn ended up having a part in the performance itself. Nims also made a particular effort to support Seaborn’s return to acting, encouraging him to apply for paid positions. Encouraged, Seaborn landed a job with Channel Two’s morning show, a job he held for the next six months. 

“In Martha's head, all of it was [about] rebuilding my confidence,” Seaborn said. “I didn't really see it [that way] at the time, but I can see it now looking back because I then decided I was going to go back to LA.”

When he eventually moved back to LA in the early 2000s, Seaborn came in contact with an agent that found a potential acting gig for him in a commercial series. Recognizing the financial benefits of a commercial series, Seaborn jumped at the opportunity. The audition for the role came with one stipulation, however, in that Seaborn needed to have a passport. Although he didn’t one at the time, he knew that when an opportunity in this industry presents itself you must do whatever you can to make it happen. So when he received a call-back days after the audition, he found out he was selected for the part and was needed in London, England by the following week to shoot.  

“When they say series of commercials, that immediately means lots of money because it's paid on residuals of how many times [the commercial] airs,” Seaborn explained. “But the timing of all this was like right after 9-11, so I had to go down to the federal building [to get a passport] where they were on a high state of alert for everybody.”

Despite the challenges, Seaborn managed to get a passport and made it to London in time to shoot four commercials selling a frozen pizza product as a waiter. The directors were pleased with how it went and wanted Seaborn to return a few months later to be photographed for billboard advertisements for the product, as well as shoot thirteen additional commercials that had already been written. Unfortunately for Seaborn, however, politics soon got in the way.

“[The directors] told me that America was not very popular in Britain at that point because President Bush was trying to wrap Britain up into sending troops to the Middle East,” Seaborn said. “And they said, ‘We just don't want an American promoting a product right now.’”

Since then, Seaborn has continued his involvement with acting, even being featured in a Super Bowl commercial for Subway a couple of years ago. Every few months, he has served as a writer for the United States Bowling Congress, a job that recently sent him to Wichita, Kansas and may send him to Las Vegas sometime this year. Currently, Seaborn is contemplating a return to Hollywood after he completes a novel he is working on. But he’s not in a particular rush to get there, understanding the difficulty of making it big in Hollywood. 

“Forty percent of being a successful actor is based on talent,” Seaborn said. “Another forty percent is based on who you know and the final twenty percent is just based on dumb luck of being in the right place at the right time. So if one really wants to go [to Hollywood] for the big time, then one should have no delusions about how it works.”

So what ever happened to the rings his mother kept from him?

In 1982, Nora Seaborn fell ill with emphysema and meningitis, an illness she battled for the next ten years. When she checked into the hospital for what would be the final time, in 1992, she had made clear to everyone on the hospital staff that she wanted to see Seaborn. After some prodding from his father and brother, Seaborn decided to visit her on her 76th birthday. While on her deathbed, she apologized for not giving Seaborn his ring like they had originally agreed, confessing she didn’t know what made her do it. At the time, Seaborn didn’t have any ideas either why she would’ve kept a ring from him. But looking back now, the best he can do is speculate. 

“My mother was a teenager during the Great Depression,” Seaborn explained. “There was a Recession going on in 1981 [at the same time they closed the trust and received the rings], so I think she was afraid that having experienced the Great Depression that when we have things of value we need to hold on to them.”

Seaborn knew, however, that his mother’s death would not mend the broken relationship between him and his brother, Charles. In his mind, there was no way that he was going to put himself in a situation where he has to deal with his brother over the ownership of the four rings.

“So I stormed into [my mother’s] house and went up the stairs with one mission: find the rings and take all four of them,” Seaborn said. “She would not tell me [where the rings were]. So I literally tore the room apart, pulling out drawers and dumping contents on the floor. Finally, I found them in a little brown jewelry bag, scotch-taped to the back of the drawer.”

Seaborn then sold all four rings for a fraction of what they were worth. The way he saw it, it was too late to save his life with the money to be made from them, so his only real goal was that his brother would never have any of them. 

https://www.montereyherald.com/2013/05/07/convicted-felon-charles-seaborn-now-a-fugitive-reportedly-seen-in-monterey/

A Brother’s Downfall and Dealing with his own Housing Problems

A successful marine biologist and underwater photographer in his own right, Charles had felt that since their mother protected him and Seaborn from their father’s violence all those years they were growing up, that if Nora wanted to keep the rings, she deserved to. So at the time of the initial jewelry exchange, he had defended his mother’s decision to withhold a ring from Seaborn. 

Yet as time went on and despite all his career success, Charles became a closet alcoholic. In 2007, he was convicted and imprisoned for vehicular manslaughter after striking and killing a bicyclist while driving drunk. Sentenced to five years, he served 27 months before being released on parole in 2011. Then on New Years Eve of 2012, he was pulled over on suspicion of drunk-driving and since he violated his parole, was charged with felonious drunk-driving. When he failed to appear at court, a search warrant went out for his arrest. 

Around this time Seaborn, after a brief stint of homelessness, had found a place living at Carvel Park Apartments in Reno. When the Reno Police came knocking on his door, guns drawn searching for his fugitive brother, Seaborn didn’t appreciate the intrusion. A few weeks later, he received a call from the California bondsman working on his brother’s case. They had found Charles’s cell phone next to body parts in the water in San Francisco and asked if Seaborn was willing to do a DNA test to confirm the body was Charles’s.

“I said ‘No,’” Seaborn said. “Because my brother died for me in 1981.”

It was assumed and thus declared that the body parts found with the cell phone were Charles’s, but to this day no one knows for sure.

Sitting where he is in Reno today, despite the difficulties and struggles his own life has brought him, Seaborn understands the plight of the area’s homeless. Growing up in a household with a violent father, young Seaborn would escape his father’s violent episodes with his mother and brother by staying in area motels. When he struggled to find housing in Reno ten years ago, he used to be able to find a hotel for $80-$90 a night. Today, to exacerbate the fact that many of Reno’s motels are being knocked down, many of the same ones he used to stay at are now going for at least $300 a night. If his family had to escape his father’s violence today, staying at motels likely would not have been a possibility.

“This is what really saddens me because I know firsthand that when my brother and I were children, we spent time living out of motels while we ran away from him to survive,” Seaborn said. “So I understand the mother who's trying to make ends meet, living in a motel with her two kids or whatever, but there's got to be a way to make situations better for those people because kids should not be brought up living in and out of motels.”

Seaborn is confident, however, that Reno Mayor Hillary Schieve has the city’s best intentions at heart. 

Working on His Novel Believe

In the meantime, he’s focusing on his current goal of writing his fiction novel, Believe. The story is about a boy’s internal struggles with survivor’s guilt after he and his father are involved in a car accident, during which the father is killed saving his son’s life. The story is set in Reno, Nevada, a city that now holds a special place in Seaborn’s heart.

“I appreciate Reno because it turned out to be a really good, supportive community for me,” Seaborn said. “So that’s why I decided to set this story in Reno. I know it well.”

So today you may find Seaborn in the Downtown Reno Public Library working on his novel. It’s a story he hopes will inspire others going through difficult times, much like the ones he had to endure himself. 

“[It might] sound really egotistical that I'm hoping to inspire somebody else, but that’s the goal,” Seaborn said. “Theoretically, it's supposed to be inspiring that this kid figures out a way to survive after this tragedy that he blames himself for. So I hope it will be an inspiring story.”

Seaborn’s inspiration for the novel was to find a way to give back to the city that has given him so much, particularly at some of the most difficult times of his life. The way he sees it, it’s the least he can do.

He hopes to have the novel finished by the end of this year. 

Share Your Story reporting by Scott King for Our Town Reno

Missing Documents and a House's Resistance in Question

The Little House that Could or Couldn’t Anymore?

At one point, while we looked into the media and City Council fawned over Jacobs Entertainment expansion in downtown Reno, we noticed an Instagram post heralding the continued existence of a little house, in the middle of now bulldozed motels turned into parking lots or staging grounds for possibly out of place Burning Man art.

“Giant shout out to the owner of this cute Lil gal, one of the last remaining actual houses in downtown. 7 motels torn down around it. It now stands completely alone,” the Instagram post cheered on to the resistance. “The owner is asking 5 million, refuses to negotiate, the demolition guy working next door said. Pretty hilarious stuff. It's for lease, too. If I had a shotgun and a rocking chair i'd take it. Stay off my lawn, Jacobs Bullshit Gentrification Co….” it went on, none of which we could verify ourselves.

With the help of an in town activist who knows his way around public information websites, a few months ago, though, we saw that there was an official letter with an option to sell the “cute lil’ gal” to a Jacobs Entertainment related company called Reno Property Manager LLC. Several days ago, wanting to reinvestigate the matter, we found the document listing the option to sell was no longer on the Washoe County Assessor’s Office website.

We called someone in the office who said it’s unheard of for a document to be on the website and then removed. There are mysteries from time to time. What is this one about?

Our Town Reno gets criticized for our style of reporting which includes citizen’s contributions, giving voice to just one person who is struggling as the basis of a micro story, pointing to signs or trends we find worrisome, or taking a picture and asking people what they think of it. This is also crowdsourcing, as people collectively usually know much more than any single reporter would. It’s also raising potential problems in our community, and sometimes not knowing the answer, but at least indicating to others something fishy might be taking place.

Comment collected from Instagram with original photography and research by the Our Town Reno reporting team

Landlords, This is What Happens When the Rent is Too High

Let’s Do the Math

Landlords, this is what happens when rent is too high. This could happen to anyone, and it could very well be the homeowners’ greediness that causes all this havoc.

Okay, let’s set the scene. You’re a single parent with a child. You work full time for $14 [an hour]. You bring home roughly $800 per paycheck. Your bills: $1000 rent, $150 water/sewer, $250 car payment, $150 car insurance.

So let’s do the math. You bring home about $1600 a month and your bills average about $1550, give or take. You’re making it, but barely. (This doesn't even include groceries, internet, cable, cell phone, etc; nor does it include child support).

Now, it’s a really cold December and you get a power bill for $600. (* because you, Slum Lord, will not winterize this house*) How do you pay that? To put it simply, you don’t. Because you can’t. So your power gets shut off. But you know what your lease says? It says you get evicted if your utilities are terminated. So now you’re in court, crying to a judge who doesn’t care, and you have 10 days to get out.

Well, you’re in luck! Because you found somewhere with three days to spare and it’s only $650 a month! But to get in, you have to pass a background and credit check. Which you can’t, because you just got evicted. You’ve never been a criminal, but even if you could pass it, you’re looking at $2300 to move in, after paying the deposit and first month’s rent.

Illustration of a recent Our Town Reno photo in downtown Reno.

Living in Your Car and then Losing Your Child and Your Job

Time’s up! Landlord shows up at 7 am with the police and changed your locks. So now you’re living in your car with your seven year old daughter and everything you need to get by. You tried to get a storage unit, but you don’t have a billing address so they won’t sell one to you, so you could only take what would fit in your backseat.

You pay to shower at local truck stops and eat whatever can be cooked in a gas station microwave. Someone sees you and your daughter living like this and calls CPS; guess what happens next? They remove your child from your care. As if this isn’t devastating enough, you lose your job too, because “an employee losing their child reflects poorly on this company.”

