99% Invisible - Chapter 5: Housing Finally

Episode Date: December 16, 2020

If homelessness is the problem, housing is the solution. But it’s not always that simple. Kate Cody has been living in her encampment community for a long time. And there’s no guarantee she’ll be able to make the transition inside, even with the golden ticket.  The way homelessness has exploded in California over the last decade, you’d think there was no system in place to address it. But there is one - it just wasn’t designed to help everyone. Katie Mingle’s According to Need is a documentary podcast in 5 chapters from 99% Invisible that asks: what are we doing to get people into housing? If you've enjoyed this series and were moved by the stories you heard, we've compiled a list of Bay Area organizations that you can support.

Picture the land around any given interstate exit, the massive concrete overpasses, the bowtie loop deloops of on and off ramps. In California, the agency that maintains the land around our highways is the California Department of Transportation or CalTrans. In 2017, CalTrans counted 7,000 homeless encampments next to California roads. Okay, now zoom in on one of these encampments. In Berkeley, California, off of Interstate 80 at the University exit. There are about 70 people living there,

scattered around intense and makeshift structures. For years now, CalTrans has been posting notices for the people camped at this exit to vacate. And every couple of weeks, they attempt to enforce the notices by coming in with police and cleaning crews and confiscating any belongings people can't pack up and move in time.

It's always incredibly stressful for the people who live there. We gotta break down his house. That's important. We break down the house. Can you move that out the way? No, no, no, he doesn't need to move that out the way? He doesn't need to move that way. And then after the police and Cal Trans maintenance Cruz leave, the homeless campers take the belongings they've salvaged and move right back to the same spots they were in before.

A couple weeks later, Cal Trans comes again over and over, rinse and repeat. One of the people living in this encampment in Berkeley is Kate Cody, who goes by her initials, KC. I'm in it KC last year in October when it was starting to get chilly. The listener's don't know is this is a very misty and cold day. It almost, you know, yeah, that's foggy, huh? Yeah. Casey has long silver hair, so bright,

it almost looks like platinum blonde. And narrow, kind of mischievous eyes. You could mistake her for a hippie, but she's surlier than most. She wears a leather overcoat. She sometimes growls at people. She'll read any book she can get her hands on. I really can't go to sleep without them.

And now I've gotten past the well past the point where I fall asleep with the book on my nose and break my glasses. The last time CalTrans came through for a sweep of the encampment, a bunch of cases belongings were thrown into a dump truck. But she saved some precious items. And when you lost all your stuff from when CalTrans did they get books or they were writing with beads. She saved her books and her beads. Casey makes beaded jewelry that she sells in an Etsy store. But CalTrans threw away her tent and her bed. For a couple weeks after that she slept under a cast aside boat sail. Now she has a new tent, which she's set up on the shoulder of the off ramp right next to the stop sign.

And she'd like to be left alone. Do you think that the cities should like that anyone has the right to camp if they don't have a tent? No, but they do. All we want to know is we don't want to break the law. But we have to live some lives and have to sleep on face just like I need to live. And what were Casey's options besides living in a tent next to the highway? She seemed to feel that renting her own apartment in Berkeley was completely out of reach. You know, they're renting the not apartments, not bedrooms, beds for 1200 a month in the college?

That's outrageous. Kasey had about $900 a month coming in through social security. And it did seem unlikely given her age 66, and the fact that she can only walk very slowly using a walker, that she was going to be able to get a job to increase her income. She tried staying in shelters, but hated the lack of privacy. I just can't, I cannot handle that at all. Plus, most shelters don't allow pets, and Casey has a scragly little black and white dog named Eva who rarely leaves her side.

But there was still another option. Casey has a son named Lonnie who lives in the mountains of Colorado. The two of them were estranged for most of their lives, for complicated reasons that I don't fully understand. But about five years ago, they reunited, and they really care about each other. Lonnie doesn't have much money either, but he told his mom,

move here to my town and I'll help you. It's cheap here, we'll get you a place, and you can stay at my house until you find your own. But so far, Casey hasn't taken Lonnie up on his offer to come live in Colorado. I really hate you. I'm not playing about hating the cold. I really hate the cold. If I never see a snowflake again in my life, I'll be so happy. I think a lot of people would be surprised that you wouldn't take advantage of it. Why, should I take advantage of it?

