Whose Problem Is Homelessness?

I'm really asking.

“Home" is a strange concept, isn't it? Some of us love nothing more than to recharge in our private retreats, venturing out only when necessary. Others leave our homes every chance we get, whether to spend time in the community or to travel to other people's homes, other parts of the country or the world.

And, uncomfortable as it is to think about, some of us have no homes at all.

If you're one of those who loves to venture out, you might one day visit Joshua Tree, CA - home to the eponymous national park; namesake of the iconic 1987 U2 album; hippie mecca. When you come, you should be able to count on a good time. Yeah, it'll be hot, but it's worth it. You can break out your widest-brimmed straw hat or your favorite hiking sandals and join us for any number of classic desert activities: jamming to live music, reaching new heights in the park, unwinding with a yoga class at the Lloyd Wright-designed Institute of Mentalphysics (not a typo), or sipping artisanal CBD coffee or boba at our cafés.

Unless you're unhoused, that is.

If you're unhoused, you're not here to hike or sample bistros or purchase local art. And the provenance of your boba is the least of your worries. You're here so you won't develop trench foot from being unhoused in frequent rain; so you won't die of hypothermia in the cold.

But in a touristy place like Joshua Tree, it's startling to see, as I did today, an unhoused person’s campsite, complete with mattress, under one of the very few shade trees tall enough to provide a respite from the desert heat. And this just feet from the funky shops and restaurants tourists delight in:

Heartbreaking.

Oh, yikes.

Now, this is not a Joshua Tree problem. It's a national problem, a world problem: I expect every city in America, every town, every region, has people who are unhoused. No one seems to have a practical way to change this unfortunate reality, either. Our favorite ways of deflecting tend to lean one of two ways:

If someone is unhoused, we often hear, it's probably their own fault. They're probably addicted to drugs, or they're alcoholics, or they're mentally ill. Solve the mental health problems, we hear, and, like public shootings, the issue will go away.

Conversely, it's billionaires’ fault. Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk - why don't they do something about this? Paying $44 billion to ruin a website? How many housing units could that pay for? It's their fault - it's certainly not the fault of ordinary citizens like us.

Certainly there are people who have made choices that lead to homelessness. Certainly there are addicts, alcoholics, and people whose mental health problems are too severe to allow them to hold down jobs. And the natural consequence of that, in this society, is to be unable to provide oneself a safe, indoor living space. (It's worth noting that other successful Western countries have found ways around this.)

By the same token, it would be awesome if the world's richest people were to invest tiny fractions of their wealth into free or affordable housing units. Instead, we see them acting out fantasies of embarrassingly delayed adolescence: tech-bro space tourism; facilitation of anything-goes hate speech. But, pending evidence otherwise, these people inherited or earned their money fair and square, in accordance with law, and they're no more obligated to solve the world's problems than the rest of us.

For me, that's the kicker: they're no more obligated than the rest of us.

We're all obligated.

And it's a problem that we’ll always be obligated to address. Unless we, I don't know - just spitballing here - address it.

As I write this post, I'm waiting for Dave's and my clothes to finish in the dryer at the Joshua Tree laundromat. The radio says it's 96° on this mid-September day, and I sure feel it as I wrestle with unwieldy hampers and heave piles of wet laundry up into the dryers. The clothes will be done in 45 minutes, so I have driven to a local church, where the parking lot has one tree that gives a little bit of shade to park under and write as I wait.

There's a “No Loitering” sign right by where I'm parked. Am I loitering, myself? Definitely, though not for long. But I'm not who they're talking to, not in my car. They're talking about unhoused people.

Ah, yes - just like Jesus always said.

I passed an unhoused couple on the way over here, cowering in the pitiful shade of a lone saguaro. She was in a wheelchair; he perched his skinny frame below her, on the tiniest hint of curb. Both were, I'm sorry to say, absolutely filthy. But it's okay: they'll be shooed away before long. (/s)

Here in San Bernardino County - the country’s largest county by size; larger than many states - live 2.1 million people, spread out across desert cities, towns, and unincorporated areas. A pivotal report on countywide homelessness came out recently, demonstrating that this number includes more than 4,100 unhoused folks here. A tiny fraction of the population, by any measure: yes, most of us are housed. Still, it represents an increase of more than 25% over 2022’s numbers.

Crucially, though, this head count did not include anyone currently incarcerated or staying at a rehabilitation or psychiatric facility. That's not to say these 4,100 people who were counted don't have addiction or legal issues! I'm sure many do. But there are bound to be scores of folks who don't have anywhere to go once they're released from prison, jail, rehab, or a mental health facility.

Joshua Tree is, this year, home to 42 unhoused people who were able to be counted. Twentynine Palms, where we used to live, hosts 75 unhoused folks. And Yucca Valley, where we just moved this past spring, contains 110 unhoused people.

That's 227 unhoused people, spaced unevenly and uncomfortably throughout a 25-minute drive of harsh, unforgiving desert.

“Chronically homeless" folks - those who've spent years sleeping rough - do account for about half the numbers. But that also means that half are in an acute crisis: half these people were pushed over the edge by a recent change in circumstances. With the widely-distributed recent news that nearly 4 in 10 Americans couldn't cover an unexpected $400 emergency, it's easy to see how that might happen.

Or maybe they simply couldn't handle an endless number of $400 emergencies - or emergencies costing thousands of dollars. Life is, at its core, unpredictable, and even well-prepared folks are sometimes caught short.

Still, it's hard for many of us to conjure up much empathy. Surely, those people don't have an extra $400 - or whatever - because of their own needlessly profligate spending. Or because of their addictions. Or because they occasionally buy scratch-offs on the way home (“Gambling!" *clutches pearls*) Or because of … avocado toast? Anyway, it's their own fault.

I understand why it's tempting to think this way! The other side of the “it's their fault" coin is, of course, that it's by our own grit and good character that we are not homeless. Making enough money to house ourselves, we say, is a minimum threshold for responsibility. Never mind that 23 states currently pay a minimum wage of less than $10 per hour, with 20 of those states offering only $7.25 per hour. And this as food and housing costs skyrocket across the country.

It's a complex issue. I don't have the solution.

I do believe, though, that those of us who do not worry about how we're going to pay for our next meals, or how we'll keep our belongings clean and dry, ought to spend a little of that saved mental energy on cultivating some empathy - and solutions.

Maybe even look up your state’s affordable housing initiatives and write to your representatives in support. These facilities keep people safe - both the unhoused and the general public around them - and they have to go in someone's back yard.

I'd be willing to have one of them be mine.