So now, you apply for an apartment with the region, where the waiting list is three to seven years. Then you go into Walmart to put in an application. When you get back to your car, you see that your back window has been smashed and someone helped themselves to your belongings. Remember that it is December, and really cold, and now you have damage to your only shelter. You call your car insurance, who says your deductible is $1,000 AND they’re going to increase your monthly rate since you’re now “high risk.” You call the homeless shelter as a last resort.....and all their beds are full.

An illustration of an Our Town Reno photo from 4th street.

Do you get the point?

I’ll stop here, because I think you get the point. The people we work with everyday are these people. WE ARE THESE PEOPLE. We are all so close to homelessness and don’t even realize it. All it takes is one unexpected bill, one fender bender, one lay-off, one house fire, etc.

Instead of talking trash about people who are poor or homeless or need assistance, why don’t you try being thankful that you’re not in their shoes... yet.

This is about staying humble and being kind. BE THANKFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE❤

Essay by Monica Mo Plummer shared via Facebook

Why I Wrestle to Help Fight Local Hunger, by Christopher Torres

Following My Own Dreams But Knowing Sadly Others Can’t

My name is Christopher Torres. I am a professional wrestler who made their debut in April of 2019. In juggling training and finding shows that will graciously book me, I’m also a student at the University of Nevada, Reno studying philosophy and journalism.

As we all prepare for the upcoming year of 2020, we’re left to consider what the next step for ourselves are. These are the goals we’ll hopefully achieve, what merits will be met and other imaginations of what could be. For myself, it’s completing my degree, continuing within academia for a second degree all the while attempting to fulfill a dream of titling myself as a successful independent professional wrestler.

The luxury of following a dream, meeting goals and aiming for higher are not shared by all. Cannot be.

In a report conducted by the Department of Housing and Urban Development for 2018, 7,544 individuals reported experiencing homelessness. 2,000 youth in Washoe County reported having experienced homelessness.

Worse yet, Nevada ranks first in the nation for unaccompanied homeless youth. Youth and the houseless community not only within Nevada, but across the United States aren’t given the chance to dream for the faraway future when their concern is finding somewhere to sleep for the night.

Truckee Meadows Tomorrow, a non-profit organization that tracks the quality of life across the Truckee Meadows found that in 2019, 12% of the Washoe County population is in food insecurity. Food insecurity is defined as the inability to feed oneself and/or not knowing when your next meal will be. The Food Bank of Northern Nevada aids in remedying the situation of food insecurity, feeding more than 91,000 people in Northern Nevada, according to their website.

Christopher Torres puts Bruno Baretta in a kneeling key lock submission hold with a crowd watching. Bruno’s tag team partner, Thick Martel, watches from opposing corner. On Nov. 23, Torres will be putting his wrestling skills to benefit helping those in need. Photo courtesy of Victor Jones.

It Takes a Community to Survive

The Food Bank doesn’t operate alone. It takes in donations – money and food are both accepted – as well as accepting help in the forms of volunteering, becoming a partner of the Food Bank and hosting your own event to raise awareness, money and collect food.

That brings the focus then to Headlock on Hunger. Now in its fourth year, Headlock on Hunger is a yearly campaign effort during the months of September to December to not only raise awareness of the issues of homelessness and food insecurity within Washoe County, but to also make efforts to change the situation. 

On Nov. 23, Headlock on Hunger will reach its apex moment for 2019 with an all-ages professional wrestling event to make one large last push for ticket sales, where all proceeds go towards the Food Bank of Northern Nevada.

I have been privileged to not have experienced homelessness or food insecurity in its most extreme form. But the means to achieve this end were reached through hardship no individual or family should be forced to endure, even on a small scale. 

The total amount of barrels that were sent to the Food Bank of Northern Nevada at the conclusion of the 2016 Headlock on Hunger campaign — 48 barrels in total. Photo courtesy of Cory Dayton.

My Own Family Getting Support from the Food Bank

My mother works two full-time jobs. I work a part-time job, but must soon transition to a full-time position. Not to support only myself and lofty dreams, but a household in an area that is continuously facing the continuing trend of gentrification that forces individuals and families to make the decision between buying groceries or paying an ever-rising rent.

My family, immediate and extended, have gone to the Food Bank of Northern Nevada for support. While being privileged enough to not require their support as often as others, they were there when the forces of economic disparity coerced my family to make the choice between rent and food.

The average rent in Reno/Sparks is above $1300 for apartments.

According to a November salary report, “ZipRecruiter is seeing annual salaries as high as $124,001 and as low as $19,479, the majority of salaries within the Average jobs category currently range between $48,460 (25th percentile) to $70,789 (75th percentile) in Reno, NV.”

There exists a large disconnect of what statistics will say of Reno’s economic boom and what the reality is for citizens throughout the overall Northern Nevada area.

The reason I take part in Headlock on Hunger is not for the sake of being on a show to bolster my hopeful career as a professional wrestler, but to do my part in combatting nationwide hunger, starting at home in Reno.

First Person Essay by Christopher Torres shared with Our Town Reno

What's a Poor Boy To Do? An Essay on the Extinction of Weeklies

Driving By Motels and Empty Lots

Motels in Reno, also known as “weeklies,” are going away. Many have already left. They are being replaced by one thing or another, and sometimes little or nothing.

They have been drive-bys for many for such a long time now, for those who drive, have cars,  and places to go. The assumptions and assertions abound. “Blight,” demonized managers, recalcitrant owners, the unhoused who ‘just won’t get busy making their lives and ours better.’ Eyesores all; ‘good riddance,’ we say. We keep driving by on our ways home.

But we are noticing now, if not the weeklies’ declining presence then their eventual gaping absence. What’s happening, we wonder; is something new coming, someone investing, something changing?. We can take solace in imagining something new, clean, glimmering in the sun light of bright Nevada skies. And the ‘happy, shiny people’ who will be there. But for those who depend on the weeklies for a few days of indoor living, a shower, a real bed, until the money runs out again, the options just get fewer and farther away. And as long as the thinking is us/them, these trends will continue.

A Last Step or First Step out of Homelessness?

Last summer, I got to hear an Our Town Reno coordinator talk about housing in and around Reno. He told us that, even while most think of the weeklies as a last step before homelessness, few recognize that they are also often a first step out of it. I have been wrestling with a too strong sense of privileged dualistic thinking. The city and its representatives pose on backhoes and bulldozers while inspectors and ambassadors actuate our collective disdain for disrepair and those who inhabit the weeklies. Tax dollars have gone to build and maintain a number of resources designed to aid, support, and improve the lives of the unhoused and the minimally-housed. We have to face the reality that the problem isn’t those places or those people. It’s that the weeklies remind us, I hope, of how vulnerable we all can be, of how good so many of us have it. The weeklies aren’t the problem; it’s what they remind us of. The unhoused aren’t them. They’re us. Dualisms.

Do Our Weeklies Have Value?

The Nevada Museum of Art gift shop is a favorite stop for me. Among the wonderful, beautiful things they have, I was taken deep into nostalgia by a wooden toy station wagon, reminding me of our three family vacations, my having “the way-back” all to myself, and the exhaust fumes that made me car sick each trip.

As I reminisced, I noticed another option among the toys: the “Lone Cactus Motel.” Just as I was reminiscing about the station wagons, the Lone Cactus reminded me of a motor court we stayed in on one vacation trip. I suspect that my dad liked to leave home at about bedtime because it would ensure that no time was wasted and, more importantly, increase the chances of quiet. Only once did we stop at night, to stay at a motor court like the Lone Cactus.

I experienced then and understand better now the symbiotic relationship between the station wagons, vacations, and roadside motels. At a recent Nevada Museum of Art/Reno MOMO lecture, an architect reminded us of the historical value of so many of our motels, naming architects and movements and eras and design epics. There seems to be real value in the weeklies, not just from the past as reminiscences or for the future as where something new will be.

They are valuable in and of themselves, right now, as examples of midcentury modern design and Reno, proper. Can their physical existence and conceptual richness serve our fellow community members?

What are Our Options Besides NIMBYism?

What’s a poor boy to do? Be happy that something better will replace the weeklies? Be frustrated that those in need are being pushed away? Revel in nostalgia? Preserve for austerity? I saw a proposal not long ago that suggested we give the unhoused a bunch of campers and trailers that need repair, ship them all out into the desert somewhere, and let the unhoused work their newfound mobility into shape. Hyper-bootstraps! Maybe it’s a Cliven Bundy move—put them on BLM land and argue that its “our land” even while we want to put “them” on it, probably for free. Reno Quality of Life planned a citizen’s arrest event to remove anyone looking homeless from a local park. The police beat them to it. ‘Not in my backyard’ or, it seems, the park nearby that belongs to all of us. 

We have options. We can care about these places and, more importantly, about our unhoused and minimally-housed community members. We might be able to rescue weeklies through historic and architectural preservation.

We can celebrate the role of the weekly, the motel, the divorce cottage as essential parts of Reno identity and history. We can do more for the unhoused who have inhabited those weeklies, who are deserving of our compassion and generosity simply because they are human beings and part of our community.

We can make addressing these concerns a matter of public pride rather than problem-solving, of community identity and priority, even marketable identification and commerce.

“Housing is a challenge for many communities. I imagine reading in the paper and seeing on the news that a group of leaders from  . . . looked at what Reno did, and are using Reno’s approach to housing and architectural preservation to . . . ” What I don’t want to imagine is a Reno that keeps driving by. Noticing from the safety of our cars, in the gap between locations and meetings and shopping and . . . requires nothing of us, but neither does it do a thing for any of us. 

Maybe a first step is considering other perspectives. From the other side of those tattered curtains, from beneath the wooden staircases and between the buildings, from a seat on the sidewalk, the perspective is very different. Do we have to get there ourselves before we can care?

Essay and Photos by William J. Macauley, Jr. shared with Our Town Reno

Mimi Geren, Trying to Avoid Choosing Between Shelter and Losing Her Kids

Evicted and Dealing with Child Protective Services

In messages sent to Our Town Reno, Mimi Geren says she was recently evicted, receiving very short notice, saying she had not been properly warned.

“And so were running through the apartment trying to gather as much of our stuff as we can,” she writes. “We have four children that live in our home as well. We couldn't get a U-Haul the next morning. Of course the apartment was very messy when they came to lock us out as we were trying to gather what we could.”

She says police and staff at her former apartment complex called Child Protective Services, who she says indicated they didn’t feel comfortable letting her and her fiance take the children to a motel. She says CPS temporarily placed her kids with friends and one with grandparents.

“They originally told us if we didnt have a place by the 25th they would go legal to take custody,” she wrote Our Town Reno in her messages. “We found a place but can not move in until the 16th of November. CPS has agreed to extend the date and not go legal with our kids providing we move in. We both work and since this has all started we have spent over 1500 dollars on supporting the kids in different houses, motel rent, application fees, food (motel we are in has no microwave ), so if we want hot food we must eat out.”

Without stable shelter daily life can become much more expensive than with.

“Our issue isn’t the extremely high rent but the security deposit.” Green writes, saying her savings are depleted. “We need help and all the agencies I have called ha(ve) told me there are no funds. I even emailed our congressman but have not received a response. I need $1614 to keep my children. Help.”