We support support for a lifetime. I'm slowly reconnecting. And if I move to a very small town in Colorado, when you're no one, we don't know each other well enough yet. Casey told me that she thought of Lonnie as an escape hatch, but if she wouldn't use her escape hatch to escape the constant sweeps by CalTrans, or the difficulty of living 10 feet from a busy interstate off-ramp, it was hard for me to imagine when she would use it.

Use said he's an escape hatch, and so I was trying to figure out the situation in which you might use your escape hatch. I don't know. I really know it. He's just like knowing it's there. Yeah. Yeah. Like knowing he's there. When Casey and I had this conversation, I didn't think anyone would live in a tent by an interstate if they had another option, but it's more complicated than that.

What I came to believe is that in general, people are where they are not necessarily because they literally have no other choice, although for some that is the case. But because like any human making a decision, they weighed out the choices and a tent by the side of the road seemed the least bad. I think it's why you do occasionally hear people say, I chose to be out here, which by the way you do here sometimes. I believe what people mean is is I chose this off a short

list of lousy options, but there's still agency in that, and agency is precious. In any case, for KC, the encampment was the best of the lousy options. For reasons, I was just beginning to understand. For reasons, I was just beginning to understand. In fact, for Casey, what they can't provide it to her was so important that even when she was found to be vulnerable enough, to make it to the top of the list, and be offered a new way out, it would be hard for her to accept it. This is according to need, chapter five. Casey is kind of a tough guy, but it's a toughness that covers up a lot of trauma. I get emotional, I get, I get, I get, I get about everything.

I've seen you. Happy, I know, I just feel very bad because I'm just like, I get, I get, I get, I get about everything. I've seen you. Happy? Yes. I know, I just, I feel very bad because then it's like, you know, blew my cover. What's your cover? Tough. I guess, I don't know. Kasey grew up in New Jersey and ran away from home as a teenager, leaving behind a mother

that she says was abusive. I ruined my mother's life because I was born in Casey told me once. But mostly she just can't talk about her mom at all. As a young adult, Casey made her way out to California. She's done some hard living. She was stabbed once. She spent some time in prison. She was addicted to heroin, although she hasn't used in seven years. I'm still junky. That doesn't change. It's a physical thing.

It doesn't change. And I'll have to do it three days in a row. And there I am. For much of her life, Casey had steady housing and income as an in-home health aid. But she's no stranger to unconventional living situations. And to some degree, she's welcomed them.

She's lived in warehouses and school buses, and for a long time, she lived in a community of people that built little wooden shacks on top of an old landfill right next to the bay. Don't picture a dump, though. There were some chunks of concrete and rebar scattered around, but this landfill had mostly been covered over with crabgrass.

And from its windy shores, you could watch the sunsetting behind the Golden Gate Bridge. Casey was kind of a queen bee among the landfillions as they called themselves. Her neighbors respected her and she felt like she had a role there. I found a film from that time on YouTube. It's less than 10 years old but Casey looks so much younger and healthier. Her cheeks are plump and rosy and she's moving around easily. She coats a big meal for everyone in the outdoor kitchen.

I'm taking the chicken breast fillets and I pounded them out and stuck them with cornbread and sausage stuffing and I'm baking them and I serve them with a white gravy and salad. In this clip she was making food for a birthday party they were throwing for Chompi, one of the landfills many dogs. Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to Chompi! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! After the city of Albany forced the land fillions to leave in 2014, the land was turned into a park that Bay Area residents know as the Albany bulb, and Casey moved into a broken down RV where she stayed a few years.

But eventually she had to leave there too, which is when she moved to the encampment in Berkeley next to I-80 where I met her. Some of her old friends from the landfill were already living there, so it felt safe. The landfill loomed so large in Casey's mind that I sometimes felt like even though she was in a considerably worse situation now. Part of her was still there, we're still looking for what she had there. But where that police had been quiet and peaceful, now Casey lived five feet from a stop sign, so close to the road that the drivers could easily see inside.

