ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, January 28, 1996 TAG: 9601280020
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: LESLIE TAYLOR STAFF WRITER
THEY ARE UNDER BRIDGES, in abandoned cars, huddled in doorways. How do you reach them? How do you help them?
My toes are numb, fingers too. My nose is running. I giant-step over a dead possum, trip over an empty liquor bottle.
The four of us climb back into a rugged red four-wheel drive vehicle and head to an I-581 overpass. We dodge a few cars. We struggle over a metal barrier. We inch down a steep embankment. The speeding traffic is one misstep away.
We peer into small cubbyholes that are cut under the mass of concrete and metal. The nooks are degrees warmer than the open air - the perfect getaway from the night's chill and whipping wind.
Tonight, they have no occupants.
As one companion lights a cigarette and complains of the kind of headache you get when you eat ice cream too fast, I wonder what pushes people into this kind of service to humankind - searching the city's hideaways for the homeless.
And finally, I ask, "Why?'' The three of them seem surprised that I pose the question.
"Grace of God," one says. "But by the grace of God...''
Last year, Roanoke received an $85,000 federal grant through the Virginia Department of Mental Health, Mental Retardation and Substance Abuse Services, money that the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development set aside for innovative initiatives for the homeless.
State mental health officials applied for the funding with one goal in mind - "to prevent anyone from dying in the winter due to homelessness," said Michael Shank, the state's mental health program consultant. The grant application was written to assist nine localities, most of them urban areas with a need for homeless services.
The nine - who shared an $808,000 pie - were Alexandria, Arlington, Fairfax, Richmond, Petersburg, Hampton/Newport News, Portsmouth, Virginia Beach and Roanoke.
The Roanoke city manager's Committee on Homelessness - a group of residents, clergy, city government representatives, and health and human services providers - was deemed a natural grant recipient.
The six-month grant is a one-time allocation. Once it's gone, there may not be funding to replace it, Shank said.
Rather than use the money to boost existing shelter capacity, the committee decided the money would be better spent on a team of people who could move the homeless off the streets, "through shelters and into permanent housing," said Helen Dasse, a committee member who is director of adult services for Blue Ridge Community Services.
Roanoke's Homeless Assistance Team - HAT for short - debuted Jan. 2.
The four-member team was modeled after Blue Ridge Community Service's "street team" - a group that for years has searched the streets for the homeless who may suffer from mental illness or substance abuse. But a loss of state funding has reduced that "team" to one person, a position that was vacant until last week.
HAT's function parallels that of the street team but encompasses all of Roanoke's homeless population. Its goal, in six short months, is to link people to services that can take care of their immediate needs as well as ones that can help them become self-sufficient.
"The people of Roanoke ought to be incredibly proud of their community," said Craig Miles, HAT coordinator, who moved to Roanoke last year from Sacramento, Calif. "Sacramento has 10 times the population of [Roanoke] with probably half of the services available in the community. What's here is a wonderful bunch of services.
"But there's no real linkage to them. A lot of the homeless get caught in the despair of getting services at one place and can't get out of a situation. Maybe we can find adjunct services, direct them in the right place."
Craig Miles is a former social worker and social work supervisor. Maurice Ferguson worked 15 years for Blue Ridge Community Services, 23 months at Total Action Against Poverty's Transitional Living Center. Kellie Flowers is a former Roanoke County police officer. Diane Dixon worked for a private job-placement outreach program.
They've infiltrated the world of the homeless. They've learned their patterns, where they hang out and when. They've discovered where it's safe to tread and where it's not.
"Because we're not police, we won't be putting ourselves in harm's way," Miles says. "We're not getting involved in dangerous situations. We're just not prepared for that.''
Short-term, the team will refer the homeless to such agencies and organizations as Roanoke Area Ministries, the Roanoke Rescue Mission and the Salvation Army's Red Shield Lodge for homeless men. These places can offer a meal, and in some cases a few nights' lodging.