If you’d like to contact Mimi Geren, please find her on Facebook and message her there. Note, this story is part of Our Citizen’s Forum, and Our Town Reno could not independently verify all the information.

Is the Era of Big Shelters Over and is Reno behind the Curve for New Ideas?

Is the era of big dormitory style shelters over? Is Reno behind or ahead of the curve in reducing the importance of having one big government paid for shelter? Why aren’t we making camping legal in certain spots, with so many empty lots, some of them city owned?

The Big Shelter Model: Not Enough Beds and Too Expensive

Mini tent cities, derided by many, provide a sense of community which doesn’t exist in hierarchy, rule driven shelters. We’ve made the case for them here before. There are other options. Rather than demolishing motels, shouldn’t we turn them into temporary shelter space? What are we doing with those empty lots anyway? Jacobs Entertainment likes to get good press, make splashy donations, but what about using some of the motels they buy into new room by room shelter space rather than creating new parking lots and putting up Burner art?

Don’t people in power understand there can never be enough beds? At the Community Assistance Center on Record street, according to the city’s website, there’s room for 158 men at night, 21 families, six women who are pregnant or with infant and fifty women. However you look at the very imprecise yearly point in time count numbers, that’s just not enough beds.

Shelters are also very expensive to set up. New York City is spending over $2 billion a year on shelters, but that’s not working either.  Los Angeles with its warm weather and deep California pockets also can’t keep up, however hard it tries.

Locally, look at the Eddy House and its years long, very commendable but arduous, effort to get a 24/7 facility for youth living on the streets.   

Numbers for those living without shelter are notoriously imprecise and fluid. One thing is certain costs to keep up with shelter beds are just never met.

What’s the Accountability and Success of Shelters Anyway?

Another obvious question: why aren’t people without shelter more often at the table for helping shape future decisions over programs which impact them? 

How do we test if shelters are good at doing their job, with their affiliated case managers and wraparound services?  What’s the success rate of people staying at the CAC and then getting into permanent housing? Are these numbers kept by anyone, and if so, what are they?

Reno is also notorious for having great ideas and new projects, but very slow follow through. We’ve asked this before and we will ask again. What’s the update to the 2018 plan to move women, families and youth out of the downtown shelter onto part of the Northern Nevada Adult Mental Health Services campus in Sparks for more supportive services?

A screengrab from a video Our Town Reno made of spending a night at the Record street shelter.: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkXoL-vXH9o&t=61s

Should We Imitate Some of Sacramento’s New Approaches or Try Our Own?

Not far away from us, Sacramento is opening two new 100 bed shelters, to be located in more residential areas. Is this something Reno should try as well? We couldn’t even get granny pods approved because of a prevailing NIMBY attitude, so odds might be long.

Dozens of people living without shelter are also being sheltered in a historic hotel in Sacramento, where they have their own rooms. 

What about Jacobs Entertainment not razing so many motels, and offering that option as part of a city or county run program? With all their connections, it seems it would be a breeze for them to set that up.  Save a motel you bought, rather than razing it down, and use the rooms as a shelter option.  

What about making tent cities legal and safe? The City of Reno is setting up a new spot for volunteer meals. Why not set up a new spot for camping with showers and bathrooms and some security? People we’ve interviewed said they would pay five dollars a night for that. However you would run it, it would probably be much cheaper than the downtown shelter.

Another screengrab from our video of a night at the main downtown shelter. Not being able to bring all possessions inside is what makes many hesitant of using the shelter.

Why People Avoid Shelters

During our reporting with Our Town Reno, we have heard many reasons why people might avoid the downtown shelter.  The top reason given by most is that their pets aren’t allowed. Their pets are their most trusted friend, so going to the shelter means not having a pet and a friend anymore. 

Couples aren’t allowed. The amount of possessions one can bring is very limited, so if you don’t have storage, you have to hide your stuff, and there’s no guarantees it will be there in the morning.

Inside the shelter, people often complain they can get some of the possessions they bring in stolen, like a good pair of shoes.  They may have a fear of crowds, social anxieties, claustrophobia which will make them want to avoid a big shelter as well. 

Once inside, it can feel like prison.  For people who have lost so much in their lives, they might want some control over their daily and nightly rituals, which a shelter will not allow, given all the rules including very early wake ups. Shelters also often look and feel drab and austere.  Where are all the colors and comforts? 

Teens and young adults on the streets, especially LGBTQ, feel discriminated against.  They also feel unsafe at shelters.

Many avoid shelters because of fights, the cursing, the cliques, the loud noises, the sometimes angry staff, and also the consistent fear of contracting bed bugs, lice, or scabies.  There’s also people coughing, and risks of catching tuberculosis, the flu or other diseases from others nearby.

Some were victims of rape or assault at a shelter once and never want to experience a shelter ever again, no matter how difficult the conditions outside.  They also want to avoid people who may not be sober. Victims of domestic abuse are afraid their abuser might be at the shelter.

So when those living on the streets are pointed toward the shelter, is that really always a good idea? Shouldn’t we look at other options for those who have run out of options? Shouldn’t we try harder to help the most vulnerable in our community? Shouldn’t we stop criminalizing poverty and try to help rather than sweep and cite those living outside?

Our Town Reno Oped, September 2019

Any Good Ideas at the Federal Level to Address the Affordable Housing Crisis?

State and Local Failures to Act Structurally

While the Nevada legislature failed to pass  Senate Bill 398, which would have reinforced the rights of local governments to come up with their own solutions to the ongoing affordability crisis, and local authorities keep pushing small projects rather than structural changes, such as rent control to name just one possibility, should we turn to federal solutions for the future?

The White House itself recently said it would look to federal programs to have local governments modify rules currently slowing down new construction. This comes as there is a massive housing shortage across the country from starter homes to rental apartments. There is also a lack of available construction workers in certain regions, including Reno, which has had a mostly prudent market since the Great Recession.

A recent study from Harvard University’s Joint Center for Housing Studies says last year there was a deficit of a quarter million new homes. Meanwhile, almost half of all renters nationally now have to spend more than 30% of their incomes on housing. More than 10 million households spend more than half their incomes on rent, a problem increasingly moving from poor families to the middle class. This explains why, even if the topic was not directly addressed during the recent Democratic Party debates to kick off the 2020 election cycle, housing policy is still a major concern.

A recent announcement from the White House website is a response to zoning and land-use regulations which have dramatically increased over the past 40 years. According to the press release: “Costly regulations have contributed to a shortage of affordable homes.” But is the easing of barriers to private construction the key solution?

Diagonal Lines Between the White House, YIMBYS, NIMBYS and Democratic Candidates

On the issue of creating more affordability, it seems, the differences are more nuanced and more diagonal than along habitually engulfed party lines.

The recent White House statement concludes with a commitment to improve “access to sustainable home mortgages,” enabling access to federal housing programs to finance first home purchases and underlining a program started last year to “encourage more landlords to participate in the Housing Voucher Program, the country’s largest rental subsidy program.”

Is this a YIMBY / upzoning proposal (Yes In My Backyard) as opposed to NIMBY (Not in My Backyard) such as Reno’s failed attempt to allow granny pods because of opposition from homeowners in affluent neighborhoods?

Some cities such as Minneapolis are trying this route by eliminating single-family zoning within city limits, while Seattle changed zoning codes in several neighborhoods to allow denser housing.

There are fears the White House will want to defund much used Community Block Development Grants from areas resisting deregulation.

Democratic 2020 frontrunners such as Kamala Harris and Elizabeth Warren have both suggested similar ideas, even though often more nuanced and attached to other proposals. More progressive platforms tend to favor public housing and community land trusts over new market-rate solutions.

Brooke Noble has become a leading activist in Reno on the affordable housing crisis issue. She recently spoke at a downtown Reno Bernie Sanders rally, and then appeared in a video for his campaign: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBQ4al_Z9oQ

Pressure, Talking Points and Precise Plans

The White House approach seems to rely on pressure for local and state authorities to move on deregulation, a process which has so far failed at the legislative level in California, dividing the Democratic party there. California State Senator Scott Wiener’s SB 50 bill would have modified single-family zoning codes, but it has been delayed amid concerns from poorer neighborhoods it would bring about more gentrification, rent hikes and displacement and also opposition from rich neighborhoods not wanting extra density.

A popular refrain is that housing should be a human right, and why not? but how do we turn that slogan into a reality rather than just an aspiration?

Bernie Sanders it seems has focused more on the problem than the minutia of possible solutions. "It is not acceptable that, in communities throughout the country, wealthy developers are gentrifying neighborhoods and forcing working families out of the homes and apartments where they have lived their entire lives," he wrote recently in the Las Vegas Sun.

Julian Castro, who impressed in the first Democratic debate in Miami June 26th, and with experience as a Secretary of Housing and Urban Development during the Obama administration, says he would increase the number of housing vouchers as well as spending on affordable housing, while also providing a refundable tax credit to renters who spend more than 30% of their incomes on housing. Senator Kamala Harris, the winner in many accounts of the second debate June 27th, wants a renters' tax credit of up to $6,000 for families making $100,000 or less.

Senator Elizabeth Warren who has been gaining ground on Bernie Sanders has even more pinpoint ideas, such as a $10 billion grant program that would fund parks, roads or schools in return for land-use reform, followed by $500 billion in spending on affordable housing.

There was disappointment from some quarters affordable housing wasn’t discussed directly during the Democratic debates. There was discussion though of income inequality and the need for higher wages. But where is the emergency, and why isn’t this an absolute priority for the White House or a question being directly asked during election debates?

Oped by Our Town Reno, June 30, 2019

Becoming Friends with James McGeein, a Drifter Handyman and Master Splinter

A First Exchange on a Cold Day

James McGeein, a 50 year old Southern California native who has been in Reno for the past 20 years, is quick to share a smile and a few words of wisdom if you met him. The first time I met James I was working at a bar in downtown Reno. It was the middle of winter and if anyone knows Reno it’s a haven for barreling winds and severe weather patterns that make you feel as if you were in the Arctic.

Assuming that this raggedy looking man was getting out of the cold for a second I prepared to ask him to leave, as my company has a no loitering policy. He walked through the front door with a snow shovel and about three layers of clothing that looked as if they hadn’t ever been washed, and my first thought was, “damn, how am I going to kick this guy out when it’s freezing outside?”.

He walked up to my counter, but instead of asking for money or food, he asked me if we needed help removing the snow from our sidewalk out front. Not knowing what to do I texted my boss asking if this was something he was interested in or something that we could even do. As I waited for the response James indulged me with his cunning speech, “I travel around downtown from bars to restaurants asking employees and managers if there is any work I can do for a little spare change or some extra food lying around.”

I have heard the story a million times before. A lot of people will share a compelling story to get you to give them money; however, in James’s eyes he saw a trade opportunity. He told me he does oddball stuff for businesses around town, and in return they offered him some cash or some extra food from excess fries to extra pizza. I told him if he wanted to do the job I could work something out in his favor and without skipping a beat he shook my hand and walked outside to clear the sidewalk.