And the spot was prone to flooding in the rainy season, which had arrived. It's November, it's cold and damp and raining, and Casey is sick inside of her tent. You feeling really bad? You're good. I'm sorry. Suddenly, you got so cold. I'm so good. Just outside, Casey's neighbor Sarah is trying to make sure Casey's tent doesn't flood

from all the rain. Sarah's tent is up on wooden pallets so that the water can drain under it. But Cacy's isn't. Why isn't Drining true of the tent? Hey, hi. Oh. We're trying to get the water to flow down to the road. Last year when it was raining,

this turned into a, it was a lake. I mean, literally a lake. Even if Casey wasn't sick, she'd need help getting palettes. Her mobility just isn't good enough to do this kind of chore on her own. So she relies on people like Sarah for help. I'm frustrated. I can't put my fingers.

It's just difficult. It's just a difficult day. Sarah goes inside of her tent to talk to her boyfriend, Zach. Casey needs pallets and she's sick and also needs water, or she tells him. And you need to go get it. Zach is smoking something. I don't know what, but not a cigarette. And he's not interested in helping right now. No, Zach, save it.

You're just admit that you're just a douchebag. You have no manners. Now you won't help Casey get water. You want me to do it, as I'm digging a ditch to save her 10. Sarah and Zach continue to fight, and then finally Sarah says, that's it, she's had it with the whole thing. She doesn't finish digging the ditch, doesn't go get Casey pallets or water. She just goes to another part of the encampment, to someone else's tent, to decompress. I'm sorry you guys, I can't do this, I'm about to leave.

I thought a lot about this interaction afterwards. How a normal, everyday thing for most of us, like rain, can turn into a crisis in the camp. These little crises happen constantly. It means that everyone is stressed all the time and people fight, and sometimes even people with good intentions, like Sarah, just don't have the bandwidth to do what needs to be done. Researchers have actually studied this. The way stress and scarcity erode our ability to make good decisions and solve problems,

it's a thing. Still, eventually someone will get Casey water. If her tent floods, someone will help. Casey depends on her neighbors and the encampment for everything. Neighbors run to the store for her and bring her food. Her friends sit, cleans her tent for her. Sometimes it's just friends being friends. Other times she barters with people. It's hard for Casey to get rid of her own garbage, for example. The guy who comes pick up my recycling takes my garbage with him to deal with it.

Yes, deal with it. What does he get out of a deal? He gets to recycling. He gets like your cans and stuff. Yeah. Yeah. Look, I don't want to romanticize encampments. They're hard places to live.

People sometimes steal from each other and fight. But they also share resources and look out for each other. And campments definitely are communities. A few weeks after we met, Kasey told me his social worker had been out to the camp to give her an assessment for the coordinated entry system, or in other words, get her on the list. And did she tell you when you could expect to hear anything? She said, do you know where I stood on the list by Tuesday or Wednesday, so? Wow, so.

Well, okay. I didn't know then, but of course, I know now that the list isn't a waiting list, but a ranking system. It's a list of thousands of homeless people in the county sorted according to their score on a vulnerability assessment. There were a number of things about Casey that made it likely she'd end up toward the top of the list. For the last several years, she'd been moving into increasingly dangerous and difficult living conditions. Until finally, she had ended up where she was now, just feet from a busy interstate off ramp. Her body was worn down and injured from a lifetime

of hard living and a decade of homelessness. Along the way she'd accumulated many so-called vulnerabilities, a criminal record, a history of drug abuse, an injured knee that meant she could barely walk. There were other vulnerabilities too. So many, the casee did, indeed, become one of the handful of people at the top of the list in Alameda County. Do you have AC in here? Yeah, do you have a minute to turn it on? Yeah, can we do that instead of windows just for the sound? I'm riding around in the car with McCune Regurum while he runs errands. McCune is a case worker at Casey's doctor's office, a place called Lifelong Medical Care. 600 feet, turn right onto 41st Street.

Lifelong Medical Care recently decided to dip its toes into the world of housing because they realized that in many cases they couldn't address their homeless patient's health concerns without first addressing their housing concerns. If a lifelong patient needs housing, Macoon can help make sure that person gets into the coordinated entry system. But then he just has to hope they make it to the top of the list. They don't always.

