PHILADELPHIA (KYW Newsradio) — Jomo Brown criss-crossed South Philadelphia one recent weekday, first tromping through the woods in FDR park to reach some people who set up camp in an area slated for renovation, then along the Delaware River where a camper put his tent on private property that was getting developed, then to Snyder Avenue to plead one more time for a young couple with a new baby in foster care to get into treatment and finally here, to a parking lot underneath I-95, where two women are living in an abandoned motor boat.
“Do you need any services, today?” he asked cheerfully, then shifting to concern. “You know they’re going to tow this boat.”
Brown is an outreach worker for Philadelphia’s Office of Homeless Services (OHS), which has been refining its approach to encampments over the last few years, arriving at a strategy that relies heavily on people like Brown to coax encampment residents into more permanent living situations and then clearing the encampment area before the tent footprint expands.
Encampments have long been a feature of warmer climates but they are increasingly a national phenomenon, driven by the desperately short supply of affordable housing and the opioid epidemic.
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Philadelphia’s experience with them started only five years ago in Kensington, where they grew and spread into rail underpasses on four blocks before they were cleared in a process similar to the one the city is still using. Now, though, clearing happens much faster with outreach teams sent out as soon as tents or makeshift structures are noticed or reported.
In this way, the city has charted a middle ground among the approaches other cities and states use to address encampments. Tennessee has taken perhaps the toughest stand, making it a felony to sleep outside on public property. On the other end of the spectrum, cities such as Las Cruces, New Mexico have allowed encampments to become permanent features.
Brown has been doing outreach since 2014. He says he always leads with the offer of services.
“An encampment closure doesn’t just happen when you walk up and say, ‘You gotta go.’ There’s a lot of talking, getting to know who lives there, why they’re living there and what you can do to make their situation better,” he says.
“You’d be surprised because some people say, ‘Hey, I want to come in for treatment.’ And that’s just the greatest thing in the world to hear.”
That moment is the ultimate goal, but it is a slow, painstaking path to get there, if it does happen.
Brown has been working for seven months to get Chris (who didn’t want to use his last name) and Chris’s girlfriend (who declined to be interviewed at all) into drug treatment and housing.
He first met them in the Walnut-Locust subway concourse.
“Jomo, he’s the best,” Chris said in an interview as he stood at the corner of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.
“He walked up and said, ‘We help people get housing and all kinds of stuff.’ We left and came to Broad and Snyder and then he saw us in March and he’s like, ‘Hey, you’re just the two people I’m looking for. You guys got approved for housing.’ And ever since then, he’s been coming out here, like, ‘Hey, your social worker’s trying to get a hold of you.’ But we don’t. Our phones run off of Wi-Fi. I don’t have a job. Actually, I was holding the door at Popeye’s, trying to make an honest living and I can’t even do that. The other day they told me I can’t hold the door because of germs.”
In May, the couple had a baby. She’s in foster care. Chris visits her regularly and says she is a powerful incentive, but still he declines treatment for his addiction.
Brown is not discouraged.
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“You call me one morning and tell me you’re ready, we know who to call and we will send a driver to come get you,” he tells Chris.
“It’s hard for two people to do it. We both have to be ready,” Chris answers. He says he doesn’t want to leave his girlfriend because the streets are dangerous and she would not be safe. She’s not ready and he’s not sure he is.
“I’m ready,” he tells Brown, “but I don’t know if I’m ready mentally.”
“Think about it,” Brown says. “It’s here for you.”
He shows not a trace of frustration as he drives away.
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“I’ll just keep trying until they come in and they’re clean and they’re where they want to be in life,” he says. “Even though he’s not ready to come in today, they’re hurting and they need someone to say, ‘I believe in you.’ They don’t need people to give up. I’m closer now than when we first met and you just have to keep doing it because they’re going to come around.”
Optimism is a prerequisite for the job, as is empathy for everyone impacted by encampments — residents, neighbors, and businesses.
“I understand all sides,” says OHS Chief of Staff David Holloman. “If I was a business owner paying taxes, I would not want certain activities in the front. It’s give and take. There are some cases where you try to educate the business owner about the person who’s staying there, come out and just say, ‘Hi.’ That is a person, someone’s son or daughter, that’s out there. But, again, it is a balance. You don’t want encampments to go unmet because they do have the potential to grow.”
‘They will be’
The abandoned boat is taking up several spots in a privately-run parking lot off of Front Street. Brown and Holloman have heard there’s a woman living in it. As they drive by, they see two women in the boat and decide to try to engage.
The women say they don’t need any services, but they do accept Holloman’s offer of food vouchers. They’re willing at least to listen to Brown and Holloman.
“Have you guys thought about a plan as we start to move into the fall season?” Holloman asks. “I would hate to see you out here in the boat. Would you consider treatment options, housing options?”
“I was told you had to be on the streets for three years and sign your name in blood to get housing,” one of the women responds.
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“No, that’s not true,” Holloman says. “So would you feel comfortable if we set up an appointment for you to talk with somebody to go over some housing options. There’s no requirement. You don’t have a sobriety requirement. It’s meeting you where you’re at.”
She nods, and says she can go any day.
“Don’t say any day because I’m the type that says okay, we’ll go today or tomorrow,” Holloman says.
After a brief consultation, both women agree to meet with an outreach team at 2 p.m. the next day to get a ride to a housing counseling office.
Permanent affordable housing is in short supply, which seems to be shrinking in Philadelphia as in most places. But OHS works with 70 non-profits to provide various options to people who’ve been living outdoors. There is congregate shelter.
There are treatment beds. There is Housing First, which provides housing with wrap-around services (though tenants are not required to accept any services).
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Last year, the city added Rapid Rehousing to the mix, which is a 12- to 18-month subsidy for housing with fewer services attached. That was the option Holloman was describing to the women when he convinced them to meet with a housing counselor.
When the outreach team arrives the next day to take them to the meeting, the women have changed their minds. They remain on the boat.
Once again, optimism kicks in. “They’re not ready yet,” Brown says, “but they will be.”
Brown and Holloman see the encampments, and homelessness in general, as a problem that can and will be solved with enough determination.
“You just have to be ready to open that door when they’re ready to come in,” Holloman says.
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