It has now been a few months since I met James and he still makes his runs from business to business, but at my bar we don’t mind if he sits around and entertains us with funny jokes and unbelievable stories that make you wonder what this guy has been through... “It’s been as exciting as a rollercoaster and as disastrous as a dirty needle,” he once told us. He’s quite blunt with his words, but in the way a boisterous relative would give you advice at a family barbecue. It seems he’s a realist, and doesn’t shy from saying what’s on his mind which from his past you might understand why.

The Life Story of James McGeein

Being a journalist I was very intrigued by him, and asked him for the chance to sit down and dive into how he survives day-to-day. Over a beer and some good food he told me stories, jokes, and how it is to be in his shoes. I, as the writer of this piece, am simply a vehicle for the incredible life story of James McGeein.

Growing up his family was split, his mother staying back in Southern California, while his dad moved up to the Lake Tahoe area. As a kid he spent weekends with his dad and on weekdays he made long eight hour bus rides back to his mom. He went to school, but said he never did well and was more focused on working to help his family out. He said he liked coming to Tahoe because it was a chance to feel free from obligation. He and his dad would go skiing and snowboarding every Friday and Saturday, then would head to the South Shore part of Tahoe to do some gambling and sit at a local hole in the wall restaurant.

Life changed very quickly for James though. He moved to Reno in his early twenties to pursue a decent job where he could provide for himself while taking care of his dad. Finding a job wasn’t hard he said, but finding a job with his background meant minimum wage and maximum hours to survive. He’s worked at almost every casino, he’s been a busboy at local eateries, and even a maintenance worker at some motels in town. He’s never made enough to live on his own so he couch surfed from house to house paying people $50-$100 to crash on their couch for a few days. Sometimes he said he’d come back to the house he was staying at and his things would be tossed outside with a note reading you owe me an extra $100 to stay another night. He simply picked his things up and moved on to the next opportunity.

Things weren’t going great for James, but he was making ends meet and was happy to have some sort of roof over his head. However, in 2011 things took a turn in the worst way. James was feeling sick and losing a lot of weight that he attributed to lack of food and the way he lived.

He checked himself into the hospital after he had enough of feeling sluggish all the time, and received news more devastating than any person in his situation should. The doctors said he maybe had one year to live, and the reason he was so skinny was the cancer spreading through his liver to his colon. Being in his 40s he said “I was terrified at first... when doctors tell you you’re going to die you kind of just believe it”.

James quit his job resulting in him being booted out of the house he was staying in and he began the search again. Between treatments at the hospital and falling asleep in alleys James was living a life that some might just give up on, but he knew he had to keep his head straight to battle this situation. He told me the last thing he wanted was for his parents to watch their son die before their eyes.

Not Giving Up after Being Given a Diagnosis of Death

“If you think this sh*ts gonna’ stop me... you don’t know what I have been through,” he said. James wasn’t going to give up because he was sick, the news in a way made him stronger and (made him) learn a lot about who was there for him and who was just looking to take advantage.

He got himself mixed up in some drug situations while dealing with disease and ended making a lot of “regrettable” decisions, but he never gave up. One year after doctors told him the cancer was terminal he walked out of the hospital with a foot long scar on his stomach and cancer free. To commemorate the awful situation he faced, he had ‘WTF’ tattooed under his scar... and yes he said it means What The F*ck.

A man that has been battle tested and couldn’t be broken, James is one hell of a guy that knows how to get work done. My hunch of a deeper story was right, James had ten times the life experience that anyone might have in Reno and it made him savvy.

Not having a stable income or even a bed to sleep in, he went right back to being what I like to call a drifting handyman. The man does everything from selling seasonal items that get donated to him to fixing the plumbing in your store for a much cheaper price than a licensed plumber. “Most people tell me no to fixing things in their stores because insurance reasons, but I try to tell them I’m not there to screw them over.” James said money has been hard to come by, and he’s not interested in getting a house or a car because it’s easier to move around town where he doesn’t have to pay rent.

For thousands of people across Nevada a consistent bed, stable job, and a good meal everyday is unfortunately not a reality. The Reno Area Alliance for the Homeless combined with the Las Vegas Rescue Mission reports that there are more than 6,500 people motel surfing or sleeping out in the city streets between the two cities with 24,900 expected to be homeless at some point in 2019.

Dangerous, Tedious and Helpful Jobs to Survive

For every soul stuck outside there’s a story; some struggling with substance abuse after losing everything, and others curling up at night freezing cold because they didn’t have money for rent. The homeless rehabilitation center in Las Vegas, The Las Vegas Rescue Mission, reports that 1 in 30 American children will experience homelessness and that 51 percent of those kids are under age five. It’s a grim situation that city officials and small volunteer groups around town have tried to address, but maybe not enough.

For many people in a financial dark time banks, loan agencies, and other services that end up charging high interest rates are an easy option. When you don’t have a credit card, any proof of a steady income, or other collateral where do you turn? “There’s money waiting around every corner you look... you just have to know what corners to look around”

When James said this it made me think about the kind of lengths he is willing to go to get a little extra cash in his pocket. He laughed when I asked, and wondered if I was asking about “explicit activities”. I turned very red and stuttered my words trying to track back my question, but before I could say anything he said he was joking and to my relief said he’s never stolen, robbed, or sold himself for money.

To his account the craziest thing he has had to do was standing on a slick snow covered roof in the middle of a storm to clear a gutter that was causing a leak in a building. James said the company gave him a long stick and snow shovel and said have fun. As he reached the part of the roof where the gutter was located he slipped on some ice that was covered by snow and began sliding towards a 30 foot drop off.

Just before sliding off, his foot hit a pipe protruding from the roof and stopped him from falling to an uncertain fate. Dangerous jobs like that were uncommon he said, jobs mostly included cleaning hotel lots, shoveling snow, or the occasional fixer-up kind of job where he would help contractors with various construction jobs.

The most money he’s made in a day was from an older lady who was being forced out of her apartment. Seeing the woman struggle to carry some of the heavier things he gladly walked over and asked if she would like some help getting the items in her van. At first he said she refused and told him to “fuck off”, but he insisted that he helped and said he didn’t want any money. The woman reluctantly saying yes, they both got to work. “It took about an hour of back breaking work to lift all of it into the van,” James said, and after they had finished the woman came up to James and handed him a folded up bill. It was the first of the new blue 100 dollar bills that he’s ever held. With tears in his eyes he embraced the woman for what she didn’t have to do.

Everyday that I have spent with or seen James it’s always a very similar greeting... “I’m doing good, I woke up so that’s a positive” he says, or “God’s great, and beer is good, and I’m still here”.

Using a popular Dierks Bentley song quote and joking all the time it was hard not to see the good man he was. He keeps high spirits while making his way around town which he says makes it easier to ask people for jobs.

He told me he became good friends with a girl that worked at a local pizza shop. He would sit in the restaurant on late night weekends when the woman would work alone and act as security to make sure she could get home safe. “There was the occasional problem, but I think she just liked the stories we’d share all night”.

Being Compared to the Master Splinter

James isn’t necessarily the security type standing at 5’7, 140 pounds with balding gray hair. His most notorious feature, his beard, was a long gray splattered one that split off his chain with two long strands almost reaching his belt line. Before the woman at the pizza joint quit her job she worked one last shift with James watching the door.

Later that night when she was closing up she asked James over to the kitchen and handed him an entire large pizza for the road. She looked at him and said thank you for being my Master Splinter. For those of you who don’t know, Splinter is the character who watches over the Ninja Turtles and teaches them with wise words and karate.

Not quite the same relationship between James and the pizza worker, but she said he looked like the character with the way his beard was and it stuck with James. Now, when I ask around town about James I oftentimes have to refer to him as ‘Splinter’ for people to recognize him. Truthfully, a fitting nickname to the father-like, caring character that he is.

There is a perception of homeless people not only in the Reno area, but worldwide that they are mentally unstable, not willing to work, or people that you should avoid. This couldn’t be further from the truth for millions of people left homeless.

I am not saying that all people in this situation are hard working and or are able to work like James is, but it is sad to see society categorize this group as such. Not all is lost however. Groups like Our Town Reno and the Salvation Army have taken it upon themselves to go out into the community to learn about the situations some of these people go through and help in any way they can. James agreed with me when I said the way to help is to recognize what they can do instead of focusing on what they can’t.

While finishing up the last of three interviews I had with James “Splinter” McGeein I asked him if there was one thing he would like people to know. He left me with a quote that, although may seem like the cliche of don’t judge a book by its cover, really hit hard;

“Just because I wear the same clothes everyday, my hair is tattered, and my hands are worn don’t look at me like I can’t do anything because I fight everyday to turn my flaws into my strengths”.

You can find James walking around the Truckee river in downtown Reno from sunup to sundown and if you happen to pass him give him a hello and I am sure you’ll get a story worth your time.

Story by Tyler Williams shared with Our Town Reno

At the Edge of Prose: A Look Inside Donald Griffin’s Genre-Bending Work

The Reno Matrix

Donald Griffin speaks like he writes. He weaves through images and ideas, the last word of every phrase seeming to trigger a parallel line of thought. He can theorize about unseen dimensions and institutional corruption in the same sentence. Before you know it he’s talking about Sci-fi movies and the descriptive acuity of Stephen King, and after awhile you get the sense that it all relates to each other.

Griffin is a big The Walking Dead fan, and though no actual zombies appear in his writing, the motif of human brains hijacked by forces beyond their comprehension recurs throughout his body of work.

As he puts it, “That’s what we are in a way. Walking around not knowing shit.” In his work, Griffin calls this phenomenon “The Reno Matrix,” an invisible veil hiding what really controls the day to day reality of a changing city. He represents the unseen influence of media with the ubiquity of devices:

Trust issues with computers, disconnecting TV’s, and threw away a hundred phones.

These cuts and bruises prove I learn from hands on.

Without choice of red or blue pill,

I suddenly woke up in the Reno Matrix.

For Griffin, there’s more to life in Reno than what its citizens perceive with their senses. What we see only tells part of the story. This perspective is especially important considering Reno’s evolving climate.

Corporate influences like Amazon and Tesla are changing the city along every dimension. The population is growing. Areas like Midtown and downtown are being gentrified, housing is suddenly inordinately expensive.

A city formerly characterized by low cost of living, dive bars, and casinos is becoming what locals are calling “Mini Portland.” Staple bars like Shea’s Tavern are now bordered by gastropubs and German beerhauses. Midtown’s hip influence extends north toward downtown. The university expands south across the freeway, leveling motels and brick houses.

For many residents, the changes are welcome. But for a significant population of Reno citizens, there’s a steadily shrinking amount of space to exist in.

Who Does the City Belong To?

The city is redefining what kind of place it wants to be, what sort of person it’s supposed to be for. Griffin’s piece, “Who Does the City Belong to?,” (part of which is in video above) questions whether he has a place within the redefined Reno.

For Griffin, there’s a disconnect between the the growth narrative told by developers, hipsters, young professionals and the lived experience of many of its citizens. The narrator states, “The world has an order held in place and designed to keep you in a governmental haze. Hibernating in a lack of knowledge.”

Griffin’s writing punctures the illusion suggested by Reno’s recent development. He comes from a place outside of the mainstream narrative, and it's his experience that allows him to see institutional corruption in a way that’s distinct from Reno citizens happy about the city’s recent changes.