Even people in really difficult circumstances, which is frustrating. I am frustrated because I have a patient with Parkinson's who is sleeping outside right now and he's not eligible for any permanent supportive housing. Casey though, she had moved so far up the list that she was eligible for that rare and coveted intervention permanent supportive housing. The permanent part means that Casey can keep it forever. And the supportive part means that in addition

to the housing subsidy, she'll get a bunch of extra help, access to things like therapy or in-home care, and a case worker who's helping her navigate everything. Are you guys working with anyone else that lives in Casey's encampment? I'm not personally. Yeah. It feels like a lot of people there could potentially use

one of these permanent supportive housing vouchers. Permanent supportive housing vouchers are expensive. In the range of about $30,000 a year per person and there aren't enough for everyone, which is why only a few hundred people at the top of the list in Alameda County will get one of these every year. But to actually get the voucher,

Macoon will have to submit tons of paperwork and actual proof that Casey is chronically homeless, meaning she's disabled and she's been homeless for a long time. You have to provide monthly evidence of interaction with a person. In cases where there isn't a paper trail documenting someone's homelessness over the years, Makoon will occasionally have to gather witness statements. I can tell you right now, I've been around lousy caseworkers while doing this reporting who I would not want representing me in this laborious paperwork effort.

But Macoon is not that. Macoon is young and he looks it, but I still found him intimidating to interview. He's completely impervious to charming reporters and other needless distractions. It seemed like Casey was in good hands, but even beyond all the paperwork, there would be one final hurdle, actually finding a place for her to live. It's really hard to find a decent place in Berkeley with a voucher. If you do find a place in Berkeley with a voucher, they tend not to be the nicest places. But Berkeley was the only place Casey wanted to be.

There it goes. One bedroom rent includes utilities, water, electricity, gas, and trash and internet. There's a washing machine and dryer. One day shortly after she found out she had been matched with a housing voucher. I stopped by Casey's tent and found her looking at Kreik's list. Casey hadn't looked at apartments for a long time, but the voucher she was matched with could be used to rent an apartment on the private market.

And does it say anything about vouchers? No, it doesn't. Yeah. A lot of landlords don't accept housing vouchers, although it's illegal not to, so they don't come right out and say it on Craigslist. In any case, pickings are slim and Berkeley. That's place in the way of Anisha. Would you ever consider it? come right out and say it on Craigslist. In any case, pickings are slim and Berkeley.

That's place in the way of Anisha. Would you ever consider it? I would have known, I have no support system there, and no friends, no no help. Not only did Casey not want to move to Colorado, she didn't want to move to the relatively close cities of Vallejo or Binesha. She wanted to stay in Berkeley as close to the encampment as possible. Kasey had been homeless for close to a decade, which was probably what helped her get to

the top of the list. But it was also, in a way, what would make it hard for her to actually get inside. For years, she had been depending on the people around her for support. And moving into housing would mean leaving them behind. Still, sometimes with Casey, I had trouble understanding if by insisting on staying in Berkeley, she was being prudent or obstinate or both. I mean, do you ever, like, I'm back in the car with McCune,

trying to get out an awkward question? When someone is, is, is unhappy like unhappy like that do ever feel like they're being they're being too picky? I think it's natural to feel that sometimes. I think like potentially people that listen to this could think like well I can't afford to live in Berkeley like I had to leave Berkeley because I couldn't afford it. Yeah. Why should someone insist on staying in this really expensive place? I think the answer is you can have your preferences and KC has your preferences. And also, when we're talking about listeners who are like, I want to live in Berkeley, I mean, you too can live in Berkeley if you are homeless for five to six years.

And are lucky enough to get matched up with one of these vouchers. Like, yeah, you'd be my guest. Point again. Right, like this is not the kind of opportunity that you live a happy life and still receive. But it turned out maybe Casey wouldn't have to leave Berkeley to move indoors. Mccoon had another option. He'd found an apartment that he thought could work for Casey in a place called the Amistad House. It's a building for seniors and disabled adults. And if they could get all the paperwork together, K.C. could get what's called a project-based voucher.

Meaning the voucher was still permanent, but it would stay with the building. So if she decided to leave that place, she'd lose it. That was a downside. But McCoon said the building was beautiful and well maintained. And best of all, for Casey, it wasn't Berkeley. The next time I see Casey, she's in her tent, sitting slouched on her bed,

with a bunch of tarot cards spread out in front of her. She looks worried, and she says she has reservations about the Amistad. So tell me what your reservations are about the... I just think my music is too loud, I'm too loud. But you're gonna try it? No, no, no, no, no. Try it.

