I wrote this story for Dwell's March/April 2023 issue.
On a single night in January 2022, 582,462 people were experiencing homelessness in the United States. Sixty percent were staying in locations like emergency shelters or in accommodations provided by transitional housing programs, and 40 percent were living on the street or somewhere similar, according to an annual U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development report. (The pandemic impacted the accuracy of homelessness data collection in 2021, however, and the number of people without a home is likely far higher.) Meanwhile, across the country, many housing advocates and government officials are embracing a practical short-term solution to the homelessness crisis: the rapid construction of tiny-home villages—some with upward of 50 units, others with just 10 tiny homes, or pods. The hope is that with access to a personal, lockable shelter and some essential services (laundry and showers, as well as housing and employment assistance programs), unsheltered people will be able to find permanent, affordable housing quicker than if they were still fending for themselves on the streets.
In Oregon, one of the states at the forefront of the country’s homelessness crisis, cities like Portland and Salem have already invested in tiny-home communities. The City of Portland alone has contracted with five different tiny-house makers to develop six new Safe Rest Villages using American Rescue Plan Act funds. Tiny-home villages, which have appeared in states from Oregon, Washington, and California to Texas, Michigan, and Massachusetts, have gotten a fairamount of press for their ability to be a part of the emergency response to the crisis. We spoke to three residents of micro-shelter communities in Oregon to get a sense of what the tiny homes are actually like to live in and how the alternative-housing villages function.
Me, cleaning the sink after someone has showered at the Sunnyside Methodist Church.
If you had told me back in December that I’d soon know all the homeless people in my neighborhood on a first-name basis, I would have laughed. But not only is this true; I have a dozen of their names entered into my phone. I’ve delivered a home-cooked dinner to one guy after his eye surgery, I helped one fellow apply for a spot at Agape Village, and on Easter Sunday, I bought a cot for an elderly houseless guy who’d told me the day before, “I’m too old to sleep on the ground anymore.”
Let me explain. Last December, I joined a Sunnyside Neighborhood Association Community Committee to do outreach to the unsheltered folks who had just relocated to Sunnyside Park. They’d moved there, in part, because the city had just “swept” Laurelhurst Park, and Sunnyside was the park nearest to Laurelhurst. Sunnyside Park also had two streets that did not face residences, which I later found most houseless folks are quite conscientious about. We invited Raven Drake from Street Roots’ new Ambassador Program to help us make contact with our unsheltered neighbors. John Mayer, executive director of Beacon PDX, was also there to facilitate introductions.
The first outreach was the most awkward. But after that initial round of “knocking” on folks’ tents and having conversations about the weather, it got easier. As a neighborhood association, we were trying to figure out how to best help these folks while they are living in a park so close to us. So we asked them, “What do you need?” A thin 30-something woman in a colorful scarf and puffy jacket said laundry would be nice, because she hadn’t washed her clothes in a long time. Someone else said he hated how messy the camp had become — but they had no way to dispose of trash once they’d collected it into trash bags.
We started with a volunteer-led trash pickup, with several residents taking truckloads of trash to the dump, paying the fees themselves. I took on the “hygiene coordinator” role and was responsible for calling the city’s Homelessness and Urban Camping Impact Reduction Program to get a porta-potty installed near the park as well as ensuring that someone was collecting and disposing of needles safely and properly.
One day, I got a call from Matt, a Sunnyside Neighborhood Association board member, saying that the Groves Church, the congregation now at the former Sunnyside Methodist Church, had said we could use their showers two days a week. Soon, my fellow committee member Ash and I were off to Ikea to buy white towels and bath mats.
In very short order, I became known as “the Shower Lady.” I wrote up a list of protocols for volunteers and for people using the showers.
I’d show up at 1 p.m. on Saturdays at the park, when Beacon PDX provided lunch, clipboard in hand, and ask folks when they wanted a shower. Another committee member, Jenna, who is an elementary school teacher, printed up adorable “Shower Reminder” tickets that I scribble a person’s appointment on so he or she would have a visible reminder. Someone at the church donated more towels; Jenna and her husband Daniel did a Costco run for shampoo, body wash and clean underwear; someone else donated a hair dryer. We were off and running.
I’ll be the first to admit that I had no idea what I was doing when we started this pilot. But with the help of a few great volunteers (many of whom are still volunteering on a weekly or every-other-week basis) and with the support of the Sunnyside Neighborhood Association Community Committee, the “shower ministry,” as I call it, has become a reliable service for people experiencing homelessness in our neighborhood. In fact, the Groves recently gave us a third day: Saturday.