Long-term, the team will work to link people to agencies that can help them out of homelessness and its effects, such as the Roanoke Redevelopment and Housing Authority, Total Action Against Poverty and the Roanoke Department of Social Services.
Every Wednesday night, the team conducts "street sweeps," combing alleys, rail yards and abandoned buildings and cars to encourage the homeless into shelters.
The team was clued into where to look by a Roanoke police officer who gave them a tour of homeless hideouts last month. They discovered a network of bridges, alleys and buildings that would have taken them years to find on their own, Miles said.
"I thought it was a fantastic indoctrination into the locations we need to be monitoring," he said. "We've got a good sense of where to go to look."|
``Look. Look up here," Ferguson says.
Perched atop metal beams under the 10th Street bridge is a "bed" - a dingy sleeping bag wrapped around some old sofa cushions. An unopened can of peas and one of pumpkin pie filling sit next to it.
"Hello? Anyone here?'' they shout over the hum of traffic overhead and clack-clack of passing trains.
No one answers.
"This setup is not typical," Ferguson says. "We'll be back to check this out.''
Calculating Roanoke's homeless population is nearly impossible. But a study released last year showed a 45 percent increase from three years ago in the number living in Roanoke shelters.
The homeless no longer conform to the stereotype of the "old, old winos," Miles said.
They are men and women, high school-educated, maybe some college. They are families. They are the mentally ill. They are substance abusers. They are people who shun shelters because they hate the system, hate abiding by the rules.
"There are guys that, even though you wouldn't call them suicidal, have no desire to live," Miles said. "They don't care if they died on the street. It's hard to reach them and tell them there's hope."
As we shiver outside the downtown Roanoke library, Ferguson tells of a 69-year-old man, a heavy drinker who spent three years in and out of shelters.
The team found him at the Red Shield Lodge, where he'd gone after being mugged. The attack shook him up, Ferguson says.
The team put him in touch with the Roanoke housing authority. This week, he'll move into a public high-rise apartment complex for the elderly and the disabled.
"Tell her about Jessica," Flowers says.
Jessica is a young mother of two from out of state. Her family kicked her out. She wound up in Roanoke, homeless.
The team found her at a shelter, put her in touch with the Transitional Living Center, a place that provides food, shelter and services to prepare homeless people for independent living.
"She was afraid to ask for help," Flowers says.
Some willingly accept the team's help. Others are reluctant.
To the reluctant, the team offers options. Team members offer their phone numbers and the names of agencies - written on scraps of paper until business cards can be printed. They offer blankets, cups of coffee.
"If they say, `Hey, I don't want to be bothered,' there's nothing we can do," Miles said. "We're not out there to force anybody."
The team can be most useful as a crisis intervention service, helping people when they are at greatest risk, Miles said.
"We're not trying to create a new service, but be emergency case managers until people get hooked with other services," he said. "You ask yourself, `Why wouldn't they know already?' If you're out on the street, wouldn't you have asked somebody?
"The answer is `No.' They might have asked five years ago, when a program didn't exist, and they didn't ask again. We give these folks, if nothing else, just a piece of hope. If they want to change, there is some place they can turn."
Flowers positions the vehicle so its headlights shine on an abandoned, crumbling house.
"There it is," Ferguson says. "To the left."
The headlights settle on a stone slab, tucked in a corner beneath a tangle of weeds gone wild.
In the quiet darkness, he reads: "The city forgot her. Madeline A. Tate froze to death 1/21/85."
The 76-year-old Tate died in her poorly heated rental home.
"She symbolizes a certain sadness to me," Ferguson says. "Some people live in conditions worse than homelessness.''
LENGTH: Long : 176 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: DON PETERSEN/Staff. Homeless Assistance Team membersby CNBKellie Flowers (from
left), Craig Miles and Maurice Ferguson find no homeless people
beneath the Elm
Avenue bridge over I-581. color.