That means I'll be back out here again. Does you think like you might get kicked out of there? Is that what your worry is? Yeah, always. Always. Have you gotten kicked out of other places for being the wrong kind of tenants? No, they never lived in those kind of places. I just can't see me doing the things I want to do. And you don't feel willing to kind of adjust your lifestyle to this new place. Just like my lifestyle, you mean change who I am? And what I do?

I don't think I can do that. Well, just not change who you are, but maybe change the volume at which you play your music or something like that. That's on the front. That's not a, no there. Casey seemed worried that her lifestyle wasn't going to be a good fit for the Amistad, but really 90% of the time when I stopped by her tent this year, she's just sitting in it alone, reading, not partying or playing loud music or anything like that.

To me, it seemed like she was scared. Coming up with the reasons it wasn't going to work. Breaking up with them before they could break up with her. But it worried me. I didn't know if Mccoon would be able to find her another apartment in Berkeley, if not this one. Or if she would ever agree to leave this hard place she thought of as home.

Casey? Hi. How are you doing? Do you mind if I come in for a minute? A couple weeks after KC first told me she wasn't sure she wanted to move into the Amistad. I stopped by her tent to see if her feelings had changed at all. She said that Mccoon had been able to calm some of her fears. So he was reassuring. What did he say about it?

Robert, they want to know how we get this thing running so we can help you stuck inside this car. KC has an electric wheelchair, but someone stole the battery out of it and it hasn't been functional for a while. I think it's hard for KC to an electric wheelchair, but someone stole the battery out of it, and it hasn't been functional for a while. I think it's hard for KC to be as dependent as she is on other people, and she's emotional as she talks about it. So he said you guys would try to get your wheelchair running so that you could feel like you could come and go. I know.

I wouldn't be without support. Mrs. Dan was told in a comfortable little that. At least I have friends who support. This place is damp and cold and uncomfortable, but at least I have friends and support. This reminds me of one of my early conversations with Casey. She told me, solving homelessness felt complicated. I really do. I admire anybody who rolls out their sleeves

and tries to take that job out and I really do. What strikes you as being so complicated about it, like, is it... Finding housing for men, then the people who can't, who just, there are people that they're romantically, cannot be alone. They can't. They survive in our homeless communities because we make rooms for them and make sure they go right. Casey went on to give me an example.

She said there was a guy at the landfill named Sparky. He was reclusive and Casey thought likely dealing with schizophrenia. But there were a few people in the community who looked out for him, including her. He would sometimes come into her house wet and cold and she'd have a pair of pants for him and clean socks. Yeah, you can't just discard people because, look, if you have a set of priceless dishes and one plate has a fine hairline crack in it.

And you know that you don't give that to just anybody sitting on the table, you don't just let it. And you know that that, you don't give that to just anybody sitting on the table. You don't send it to the kid's table, you know. You think that you always end up with that plate because you're the one who knows not to hit it too hard with your life. I'm not to drop the fork in it. Because even though that plate is flawed,

that plate is part of the set. Right? Okay. And that was Sparky. That was Sparky. Okay. And that was Sparky. That was Sparky. That was Sparky, but these days it's also KC.

KC survives with a lot of help from the people around her. She needs a lot of care and she has to be handled somewhat delicately. Fine China with a crack in it is a pretty good metaphor for vulnerability. The intervention that works for people who need a lot of extra care. People like Sparky and Casey is fortunately the exact one Casey was matched up with. Permanent supportive housing with no sobriety tests, no barriers. It's the approach that Samson Barris developed all those years ago in New York, and that Mccoon is now carrying on here in Berkeley.

And it works. In Alameda County, when people are lucky enough to be unlucky enough to get this type of housing, the data shows they hold onto it for a long time. Hello. Hi, KC. Hi. The process of getting KC the apartment at the Amistad was a long one. Lots of paperwork, lots of back and forth between KC and Macooned.