It’s humbling to be able to offer such a basic service as a warm shower and know that it’s making a difference in people’s lives. Each person who showers leaves the church with a lighter step. For most of them, this will be the only shower they have this week. Every single one of our houseless neighbors thanks us for being there and for the shower. (It’s not lost on them that most Neighborhood Associations are full of upset neighbors who just want them to go “somewhere else.”) I periodically get texts from some of my houseless friends saying, “I appreciate you and what you’re doing. Thank you.” Just today, one of our regulars, grateful that we didn’t leave early because he didn’t show up at the appointed time, texted me and my other volunteer, “I love you guys.”
Hannah Wallace gets a clean pair of pants for a person in need.
Getting to know my unhoused neighbors has enriched my life. I’ve learned to expect the questionable advice from one fellow who arrives by bike and always tells my co-volunteer and I that a daily shot of whiskey will keep COVID-19 at bay. Another regular arrives early just to chat with me about his day — or sometimes his past. A former meth addict, he’s been clean for a year and is living in a doorway, trying to stay safe and warm (and sober). He says he’s a loner, but he’s gregarious and clearly craves company. He’s been homeless for 17 years and has finally decided that he can’t live this way anymore. He wants a roof over his head. Then there’s the 40-something man who had never been homeless until 2020, when the bar he owned shuttered and his wife divorced him. He used to play bass in a rock band, and I bring him my back issues of Rolling Stone to read. I used to walk past houseless people on the street, feeling incapable of helping, let alone engaging. But getting to know these folks who come for showers makes me see them — really see them. Now, when I go running in the park, I say hello to the folks I know, sometimes even stopping for a chat.
Some people are punctual or even early for their shower appointments and don’t need reminders. Others are no-shows, not even texting to let me know they’re not going to make it. Others don’t have phones, so can’t tell me if something has come up to wreck their plans for their day. It’s OK — we volunteers have learned to roll with it. It’s not like we have to make an appointment to have our showers. We can have them whenever we like.
Some take short, military-style showers — in and out of the facility in 10 minutes. My favorite, though, is when people sing while they shower. One guy brings his radio, elevating his shower to a musical experience. We can hear his melodious voice drifting up the stairwell and it always makes me smile.
Finally, knowing more of my houseless neighbors has made me feel safer in my neighborhood. Perhaps that’s not surprising; we tend to fear the unknown.
When you don’t know individual houseless people, you are more likely to make assumptions about “houseless people” as a group. And, I think, you are more likely to lose touch with the humanity of each person. As I’ve gotten to know the individuals who come for showers, I realize how delightful, soulful, hilarious, creative and sweet they are. I can’t fix all of their problems or even get them housing, but I can help them get a warm shower. And for that I am grateful.
Learn more about the Sunnyside Shower Project or how to volunteer.
Brittany ran away from home when she was eight years old to escape an abusive situation and has lived without a permanent home in Portland, Oregon for much of the time since. During these years, she resided under bridges, in yurts in the forest, in a self-governed encampment for people experiencing homelessness and even in a treehouse before landing in a community called Agape Village.
After just four months of living at Agape, Brittany, now 36 years old, transitioned into her own two-bedroom apartment.
“Agape Village gave me a safe space to just be me,” she says. “It showed me that I needed to really get a hold of my life. I had been in the wind a long time.”
Agape Village, located on the grounds of the city’s Central Nazarene Church, consists of 13 simple wooden huts. Sarah Chapman, outreach coordinator at Agape, calls them sleeping pods, but they are more like tiny homes — only without electricity or plumbing. “It’s rustic,” says Chapman. “A step up from camping, but definitely not like living indoors.” But to the people who live there, it is the community and the stability that are life-changing.
Getting people into housing quickly requires sufficient affordable housing inventory, something Portland lacks. Smaller, cheaper shelters like Agape Village help fill the gap. Credit: Hannah Wallace
Chapman refers to Agape Village as a “transitional housing village” designed to bridge the gap between homelessness and permanent housing. Typically, transitional housing consists of a conventional house or apartment and is accompanied by intensive case management and other services for addiction and mental health issues. These days, though, the term has broadened to include low-cost, low-barrier-to-entry shelters such as sanctioned campgrounds or certain tiny-house villages. The people who live in them say having a roof over their heads has allowed them to address the challenges that have kept them chronically homeless in the past.
Tiny homes, transformational community
Living on the streets or in unsanctioned campgrounds means risking having your belongings stolen or or confiscated by city officials who routinely sweep through to “clean up” such encampments. And though homeless shelters are warm and mostly safe from crime, they have their own downsides: a lack of privacy, risk of infection and strict limitations on belongings.