This is part of what attracted Griffin to writing. He writes, as he puts it, for “the people still trapped inside the boxes I used to be trapped in.”

One such box, for Griffin, was addiction. “I was drinking and drugging for 23 years,” he says. He’s been homeless and has had people close to him die of overdose, what he calls the “street form of suicide.”

When he got sober, Griffin felt that he had “woken up” from the Reno matrix. He’s been fortunate to find “the keys” to the life he wants to lead, and he hopes to be a positive influence on the community in the same way that his own influences led him to consider writing in the first place.

Poetry written and read by Donald Griffin is on the Our Town Reno podcast here: https://ourtownreno.simplecast.fm/a7e4a84f

Different Realities

Griffin thinks of reality as being different for everyone. For him, writing is the bridge between different people’s perception of reality, allowing him to show where different perspectives diverge and overlap: “You don’t know my world, but I can try to take my world and blend it in with your world.” Writing allows Griffin to talk to himself on paper, and it’s his hope that these conversations will be beneficial not only to those currently suffering from addiction and “living street,” but also to those who might not be aware of the challenges faced by Reno’s homeless and housing insecure citizens.

This type of perspective is becoming more and more crucial as the divide between the Midtown crowd and those checking into shelters and weekly motels grows wider. It’s easy to assume that Reno’s changing landscape is a natural progression, that gentrification is a normal consequence of economic growth. But what makes space for one person can push someone else to the margin, and Griffin’s writing attempts to amplify the perspective of people whose experience contradicts the mainstream narrative. “Normal is a speed on the dial of a washing machine,” Griffin writes, and pieces like Reno Matrix and Who Does the City Belong to? question the assumptions behind mainstream ideas of normalcy.

As a writer, poet and activist, Griffin looks back on his own childhood which went errant and says he wants to focus his attention on giving youths more options to thrive.

When Bad Habits of Youth “Become You”

From Griffin’s perspective, some significant factors leading to homelessness in Reno are also overlooked by conventional understanding. A big part of the problem, he says, has to do with Reno’s more notorious industries.

The city’s bars and casinos offer a fairly lively party scene, but for young adults between 16 and 20, Griffin says there’s “nothing to do.” While The Holland Project (Reno’s only dedicated all ages show space) offers about three to four events every week, the lack of structure for young people’s lives, coupled with the town’s party culture, is tailor made for underage drinking and drug use. Experimentation turns to habit fairly quickly, Griffin says, and before you know it, what was your habit “becomes you.” Griffin believes that underage drinking and drug use leads to teenage pregnancy and youth addiction, both of which he sees as significant factors leading to youth and continued homelessness.

The solution for Griffin needs to come at both the personal and institutional levels. “Not everyone is gonna go to college,” he says, and high schools need to offer trade alternatives to the traditional high school to UNR to office job track that isn’t feasible for some Reno students. The educational institutions also need to inspire students to pursue their interests rather than simply shuffling them out into a world as potential employees. Griffin says: “Ask the kids, ‘what’s your dream,’ not ‘who do you wanna work for?’” Offering engaging alternatives and encouraging kids to pursue their passions will, Griffin believes, remedy the feeling of aimlessness and hopelessness that inspires kids to start using in the first place.

All-Out Activism and Engagement

In addition to his writing, Griffin strives to enact change in any way he can : “I got my life back, and I wanna do the same for somebody else.” He’s worked with New Generation Dare (video trailer above), Our Town Reno, The Holland Project, and he is a regular member of the Speaker’s Bureau at ACTIONN (Acting in Community Together in Northern Nevada), whose recent lobbying efforts were instrumental in the advancement of the Washoe County Affordable Housing Trust Fund. His schedule is constantly full, but Griffin says his newfound ambition is not an attempt to “fix the past.” He instead looks to the future, constantly in pursuit of “the outcome” of his actions and efforts. Writing and community activism have enhanced his life, and he wants to spread that sense of power to those that need it most.

Griffin calls this desire the “poet’s curse,” the ability to speak for “the ones who aren’t able to” on their own behalf. His writing attempts to break people out of their day to day assumptions, and Griffin uses digressions, cryptic images, and symbolism to represent how tied up people are within their assumptions.

Griffin takes some pleasure in making his readers work: “I don’t want to give ‘em too much. I want to put it in words they can understand, but I want to lose them a little bit. I wanna give them just enough detail and bring it back and give them the reality in 3D.”

Griffin is a fan of Quentin Tarantino movies, and the non-linear structure made famous in films like Pulp Fiction has clearly influenced his style. It’s precisely this disjointed approach, the type of structure that encourages readers to discover meaning rather than accepting easy interpretations, that a changing city like Reno needs right now.

Shortened Version of an Essay Written by Drew Willis shared with Our Town Reno

"You Just Gave me 28 Days of Smiles," Reaching out to a Family in a Motel

A Box of Cookies

Yesterday, I came across several people in need of a voice. I recently started organizing donations for families in motels in downtown Sparks. I am heartbroken for these families.

They are working full time jobs. They do not have substance abuse problems. They drive cars that are nicer than mine and make their payments on time for them.

They are in great credit standing with the motel. They pay at minimum one thousand dollars a month for their room and they are raising their children there.

I am just a community donor. I network and buy food and items in bulk to provide extra support for these families.

Yesterday I was contacted by a family that had no food. They commute by bus. They work and are raising a child in this motel. I immediately went to the grocery store and purchased one hundred dollars in food. They only can cook with a microwave and a mini fridge.

When I arrived and met the little girl I must say I was blown away. She was so grateful and so hungry and looking at her face when she saw the food is imprinted in my mind.

I bought a 28 count box of chips and she said, "You just gave me 28 days of smiles." She is 8!

Joining the Fight

I need our community to join the fight.

We have honest, hardworking families, living in unfair conditions. These landlords who are saying you must make four times the rent in order to qualify to live here should be held in moral contempt. These folks work, make their car payments, or their bus fair. They never miss the rent at the motel and they have good hygiene and attend church services.

Yet they have to live this way due to rental communities unwilling to ungrinch themselves.

These are Our children, Our neighbors, Our community.

I am only one person but I make a difference everyday in anyway I can. The taxpayers really need to look at them and then look at our city leaders. I am not an anarchist. I pay my taxes.

And in turn I see art being leased. I see housing that starts between $500,000 - $750,000 being built. I see these council members approving irresponsible business ventures like an AXE bar.

We need a change. These children growing up in motels will eventually become the next economy. Are we giving them due diligence? I think not. We need their generation to thrive and laugh and learn.

Washoe County is failing its citizens and a major change must be made NOW! We must do better! Thank you for letting me share my story.

1st Person Essay by Elizabeth Monick shared with Our Town Reno

Changing Places

Good-bye to this craftsman style, Chinese influenced, UNR gateway area house, neatly set up to move to another neighborhood, Reno’s Old Southwest.  The university is putting a massive new Business Building in its place.

Porthole windows and Chinese detail grace the building.  But a piece is missing!

In pieces, the house will be able to get around town.

Once, the house was part of a whole neighborhood of such houses leading up to the university’s entrance.  Then, when the freeway was put in in order to take visitors right to the casinos’ doors, the house faced right onto the freeway.  Prior to the houses, Native Americans from the Washoe tribe lived there.

 Soon, not craft but business will welcome visitors to the university.  Traces of the past will be hard to find.

Photos and Essay by Deborah Achtenberg shared with Our Town Reno

Change, Rolling Around Town

It looks lonely.  What used to be on the other side of the fence?  What conversations might have taken place?  Who fell in love there, or played on the lawn?  What did they see in their future?  How might it have informed ours?

At some point, I imagine, new neighbors came in–in more impersonal buildings, with gambling tables and slot machines inside.  Who lived in the old building then?  Owners?  Dealers?  Waitresses?

"Then another group of new neighbors came in, temporary visitors staying in motels featuring appealing design and easy access–or so I imagine.

Behind them, today, are new buildings, signaling changes to come.  We don’t know what the changes will be–since the new owners have not told us–but we have allowed their unnamed futures to push out our connections to the past.

Change is the life of cities, of course–but who owns it?  Who controls it?  Who has a right to the city?

Good-bye, old friend.  In your new spot–if you’re going to one–who will be able to see your past, the connections that made you what you were, the milieu that might suggest a new one to us?  Instead, our reaction to you will be an abstract nostalgia–uninformed and unconnected.

Writing and Photography by Deborah Achtenberg shared with Our Town Reno

In Local Solidarity of Unist'ot'en Camp

At Our Town Reno we salute #heroesofreno who help each other as well as #activistsofreno who support and fight for important causes worth fighting for. We must also always remember Reno is itself on land taken over from the Washoe people. Below is an account of a recent protest at the Believe statue in support of the Unist’ot’en clan which stands in the way of oil and gas pipelines. What makes their ongoing action unique is that the territory they are trying to protect within northern British Columbia in Canada has never been given up by treaty.  They say they are fighting to preserve rivers and creeks from contamination for future generations.

"Xótchítl gave a speech about the horrors of the militarized police attacking innocent land protectors, and the importance of protecting every bit of clean water we have left,” participant Tara Tran said of the event. Photo provided to Our Town Reno by Louis Magriel.

An Intensifying Movement

The Unist’ot’en clan, part of the Wet'suwet'en nation in the occupied territories of British Columbia, Canada, have been protesting the planning of several large pipelines which would run through their traditional territories. Conflicts with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) over the Indigenous presence on their own traditional land, which they still retain unceded original title over, have intensified in the past few weeks.

Solidarity events have popped up in several places in North America to protest the intrusion of the corporate energy industry and police into Unist'ot'en territory, and to affirm the power and legitimacy of the Indigenous camp.

In Reno, the solidarity took to the streets as Unist'ot'en supporters marched from the Believe sign to the Reno Arch, took pictures under the Arch, and marched back to the Believe sign, chanting "No Pipelines!" and "What do we do when our children are under attack? Stand up, Fight back!"

“What happens upstream comes downstream,” supporters said. Photo provided to Our Town Reno by Louis Magriel.

A Place for Healing

As much as the gathering was a call to action, it was also a place for healing, and a reminder that in the face of generations of trauma and the evils of today, the Indigenous peoples will not be silenced and won’t stop fighting. In that same spirit, Xótchítl reminded the supporters present that "UNISTOTEN HEALS." Supporters also affirmed plans to do a fundraiser for Unist'ot'en Camp in the coming weeks.  More info here: http://unistoten.camp/

Reporting by Louis Magriel provided to the Our Town Reno Citizen’s Forum

"Houris" by Stephen "Pops" Popovich with VOICE

Reconnecting with Life after Self-Exile in the Streets

Perhaps there is something to those 72 Houris promised in the Koran. Not the whole virgins in paradise, milk and honey thing but more of a touching of souls thing. I have been pondering on things like this more and more lately. Over the past year or so there have been so many changes in my life. I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers.      

I will never forget the day I was “ Recalled to Life." This was delivered to me by a sawed off, over caffeinated, punk rocker who I have come to love. She was the first person in many years to see something in me. To this day, I wonder what it was and why we seemed to “click” with so little effort. She brought me back from a self imposed exile. I had all but quit on life.