And I don't know that there was an exact moment. When KC finally decided she was going to accept the place. I think it was more the Mccooned inched her there little by little. And now it was finally almost time to move in. Dropping off the check next Wednesday, moving the Monday after that. So I don't think I got a chance to tell you the time it's at 11 a.m. is when we're signing the lease. Casey was still scared, but she was also excited and genuinely grateful to McHoon. She told me she knew she had not always been easy to work with, but McHoon did stuck by her

steady and patient. You're in good hands then I didn't know it then. I do now. Thanks, Casey. You're welcome. On the end of time. I'm beginning less anxious and more happy all the time. That's very dangerous.

Makoon told me that if Casey had turned down the Amistad, there might not have been anywhere for her to live in Berkeley. And then they would have had to talk about what was more important to her. Housing or staying close to her community. And maybe Casey would have actually chosen to stay homeless in the encampment. I don't think everyone would make that choice, but I think there's a good chance Casey would have. And McCoon said he would have had to let go of his own feelings about what he should or shouldn't do, which makes me think about something Sam Semberis always says when he talks about the work he was doing with housing first in New York.

It was never about the housing. It was always about the choice. The only other person I heard had made it to the top of the list for housing while I was reporting on Casey's encampment was a woman who went by the nickname Mama Bear. Like Casey, she also had very limited mobility. And so, as Casey had started housing,

there are at least 70 people still living in her encampment. What do you think about Casey getting housing? I'm glad. I'm talking with Sarah. This is a different Sarah than the one who was trying to get Casey pallets in the rain. This Sarah also lives here in Casey's encampment, and she's an old friend who lived at the landfill.

She's mostly happy to see Casey getting some help. She's limited in handicapped, whatever you want to call it, but she needs housing. So did Mama Bear. She finally got it. I want housing, but she needs housing. So did Mama Bear, she finally got it. I want housing, but I don't need it like they do. But I think it would, I think living on the street at my age 53, it's gonna shorten my life. And does it like, when you see somebody

that you know, get housing, like do you feel just happy or do you feel any jealousy? I'm 99.9% just happy for them. There's a little tiny sliver of, it's modest humble jealousy, but more whistfulness, I guess. So, I'm not really a jealous person, but every now and then there's somebody who is really Challenges a human being who gets housing and then I'm like why the hell is someone like that get out? But you know, I know it's rational Many of the people in this encampment have probably had a vulnerability assessment at some point. Many of them are dealing with challenges like mental or physical illness.

Some are struggling with addiction. But the bar is just so high now in Alameda County. You have to be able to check so many boxes to get any help. For the people like Sarah who remain in the encampment, their hope is just to be able to stay here in peace without the constant threat of being swept out by cow trans and having their belongings confiscated. It's this place, right? There's this spot right here. On the day of the lease signing, Casey and McEun and I drive to the Amistad House together. It's a 60-unit building with the dark wooden shingles that are typical in Berkeley, on a quiet tree-lined street. Kasey is

wearing her best dress, a black lacy one that is both old lady classy and a little goth. How you feeling? Moooooo! What a nice looking building! Kasey hasn't actually seen the apartment she's gonna be moving into yet. Although she's seen a similar one in the same building. It's hanging up. A lobby in touch, she's ready. We wait in the lobby where there's a couch and a fireplace and a sleepy security guard looking at his phone. Casey seems incredibly nervous. Oh, a fainter.

You're a fainter? Yeah. Are you feeling fainting? Yeah. Oh, a painter. You're a painter? Yeah. Are you feeling faint? Yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, we never wrote it up. It's just like hitting this. Put your head between down a little bit.

I'll bring you there for her. Eventually, Casey is called into the management office, where she signs the lease and a bunch of other papers. And then finally, she gets to see her place. We ride the elevator to the third floor and then make our way down a hallway. It's just the first door on the right, so if you go through that second door. Okay, so... The apartment is one bedroom and certainly not fancy, but it's really nice, well maintained,

and it has a balcony that looks into a courtyard full of trees. Fully painted, fresh paint in the unit. I put brand new granite countertops, appliances, you do have like a garbage disposal. While the building manager lists the amenities, KC is taking deep breaths and talking to her dog, Eva. When she sees the kitchen, she says, remember when I used to cook? I'm gonna use the cook.

And I get triaths out of him and you. Your patio does overlook the garden area too. And the triaths out of me. Whew. Before we leave, the building manager hands Casey a set of keys for her place. And that's it. Casey tries the keys out in the door, they work, and then we take her back to her tent

and drop her off. She has at least now. The place is really hers, but she's not going to stay in it tonight. And maybe by this point, I shouldn't have been surprised by this, but I was. I mean, okay, yeah. The furniture and macooned order hasn't arrived yet, but Kasey could bring over the bed she has in her tent and just make it work until the furniture gets there. The apartment has electricity and hot water and a door that locks.

The camp doesn't have any of that. But Kasey says no, no, no, she doesn't want her old crummy bed in the new apartment. She wants to start fresh with a new bed. In retrospect, this makes sense, not just that she doesn't want her old bed, but that she's going to do even this final step on her own terms. For the next few weeks, Casey takes small loads of stuff over to the Amistad. Finally, nearly a month after signing the lease, she sleeps in her new apartment for the first time. But a few days later, when I call to check in,

see how it's going, Casey is in tears. She wants to go home to the encampment, she tells me. So your place doesn't feel like home yet? Nope. There's a bunch monster empty car boxes. But then things get better. The other people in the building are friendly to her. They don't seem to find her strange like she feared.

She starts therapy, taking advantage of the supportive part of her permanent supportive housing voucher. She finds she loves the luxury of a hot bath whenever she wants it. And probably more important than all of that. Friends come from the camp, which is just a couple miles away to help her set up her place and make it feel like home. After the break, some final thoughts and updates of the people you met in this series. It's been nine months since Casey moved into her apartment and she's doing great. Her son Lonnie came from Colorado to visit for her birthday. It was her first time ever being able to host him. You guys are here and your mom has a house.

Yes, housed. Yay! Yay, Rupel over her head. And it's a pretty place. Isn't it nice? That's right. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.

Happy Birthday dear KC. Happy Birthday to you. And many more. And many more. Hungl enough. A lot has happened back at KC's old encampment too. The people living there decided next time CalTrans crews asked them to move, they weren't going to comply.

Instead of grabbing all their stuff and moving like they always did, the plan was to stay put in their tents. I have some tape of the day they decided to try this. CalTrans workers had arrived at the encampment in a procession of dump trucks accompanied by the highway patrol and the residents of the encampment were in a kind of standoff with them. Hey, Osha. What's going on over here right now? I don't know.

I was standing with Ocean Newman, an 80-year-old lawyer who's advocated for the rights of homeless people in Berkeley for decades. He's known Casey since her days living at the landfill. Back when everyone was forced to leave that community, Oshah was there helping them fight to stay. Over the years, he's watched these encampment sweeps and evictions countless times. Are there always as many of them as the CalTrans people and the highway patrol people? There are always this many CalTrans people, yeah.

I am thinking they're leaving. They are leaving. They're leaving. I'll be damned. They're leaving. I'll be damned. They're leaving. They they aren't going to move people. They're leaving. They had this was bigger than they expected. This is kind of incredible. They're leaving. They're leaving. Oh my God. Has this never happened before? Oh my God, never, never before. There's never been resistance.

They're leaving. Oh my God. Tell me why this feels so big to you. Oh, it's incredible. It never has happened before that people have resisted. That people on the street resisted and won. It just has never happened. They've always moved. Every time they've been pushed around, they've moved, they've moved, and they're telling them, whoa!

But aren't they just going to come back next week? Who knows? Of course! You never have the one victory that's the final. The war is never over completely. The war in fact lasted several months. There were meetings and negotiations and ultimately a city council vote, but in the end the encampment residents basically won. They got cow trans to stop the sweeps, and they got the city of Berkeley to commit to establishing a sanctioned encampment for them. Meaning people would be legally allowed to pitch tents, and trash service and restrooms would be provided. So far the sweeps have stopped, but the plans for a sanctioned encampment seemed to have stalled out since the start of the pandemic. the start of the pandemic. Who else? Michael, my neighbor, who lived on the boat.

He actually left the boat and moved into a program that he's hoping will eventually get him connected to housing. If you heard the housing first story, you probably remember me talking about what all housing programs used to look like, the staircase model, where you have to be clean and sober to graduate each next step. That's the type of program Michael is doing now. They still exist and they're generally led by faith-based organizations and don't receive funding from HUD. Michael is hoping he can stick with it and make it into housing.