Since that day I have been trying to re-learn life in a more open and involved world. This has not always been easy. I had spent my years on the Street building up this armor of indifference. Not caring had been the method I used to avoid the pain of life. Caring, whether about people or ideals, leaves you vulnerable. It is so much easier just to wall yourself off from the world. Vulnerability, out on the Street, is like a drop of blood in the water, it will bring the sharks down on you.

A post Popovich recently posted on his Facebook feed.  After years of keeping his distance from others, he says he's getting back into life with others. 

“Without treatment, a year, perhaps a bit more”

Opening yourself up again goes against all of the old survival instincts. I would like to think that it had to be Kismet that brought us together, the first of my Houris.

At the time of my greatest challenges, a beautiful, compassionate soul entered into my life. She has been with me through Heart Attack and Lung Cancer, Chemo, Radiation and Recovery, always as my friend. Yet, her greatest gift to me has been the shepherding of me, gently back into a society that I had abandoned.

Over the past year, circumstances beyond my control have forced me into a world full of Doctors, Nurses, Social Workers and Therapists. My life had been changed by a few simple words ...  “Without treatment, a year, perhaps a bit more”.

Those  words, oddly enough, provided a new sense of clarity in my life. I was in a bit of shock, obviously, as we left the doctor's office that afternoon. The decision for treatment was a no brainer. I now had a very real goal, literally, in my life, surviving Stage III B Adenocarcinoma. Having so recently re-joined the Human Race, I made up my mind that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on it.

The world of Doctors and treatments is complicated, sometimes mind-bendingly so. You need a lot of friends. I was bred with some manners and over the years I developed a bit of charm. I used them both shamelessly, it was the only thing I had to work with. Little things like remembering names and being polite became important. I built up my connections at St. Mary’s and around town.

A micrograph of the type of the Adenocarcinoma cancer.

Accompanied with Honesty and Respect

All through this journey, my Houris have accompanied me. Sometimes for the long haul and sometimes just long enough to get me over the next hill.

Some inspired, some counseled, others brought nothing but smiles and laughter. Each gave a little of themselves. I cannot find the words to describe what I have felt. Magic is as close as I can get.

These souls have managed to touch my heart. My Houris -- their efforts have made it so much easier to maintain a positive attitude. Shared compassion, moral support, unasked for and freely given. I have never read Hillary Clinton’s book It takes a Village, yet I have embraced the concept in the title.

No matter what the crisis, having friends, people who care, will make a major difference in your recovery. Houris you meet along the way provide access to new sources and help to build your support family. All that is required is honesty and respect for each other. Meeting my Houris, becoming friends, has been the best part of my illness.

Another story Popovich is working on above as part of the therapeutic writing workshop.

Surviving Treatment

I could do pages on the joys of Radiation Therapy, the fun of Chemo. I’ll skip over most of it.

Each morning as I was positioned to go under the Cyber Knife, I followed the advice of one of my Houris. “Think of it as a Time Machine” and so I did.

For all 32 sessions after the Nurses had left and closed the six inch thick, lead-lined door I would envision some sunrise or vista from my past.

My body lay still as the Cyber Knife whirred, buzzed and hummed around me. I watched sunrises in my mind. After five minutes or so I would hear the words “Relax we’re done,” and I would slowly return.

Chemo was harder, there are a lot of needles involved and I really hate needles.

The Houris of the Infusion Center were gentle and missed only rarely.

An Excruciating Recovery

Sitting quietly while a witches brew of toxins is pumped into your body is hard. Meditation and the knowledge that there would be a little steroid bump the next day made it easier.

I was lucky I missed most of the side effects people had so gleefully told me about. I lost some hair. After seven long weeks my treatment was done and the real fun part of chemotherapy began.

To celebrate my freedom from treatment, I took in a baseball game with friends. This would be one of my last good days. Throat swollen shut by radiation, I couldn’t enjoy a hot dog, drinking a beer was hard.

Over the next couple of weeks, everything I was told about chemo came true. I was sick as a dog, so sick that as I lay in a fetal ball on my bed, I wished for death.

As part of his reengagement with society, Popovich has gotten involved in Reno city council meetings. 

Watched Over and Starting a New Phase

Through all of this, my Houris watched over me, some in person, others by phone, one from across the country. I had reached out in fear and need and she had responded. During this last phase, I was miserable. I couldn’t eat. I lost 25 pounds I couldn’t spare. Weak as a kitten, my body trying to purge the accumulated poison from itself. The worst weeks of my life, I doubt I could have made it through this by myself.

At first my recovery was slow, it took months to gain six pounds and go over 130 pounds again ... 20 more to go. Regaining my strength is an ongoing challenge requiring constant work.

Through all of this I’ve had half a dozen of my Houris trying to fatten me up both physically and mentally. Keeping my spirits up. This oddball crew of friends: Therapists, Social Workers, Nurses and Bartenders is the core of my support group. A family of like-minded souls who with their compassion, have made me a better person. I feel honored to call these people my Friends.

Next month, I start a new phase in my recovery. This one should be easier, I have the benefit of past experience and a more positive attitude towards life. I have built a community of kindred spirits, my Houris, in whom I have complete trust.

With these people and others I meet as I go through surgery and treatment at UC Davis, I will get through this. I hope that I’m not limited to just 72 Houris. Each of these kind souls, in their own way has made me a better person... given me a sense of belonging, of being a part of something bigger and the desire to make it better. Having a purpose makes life worth living.

Writing by Stephen Popovich from the VOICE writing workshop shared with Our Town Reno

I Walk Around in Circles, Lost Boy Lodge and Art by Wendy Wiglesworth with VOICE

I WALK AROUND IN CIRCLES

I walk around in circles

most of the time

maybe thinking they're all afraid

of what I might find

about them or me

I'm not quite sure

but I can tell you they're definitely scared for sure

because I'm different and they plainly see

that I totally know where I'm at

But they don't

I think maybe they never will see,

unlike them I have the will to wake up on the daily

and survive all this shit

please understand it's making me sick

sick and tired

every single night

I guess I missed my flight

but I know it's not without good reason

too many people here are committing treason

and there's not many who can call them out on that

me I fucking live for that

and not for the pride or the trophy of telling totally opposite

cuz maybe they'll hear it and see it for once

I'm the one that they'll hear it from and believe it and see it

maybe even just once

I only hope because hope is one thing

I think everybody needs

and I guess I'm the asshole but I'm not full of greed

I joke and say it's evil but I know it's straight good

good all day

always for the greater good

but it's really hard which is why I joke

I joke I joke cuz otherwise I would choke

seriously so I'll be the the one that everybody calls when they're pissed off

or have nobody else to blame

because it's all about the greater good

cuz once that's all done I can finally go home

cuz I'm tired I don't know where to go

so walk around Circles here we go.

☆《WENDY》☆

"That's a drawing of the GSR above people camping along the river. It's a money-hungry corporation towering over us." Art by Wendy Wiglesworth

LOST BOY LODGE

 

Poetry and Art by Wendy Wiglesworth from the VOICE writing workshop shared with Our Town Reno

My Story by Lisa Lee with VOICE

My name is Lisa Lee and I experienced the rollercoaster of episodic homelessness for about eight years. I am sharing this story to encourage others to speak their truth and expose their vulnerability. This is vital to our connections with other people and an important element in creating solidarity and educating others. I also mean to disrupt assumptions people often make about people experiencing homelessness and invoke a sense of trauma informed awareness and compassionate interactions.

My story is full of firsts and lasts. Please be aware that it is full of content that may cause discomfort and I will not be offended if you need to walk away as it may trigger some audience members. 

The first time I attempted to come out as lesbian, my mother shot me down stating that if I liked girls, I would “be dead” to her. I was in fourth grade. The first time I drank too much, I was eight. The first time I smoked a cigarette, I was eight or nine. I started smoking weed at 11. That was the only drug I tried until after a violent rape at 13 which resulted in pregnancy. My mom said I had to get an abortion or move out. Her friend raped and molested me for the next year, threatening that if I told anyone, he would kill my mother. Later, I found out that he had sexually abused little boys and girls for years. He was a minister, family counselor, and politician.

I spent my youth bouncing between my grandma’s house located within a high density gang ridden neighborhood—“the hood,” “barrio” and my parents’ home in the boonies. As a kid, I spent a lot of time with a known child molester. My memories are foggy from these early childhood experiences but I am still plagued by glimpses caught within nightmares. The first time I saw someone get jumped I was about nine years old.

Police violence and harassment was rampant in that neighborhood and it was clear that immigrants and poor people were made to know their place by constant police surveillance. Most of my friends from the neighborhood had children young, were stabbed or shot, and most ended up in prison. The cycle of poverty and criminalization of class likely reproduce in future generations as options for mobility foreclose to their parents. According to science, adverse childhood experiences are linked to chronic disease, addiction, incarceration, suicide, and premature mortality.

Many people who experience homelessness are intelligent and creative.

I was in AT since first grade and later in all honors and advanced placement courses and graduated high school a full year early. I worked and had my own apartment my final months of my junior year after getting kicked out of my house and living with my grandma briefly. Shortly after graduating, I packed up my car and the little cash savings I had and went to Seattle where I rented a room in a house full of other poor youths. After not being able to find a job and running out of money, I drove my car and a few items to store in Reno where I sold my car and took a bus back to Seattle. I wanted to get as far as I could from this place. After running out of money and not being able to pay rent, I moved to a nearby park and began my journey of homelessness. I was eighteen years old.

I met a lot of interesting people and grew to love my nomadic existence. I went to Rainbow Gatherings, and Grateful Dead shows before I began a love affair with the ultimate trauma numbing elixir—heroin.

This is really when I became entrenched in the chaos of homelessness. I mostly squatted in abandoned buildings, but also found myself sleeping on cardboard on loading docks and in doorways, in parks, ravines, beaches, forests, and in tent cities. I moved around a lot thinking that addiction was linked to place and finding that everywhere I went, there I was again.

I carried my homelessness with me from Philadelphia to Austin to Dallas, San Diego, San Francisco, Portland, and always returning “home” to Seattle. My daily life centered around survival and staying “well.” During these years, I was assaulted, beaten, shot at, and bent not broken. The experience of living in a young female body meant violence and assaults at the hands of men. It meant waking up to men on top of me, to box cutters in my mouth. It meant living in a hyper vigilant state, always in flight or fight. Afraid of civilians and police. Afraid of losing everything over and over. Afraid of not being able to exist anywhere. I can’t imagine the devastating effects of cortisol and adrenaline production on the body.

I tried numerous paths out of addiction. Methadone, “pill kicks,” cold turkey, and finally treatment on my own accord. Although I relapsed shortly after discharge from treatment, I eventually made my way to freedom from all of this chaos two years later. You see, there was a counselor at the treatment center run by the state that planted a seed. I carried her words and fierce love with me.

She never got to see her seed grow. Her job was a thankless job that focused on the immediacy of detox and the early stages of sobriety. I wish that I could thank her for what she saw in me that I could never see in myself. The last two years of my homelessness and active addiction were full of tough lessons. It was during these years that I delved into polysubstance use with crack cocaine and heroin. There was so much sexual exploitation and violence during this brief period. I ended up living in a tent city and then under a bridge in San Francisco where syringes littered the ground like tainted confetti and people lined up every morning to use the mirror glued to the cement to inject in their necks. This was a time of abscesses and sickness of the type of filth that lodges in your insides as you internalize your social exclusion at the margins. 