And lastly, there's Tullisha and Jordan. Hi, kitty, I'm Yums. Okay, you tell him. Say something. I can't. You could just call it and pick it up. There's actually been a pretty big development in Tullisha and Jordan's's story. Tleysha never got help from the system here in Oakland, but something else happened. So eight years ago, before Tleysha was even homeless, she put her name on a bunch of

wait lists for Section 8. Section 8, or housing choice, as it's now called, is a government subsidized voucher that you can use to rent an apartment on the private market. You don't have to be homeless to get section 8, just low income. And last December, Tolisha found out her name had finally come up on one of those wait lists. So now since he knows, and I know,

this is what we have to do in order to stop being a home nulucent, sleep in the car and go off from house to house to family members and different people. This is what we have to do. But here's the wild part. The Section 8 voucher that Tileisha got was for Louisville, Kentucky, a place she had no connection to.

She had only put her name on the wait list there because it was one of the few that was open in the whole country. Tileisha felt she was completely out of options in Oakland though, so she decided to leave. I don't know if I can possibly convey how unique and difficult this decision was. Despite the bay being so expensive,

I almost never met homeless people who were thinking about leaving. People in poverty depend intensely on their communities for support. Leaving rarely seems to feel in the realm of possibility. But Tullisha had decided she had to try.

I mean, we just been talking and thinking about all the stuff we've got to go through and travel and stuff and... Yeah? We can't do this anymore. I can't take it because people go put us out. Tired of people putting us out? Yeah.

And so, in March of this year, as the coronavirus descended on all of us, Tilecia and Jordan started a whole new journey. This recording was made just a couple days before they left. And that's it for now, Katie. It's your age, Pete. Say 99. 99. And physical. And physical.

Here we go. Here we go. Cut tuck real. To touchy real. Forty eight hours. For eight hours. Our journey starts. A journey starts. Got protectors. Not again. Not again. Okay. He don't want to say God protect us from COVID-19. Tilecia and Jordans journey into housing was a harrowing one, and maybe someday I'll tell the whole story in more detail. But I will say that they have their own place now, and they're doing really well. It's incredible the way housing changes people's lives. For me, this new chapter of Tilecia and Jordan's story is both happy and sad.

Oakland has lost a very wonderful pair of people. Tilecia had to leave the place where she grew up, where her whole family still lives. And she was only able to do this because she'd been on a section 8 waiting list for 8 years. 8 years! Tullisha and Jordan's success in Louisville, Kentucky is far from guaranteed. It'll be hard to start a life in this new place without any real support network.

Which is why, for me, the takeaway from Casey until he's just stories is the same. We need housing opportunities in the communities where people live. How we get there is honestly a whole different podcast. But one place we can all start and Bay Area people I'm looking at you is to be open and welcoming to low-income housing development in our neighborhoods.

Okay, that's it from me. People have been asking what organizations they can give to to support homeless folks in the Bay, and we've put together a list that you can find at 99pi.org slash need. You can also find all of the chapters of this series there. Be safe everyone. Thank you so much for listening. This chapter of According to Need was produced by me, Katie Mingle, with associate producer Abby Madan and managing editor Whitney Henry Leicester. Roman Mars is the executive producer of According to Need. In valuable editing from Lisa Pollock, Emmett Fitzgerald, Delaney

Hall, Christopher Johnson, Joe Rosenberg, and Roman Mars. Bryson Barnes was our sound engineer, fact checking by Amy Gaines, music by Sean Rale, additional music by Eric Hall, branding and designed by muchmore.io. Kurt Colstead was our digital director, additional support from Sofia Klatsger, Vivian Leigh and Chris Barube. Huge thanks to Andrea Henson and Ocean Newman,

who introduced me to Casey and to Andy Well Newman, who introduced me to KC and to Andy Wellspring, who made the film about the landfill called Where Do You Go When It Rains, which I excerpted. Thanks also to Talia Husbands Hanken, Marisol Medina-Karena, Johanna Zorn, and Chelsea Miller. This chapter of According to Need is dedicated to the memory of Santa Dear Heart. According to Need is a project of 99% invisible, which is a founding proud member of radiotopia from PRX, a network of independent listener supported, artist-owned podcasts. Radio Tapioid.

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