The last time I went to jail was around June 2001. The last time I got high on heroin was January 4, 2002. My path out of homelessness took shape when I took a job in a fishery in Alaska where room and board was provided as well as transportation from Seattle to Dutch Harbor. I went there with a focus that I would not return to the same life I had lived and was willing to change at all costs. I kicked methadone while working seven days a week, 12-18 hours per day. My bones hurt, I couldn’t sleep, and worked through waves of nausea and tremors. My mantra was I will never feel like this again. I went to Alaska a broken 26-year-old. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, with rounded shoulders from looking down all of the time. I left Alaska a strong young woman (really, I was ripped) who boldly shook hands and looked everyone in the eyes. I knew who I was and what I was made of. I was in my power. 

Back in the lower 48, I cut ties with everyone and everything from my past. I got a job right away and enrolled in alcohol and drug counseling classes. I took every class they had to offer. I reinvented myself and my priorities.

April 22, 2006, I gave birth to my first child. October 4, 2007 I bought a house. I  worked, and attended school. It was a slow process but true to my street name, Turtle. On May 10, 2012, I had another child with multiple congenital anomalies and a genetic disorder and took care of my dying father on hospice in my home.

In May 2014, I graduated with a BA in anthropology and minors in sociology and religious studies. I was accepted into graduate school, conducted independent fieldwork, research, and fell in love with the mission of HOPES. I finally got a chance to really improve things for my people. My people. It was much more than a job to me.

In December 2017, I earned a master’s degree and in February 2018 I purchased my second house. Can you believe it? Once a broken junkie, now a fearless warrior.

Now in my role as a Program Director at The Life Change Center, I work with individuals affected by their use of opiates which often intersects with homelessness. I get to develop programs that challenge stigma and save lives. I’m part of a team of dedicated professionals ranging from counselors, case managers, therapists, and peer recovery and support specialists. This is my passion. It’s what I live and breathe. It’s what keeps me up at night, it’s what I research in my free time, it’s what wakes me in the morning. It also rips all of my scabs off everyday, the wounds I thought were healed. It triggers anxieties and motivates me to stay the course. It keeps me grounded and gives me gratitude that I stand on this side of the path. A lot has changed in my life in the sixteen years I have been housed. Addiction and homelessness tore me down to my foundation. I hit bottom and with a spoon and a syringe I kept digging to see if the bottom had a basement. My recovery journey taught me how to build everything back up, from the foundation, and live a life worth living. How to repurpose from rubbish.

My path out of homelessness did not involve traditional services or service providers that work every day to end homelessness. Although without youth drop-in centers and community clinics, I probably would not be here today. Those lovely folks gave me just enough humanity to not become completely feral, though I was wily and skittish.

The friendships and compassion of other people like me—my tribe, so to speak, are what really kept me alive and kept me going. Although I lost far too many radiant friends to drugs or violence, I would like to mention a few of them: Little Stevie, a kind and funny young man was burned to death as someone poured gasoline on him and lit him on fire as he slept. Squid was stabbed to death. Frenchie is dead. Boyd is dead. Alex is dead. Raven, Kevin, Cunt, Chuckie, Teddy, and so many others are dead.

And my sweet Indio died of an overdose and was found a week later with his dog leashed to his leg. Good people taken too soon. The camaraderie, sense of community, and love from the folks I camped with or squatted with is unmatched in places I have experienced as a housed person. In fact, a few people that I suffered the streets with are still in my lives, every one of them has a Master’s degree, and every one of them works as a service provider to help the community we love so much. 

You see, the term homeless denotes that a person has no place of belonging. In our culture, we construct the term “home” with cultural idioms like “home is where the heart is,” “home is where you hang your hat,” etc. When an entire group of people are socially imagined as an amorphous blob that negates a sense of belonging anywhere, the sting becomes internalized.

Each moment, each day, in each city, one is reminded that they don’t belong in these places. One cannot use the restroom to relieve bodily functions, sit in a public space without ridicule, scorn, and the “hairy eyeball” (trust me, you know it when you see it). Sometimes, you just become invisible—sometimes, to the point where you lose a sense of existing at all.

This is an incredibly lonely and isolating experience. For me, I became extremely skittish and was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder. In reality, I had trouble re-assimilating. When you see a person without a house, say hello, ask their name, sit down and have a conversation. Trust that it will help both of you. Trust that kindness carries the power to quiet internalized oppression and symbolic violence. Trust that kindness fights stigma. Dare to see how structural forces like poverty, class structures, race, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, etc. intersect with houselessness.

Dare to see how cultural reproduction affects everyone around you. Challenge these structures any way you can. Connection and relationships can repair what was damaged due to adverse childhood experiences.  Lastly, before you or anyone you know paints a person without a house as a victim or as “undeserving poor” know this—we are resilient despite our struggles. We are deserving of having our basic needs for food, shelter, safety, and fulfillment met, despite our mistakes. You do not have to “save” us, or find us “worthy” of being saved. Plant a seed. Smile. Be kind and love one another.

Essay by Lisa Lee with VOICE shared with Our Town Reno

The Unseen by Donald Griffin with VOICE

"We are the Unseen"

Hey mom, it's me your little girl Sarah. I seen auntie Lisa the other day, when I was getting in the car to turn a trick. Too embarrassed to chase her down and ask for money to help pay the rent. Uncle David told me "NO." I would just put it in my veins, rent is due and it seems like it's less than 52 hours in a week nowadays.

Pops it's me! Your all-star power hitter. Your All-American go get getter. Mama's little boy is now a homeless grown man. Dad just hit the button for yes to accept a collect call from an inmate named Stan.   "WE ARE THE UNSEEN" .

Who I Could Have Been

Now that your mind is my canvas, your imagination are the paint brushes, and my unspoken words that you hear resonate with the strokes. The colors of the emotions will be seen in dreams and conversations. You will understand sober dreams with an addiction mind. And comprehend the meaning of curiosity killed the cat "BUT" satisfaction brought it back. Living within city limits but we call it the end of the world. Believing now the Earth is flat and no bigger than the Truckee River.

One child is in CPS and the better part of me is in a dream alone forgotten. My oldest two children I love them to death but the thought of them only deepens the pain of who I could have been. The Elements of Life lock me in the rooms in my mind, it started molesting my thoughts and massaging my temples.

Letting the Old Me Die

Whispering bittersweet promises. The promises of a stable home, financial freedom, and the ability to be a part of my children's life. However, in order to have that I had to do the unthinkable. I had to let the old me die. But how could you kill something that was ready to die? Simple give him something to live for.... 

I forgot about the past, the present, and the future who was I now in the here and now at this very moment? " I WAS THE  UNSEEN". 

Hello, my name is Donald Griffin. Alcoholic, addict, and formal criminal. Resident of Gateway Inn. I'm here to share my experience, strength, and hope. How it was, what it was like, and how it is now. I suffer from a mutated mental illness that has no known vaccine.

My Soul Misplaced

One day, doctors and scientists may find a cure but have not done so yet. Self-well and organized programs are our only resource of remedy. This mental illness is passed through generations. Genetically, environmentally, peer pressure, and the selfish reasons of not wanting to be alone. If not addressed and addressed violently it will procreate. Transmitting. Doubts, depression, jails, death, and institutions. My mental illness that is shared with so many others is "Alcoholism."

During this period of my life long illness I resemble: "THE UNSEEN." The homeless and addicted race. Lost, shattered, confused, and moving in a silent state of mind. The inner standing of my self echoed a sarcasm tone. Mentally dehydrated, my physical appearance deflated, and soul misplaced. C.P.S motion for change of custody. Our son was born with the full-blown addiction and habits of his parents. "WE" welcomed him in to the world with withdrawals and surgery. Unable to keep the high rent paid and ourselves in order we lost custody.

A Death and More Drugs to Fill the Void

More drugs came into play to fill the void. October 13th. The state of Nevada ruled her death as an overdose. I say she died from a broken heart. She was reaching out and asking for help but again she was " THE UNSEEN."

My heart wouldn't let me lose her no matter how hard I tried I just couldn't say goodbye and lose her. I played that song over and over again. No amount of drugs could get me to the point I needed to be. I could have drunk a lake the size of Texas and still be mentally sober. Without cause, care, nor understanding, homelessness took an agreement in my new lifestyle.

The Shelter, the River, the Hospital and Jail

Entering the men's shelter, a third world country inside the greatest country in the world.... Was overflowing their capacity with human beings... Unbathed bug-infested homeless man sleeping in an uncomfortable sitting position at the same tables we were to eat at. Sleeping in this position, blood is unable to flow throughout the legs... causing swollen ankles and blood clots. Both mentally and physically wounded.

The river became home. No longer under natural law and order. The human in me slowly started to disappear. I became "THE UNSEEN."

May 1, 2017, along the river, I was beaten and robbed by two human beings surviving by the only means known to "US." I suffered from a broken jaw. Surgery lasted two and half hours. Metal plates were placed by my temple, and chin. I spent eoght days in the hospital.

Thinking and recovering. Just another war story to add to the list. No housing, section 8 frozen, and the usual from the city:"out of money." Back to the shelter I go. Victim of crime paid my rent for three months. And yet unable to kick the alcohol and drug habits. I went to my home away from home, jail for possession. 

Coming out of a More than Two Decade Coma

5’2" Grey and brown haired public defender. Told me judging by your record you cannot stay clean or sober. Did the jail time and refused the 1-year program. Now I have tried to stop for my kids, mama, and girlfriend. I even said I can stop if I wanted to but I never wanted to. She had just as much faith in me as I had in myself " NONE"

What else did I have to lose. Besides the three free months rent paid. S*** I was beaten mentally, physically, emotionally, and deep down inside I wanted the help.  During this year program, I mentally and physically detoxed. I had come out of a coma and it was 23 years later. I knew who I was when I was drinking and drugging. But I had no idea who I was becoming.

I got rid of people, places, and possessions. The things I thought I knew I forgot. I had to find my identity first, then get my mind right, and I went out and got my life right.

Reborn and Pleading for All of Us to See

I-AM reborn with new relationships with my children, a job I had for a year, never missing a day. We need to see programs developed, housing for families and individuals, help for the kids that are caught in the crossfire. I pray that "WE" feed the hungry, shelter the homeless and heal "US" who are sick and addicted.

No family, nor person should ever have to live this way in the greatest country in the world. I - AM "WE THE PEOPLE" THE UNSEEN.

Now your imagination had painted you a clear vision on what once was your empty canvas. Let your emotional colors be seen in your dreams and in conversation. That way when you walk passed "US" "WE" would no longer be "THE UNSEEN" If you have any questions the next time you're out just ask the next person you SEE!

Essay by Donal Griffin with the VOICE writing workshop shared with VOICE

Hi, My Name is Stephen and I am Not an Alcoholic or an Addict

Ending up on the Streets

Hi, my name is Stephen and I am not an alcoholic or an addict. Although I still drink and I have used and abused drugs in the past. I still smoke pot. If you had told me 15 years ago that I would end up on the streets, I would have laughed in your face. Even though I had just lost my job, I wasn’t worried. I had money in the bank and I had never had a problem finding work in this town.

Six months later, I discovered just how naive I had been. Getting a job in your late 40s is not the same as when I was younger. Savings almost gone, unable to pay rent, I found myself downtown with a knapsack on my back and out on the streets. Totally clueless, with no idea of what was going to come next.

There are no guidebooks for life on the streets, no handy list of places to find even the most basic of services, food and shelter. You have to learn as you go, where is the soup kitchen and when do they serve. The location of the shelter and what you need to obtain the services they offer. Cautiously, you begin to meet people who you feel safe enough with to gather information from in this new altered reality. This church passes out bag lunches on these days, this group feeds at this park on this night. Groceries at this church on some Saturdays.

Endless Lines Everywhere                                                                                                 

Standing in line, you quickly learn, will become a major part of your day. In the morning you line up for day-old pastries, then over to “Vinnies” ( St. Vincent's) for lunch. If you want a bed or would like to get into overflow, there’s a line for that. Evening meal, more of the same. Going out to overflow? Another slow moving, seemingly endless, line. There are more people in need than you would suppose, they only become noticeable when they gather together for feeds or other services. Afterwards, dispersing into small groups and individuals, they fade into the urban background, mostly invisible to the average citizen.

Life on the streets is tough on the feet. When you’re not standing in line, you’re walking somewhere. Walking is your only form of transportation. When I ended up on the streets, the available services were scattered all over town. Record st. has helped some making access to some services easier. Still, if you need to go to Social Security or unemployment, it’s an hours long walk or more. Some agencies will provide you with a bus pass, if they have them and feel that your needs are worthy.

Social Workers and Life as an Urban Outdoorsman

I have nothing but admiration for social workers, both those who are paid and the volunteers. These people have very difficult jobs often having to work under very trying circumstances. Dealing with people who are too hot or too cold, tired and hungry and very often frustrated must feel like a thankless task at times. Yet they show up for work day after day, they deserve our thanks and respect.

At first sleeping outside, being an Urban Outdoorsman, seems like an adventure. This quickly wears off, a few nights of uneasy, interrupted rest takes the fun out of it. Reno is a 24-hour town, this can make finding a reasonably quiet and safe spot very hard. There is no such thing as a 100% safe spot, anyplace you can find is probably known to others. Footsteps or voices in the night jerk you back into consciousness.

Depending on where you are, gunshots are not an uncommon event. A good night's rest is three or four hours. Up at dawn to preserve the secrecy of your spot, day after day, takes a toll on you.

The Hallucinatory Stage and Downward Spiral

I’ve been so tired, so sleep deprived that I’ve reached the hallucinatory stage. There is no catching up on sleep, you are always tired, lacking any energy. In this condition it’s almost impossible to keep a positive attitude.

Once you’re in this kind of shape, despair and depression are knocking at your door. Combine this with any other setbacks, even minor ones, can cause you to lose hope. You become trapped in a downward spiral and there is no way out, no possible means of escape.

It took about five years for me to reach this low point and then I quit. I gave up on life, I had finally been beaten down enough. Existing with next to nothing is easy once you’ve let go of hope. Giving up is a gradual process. Hope dies hard. The smallest spark, like a few days work, can reignite it. Just a small reminder of what life used to be. I spent about eight years in this kind of limbo. It’s an existence not a life.

Reduced to the Lowest Common Denominators

Outside of a very small circle of friends, I cared about almost nothing. My life had been stripped down to the barest of essentials, what I needed to survive. A good coat, some clothes, clean socks, a book and my radio, my link to the world. Anything of value, I kept with me in a small knapsack. Everything else was either replaceable or unnecessary. I had reduced myself, my existence to the lowest possible common denominator.

Friends disappear into hospitals or the VA system and months later, word would filter back that they had died. Old so-and-so had cancer, cirrhosis finally got what’s his name. His heart just stopped, she just didn’t wake up one morning. A few friends, a six pack and maybe a reefer, some funny stories. A modest wake for a friend and then life goes on.

Occasionally violence would descend upon our little circle. She was knifed by a “John” in a motel room in Sparks. Some teens beat a helpless old drunk so badly he died. A few para- graphs in the local newspaper. A year or so later a short article, Plea Bargain, Manslaughter, three to five years, they’re out by now. So much for a man’s life, yeah he was a drunk, for the most part, a harmless one. Yet he could be funny and converse on many subjects, Destroyed by his own demons? I don’t know, life goes on.

Helping us Deal with our Own Demons

I believe that everyone on the streets has their own Demons. Some are obvious like alcohol or drugs, others are deeper and harder to fix upon. Demons is my own term. There is nothing biblical or satanic in my use of it. Demons are all of the emotions and frustrations that build up in a person under constant stress. Stress leads to an inability to cope, this enhances emotional distress and the demons grow stronger.

Most of the street people I’ve known worked hard with coping, some better than others. We are all dealing with feelings of shame, uselessness, fear and denial. Add all of this to an already overwhelming tiredness and you finally achieve total apathy.

You just don’t care anymore. Any one of you can help with this disorder. It’s simple, requires no money and feels good. Say 'Hi' or 'Good Morning', just make eye contact or smile. Simply acknowledging a fellow human being's existence can be rewarding for both parties. A pretty girl's smile in the morning can make a person’s whole day, I know.

People on the streets have lost social skills, they’ve atrophied from lack of use. Human contact, no matter how small restores a sense of belonging, inclusion. These types of interactions can reinforce some small sense of community. Being a part of a larger whole, having value as a person. Outreach, establishing some form contact with society helps people. This changes the dynamics of Us against Them. Bridging this gap, allows street people a sense of belonging. Many will be leery, having been let down before. Keep it simple, work on little things first, build trust.

Simple Things Become Monumental Tasks

What to the average citizen would be a minor nuisance can feel overwhelming to a person on the streets. Simple things, like getting a new I.D. or Social Security card can be a challenge. Where do I get the money? How do I get there? Do I have all of the paperwork that I need? 15 dollars can seem like a small fortune to a person on the streets.

Everyone has needs, cash is hard to come by and harder to hold onto. Helping someone overcome one of these problems, opens a door. Making them more receptive to the next step, actively seeking out services or counseling. Dealing with their own Demons.

I’m not advocating for you to go out and adopt a street person, far from it. I do believe that building a rapport with someone allows you to advise and provide moral support. Simply giving out money can be counter productive. Person to person contact is a much more realistic way of achieving the reintroduction of street people into society.

More Ideas to Help

There must be some form of triage that allows us to find those individuals who only need a gentle nudge and a little direction to services and support. Those with substance abuse issues require a different approach. They must recognize their problem and truly desire change. Otherwise treatment is nothing more than a 12-step revolving door between rehab and the street. You have to want it, for it to happen.

Lastly, we come to those with true mental health issues. This is way beyond my ken. I know that they must be treated with compassion and respect yet beyond that I’m in over my head. Some form of intervention is called for, probably by the state.

I’m not happy with this solution, but as I said this is beyond me. You may have noticed that throughout this essay I have used the terms “Street Person” or “Street People” instead of the more common “Homeless."

 I have recently learned that one’s Home is carried in one’s Heart and one’s Head and in the hearts and heads of your chosen family. There is a difference between being without shelter and being without a home. I hope you’ve been able to gain some insight from my experiences and thoughts on this difficult subject.

I originally wrote this about a year ago. Rewriting it has been a bit like tearing the scabs off old wounds. I took a walk the other day and revisited some of my old spots, many have been cleared of brush and fenced off, a few are still out there to use. There seem to be more folks out there than I remember. This needs to be fixed, I wish I knew how.

Essay by Stephen Popovich shared with Our Town Reno

How My Life Was on the Streets, by Shawna with VOICE

Kicked out of My Home

It was scary and hard. I never thought I would be on the streets. The day my parents kicked me out was the hardest day of my homelessness.

The reason why is that it was snowing and very cold. It was nine feet of snow. I remember very well. I lived under a bridge for about a couple of weeks.

With only a sheet.  Then I heard that Sarah cried to Mickie that I was on the streets and that she wanted to help me.  They then found me. It was snowing bad that day and I was thinking that day I was going to die. Mickie took me in that day.

Under a Bridge with Seizures

Me and Sarah got close after that. We were like sisters. Well, I had a crush on her and still do. We did everything together.

About two years later, Mickie got a job at the Volunteers of America and I couldn’t live with her anymore because it would affect her job there. I was sad and upset. I didn’t know where I was going to go.

I then went to the homeless shelter and I didn’t like it but I stayed there til my time was up. Then back to the streets I went. That day I met a good friend of mine, who is still my friend today.

We stayed under the bridge together because I have seizures and he watched over me. About a couple of months later I left and went on my own. I was living on the river after that. Two days after that I got a ticket for living on the river for $100 but I got it waived.

Kicked out of the Shelter

Then I went to Volunteers of America to try to get housing. I had to go to classes to get housing. I was a troublemaker and one day I was watching tv in the tv room at Volunteers of America and (someone, name redacted) came up to me and told me I had to leave. Well I got mad and went off on her.

She called the police and I then tried to leave after that. I didn’t want to go to jail so I tried to leave quickly. When I was exiting an officer (name redacted) was blocking the exit. I tried going through him but he tased me.

I then went into a seizure and they had to take me to the hospital. I don’t remember what happened but I know I woke up in the hospital by myself. I was a troublemaker.

I found out the next day that I was 86ed from the Volunteers of America for six months. It sucked because back on the streets I went for six months. Then I went back after it was done. I had to do the classes again so I did.

Kicked out of an Apartment, a Facebook Friend and Meth

I then got my own apartment. What got me to lose my place was my neighbor downstairs and I got into a loud fight and I got kicked out. Mickie helped me pack up and move. I was so sad.

Back on the streets I went. Then I went to the library the week after and was on Facebook. I found this girl on Facebook and she asked me if I wanted to come to Pennsylvania to be with her. So I said I would. So I did. The next day, I went to a church and asked if they would help me to go to Pennsylvania.

They said they would. So the next day I left. I wanted to get out of Reno so bad. Three days it took to get there and when I got there I called and she picked me up. It didn’t last there though.

I came back to Reno and I was on the streets when I got here. I went to the homeless shelter. They were all surprised to see me. I stayed there for six months and meth (was my) life.

I didn’t know what I was doing to myself. All I know was it felt good. It was fun then. I felt like I was on top of the world. Then I found out what it was doing to me.

Quitting Drugs and Finding Mickie Again

So I quit six months later. I had more seizures. Nobody wanted to hang out with me. My life was getting way worse. So I went back to pot. Now I am realizing how my life is different when I am not on drugs. I wish I never started but I did and I am sorry. 

But then I moved back to my parents and that didn’t work out because my brother and I got into fights. Because I was trying to protect my Mom …. I never knew family was that mean. 

I then went back to the streets and I don’t remember any of it but I know it wasn’t fun. Then I went to jail for hitting a cop. I left my stuff at the homeless shelter and it got thrown out. 

I got out of jail after a month and went back to the streets. Mickie got another job and she was looking for me. Then I got arrested again. I called Mickie from jail and when I got out she was there. I’ve been there ever since with Mickie and I am still there. 

Story by Shawna from the V.O.I.C.E. writing workshop shared with Our Town Reno