[From The Fresno Bee, Fresno, California, USA, Sunday, August 11, 2002, page A1.]
[Photo: Two homeless men, one squatting, one lying down, rest inside a cinderblock abandoned dumpster housing, including a mattress, a sleeping bag, and a bicycle in the background behind the resting man.]
[Photo Caption:] Ken, right, and Bill seek shelter where a trash bin used to sit behind an abandoned building in Clovis. Another homeless man, who was found nearly unconscious here July 31, died two days later. A lack of shelter in Clovis leaves the homeless without a place to sleep indoors.]
Clovis has a simple way of dealing with its homeless: send them to Fresno.
Every year, the central San Joaquin Valley's third-largest city directs hundreds of displaced people to places such as the Fresno Rescue Mission or the Marjaree Mason Center. Clovis, a community of 72,800, doesn't have a single emergency homeless shelter.
There's nothing for the wayward teen-ager booted out of home by an overwhelmed parent, or woman and her children battered by domestic violence. Nothing for the middle-aged male alcoholic, who symbolizes homelessness for much of the public.
And nothing for someone such as Steve Law, a 50-year old homeless man who was found nearly unconscious behind an abandoned Clovis building July 31 and died two days later at Saint Agnes Medical Center in Fresno.
Clovis City Hall's policy on the homeless is reflected in the city's updated housing element — a state-mandated plan that outlines how a community provides housing opportunities for its residents, from the richest to the poorest.
A rough draft of the Clovis housing element was approved by the City Council this summer and recently OK'd by the state Department of Housing and Community Development.
The report counts Clovis' annual homeless population this way: an average of four financially strapped seniors, four to five men living on the streets, and six families and six single people showing up at the Clovis Salvation Army. There also is an undetermined number of homeless youths, the report states.
Homeless advocates, Fresno shelter operators, and the homeless dispute the survey's findings, saying the actual number could be as high as about 1,400.
The Marjaree Mason Center sees some 300 battered women from the Clovis area every year. As many as 200 homeless youths ages 11 to 17 annually seek shelter at The Sanctuary. A few nights of looking around in Clovis turned up at least seven homeless men living along a small stretch on West Shaw Avenue.
One of those men estimated that at least 100 others live elsewhere in the city.
Clovis markets itself as "a way of life," shorthand for a lifestyle of grace, success, and security. Is there also room for the homeless? Yes, say Clovis officials, but there aren't many of them.
"I wasn't aware we have a serious problem," says City Council Member Harry Armstrong.
Armstrong reasons that non-profit shelters go where the homeless are, and since there are no shelters in Clovis, the city has no homeless problem.
"We always have an open-door policy," Armstrong says.
Mayor Jose Flores says Clovis is teaching the size in which its residents may soon have to grapple with the urban ills that afflict so many U.S. cities. But, he adds, it is a testament to Clovis' neighbor-helping-neighbor spirit that the city has so far avoided man of those problems, including rampant homelessness: "It's a virtuous cycle rather than a vicious cycle."
Clovis officials say Fresno's numerous services make it a logical and cost-effective destination for Clovis' homeless. They also say that their housing element proposes a zoning-ordinance amendment that would make it easier for nonprofits to open shelters in certain areas of the city. Ideally, the report states, such a shelter would serve both emergency and transitional housing needs, and have a "minimal number" of beds.
All it takes, they say, is for that nonprofit shelter provider to show up with a plan and funding. Says City Council Member Pat Wynne: "Nobody's approached us, and nobody's been turned away."
City Manager Kathy Millison says the city fulfills its duty to its homeless by sharing tax revenue with Fresno County. Clovis officials also say they supported an unsuccessful effort some 18 months ago to open a shelter in the city for victims of domestic violence.
Fresno City Council Member Brian Calhoun isn't impressed.
"They should be embarrassed" by their homeless philosophy, Calhoun says. "Clovis is always talking about being the place to be. The place to be is also about taking care of your poor. It's not running away and then dumping all your problems on Fresno."
Fresno Mayor Alan Autry isn't quite as blunt, perhaps because he is wrestling with options to solve a serious homeless problem in his city. A local low-income housing organization estimates that there are 16,478 homeless people in Fresno and Madera counties, more than two-thirds of whom live in Fresno.
Still, Autry thinks homelessness in Clovis has hit a "critical mass" that requires its leaders to take action: "I think the time has come that a homeless facility of some type needs to be built."
Leaders of Fresno homeless shelters agree with Clovis City Hall, that the nonprofits, not a city government, take the lead in serving the homeless. Yet some of those leaders also say Clovis Officials have shown little interest in their efforts.
Martha Ruiz is chairwoman of the Continuum of Care, an organization of about 100 nonprofits and government agencies serving the homeless in Fresno and Madera counties. She says Clovis is a member, but she can't recall a Clovis official ever attending the organization's meeting: "Fresno is very active, but I can't say that about my beloved Clovis."
Tina Sumner, housing-project manager for the Clovis Community Development Agency, says she is the person who would attend Continuum of Care meetings but admits she hasn't been an active participant. She says she keeps track of the organization's activities through its letters.
Ruiz says the problem for Continuum of Care's nonprofits isn't a lack of desire to move into Clovis: "It's a lack of funds."
Joe Martinez says it's a matter of time before his shelter expands into Clovis, where he grew up. Martinez is the Safe Place coordinator at The Sanctuary, a Fresno-based center for youths ages 11 to 17. The Safe Place program uses signs to designate businesses, stores and even public buses as places where homeless youths can receive shelter or help.
The Sanctuary serves 1,300 youths annually, up more than 30% since the late 1990's, Martinez says. He estimates that 100 to 200 homeless Clovis youths come through The Sanctuary every year, a number sure to increase when the Safe Place program is implemented in Clovis.
"We always say each child is at risk," Martinez says. "Every family, rich or poor, has its problems."
Tim Reese, executive director for the Marjaree Mason Center for battered women and children, says the center serves about 300 women per year from Clovis and the foothills area. He says the annual number would be at least 50% higher, but many women in the greater Clovis area don't seek help because the center is in Fresno. These women are at risk of serious injury if they remain in violent homes Reese says.
While praising Clovis' generally "positive" attitude toward the center's failed effort 18 months ago, Reese says any homeless-shelter provider faces unique hurdles trying to move into Clovis: "Part of the challenge is that the community projects a certain image that is protected at all costs. … If you can pack [the homeless] up and ship them across to Fresno, then you have no problem."
The center's recent Clovis proposal fell through when the potential site was removed from the market, Reese says.
Ron Prestridge, program officer for the Corporation for Supportive Housing, a nonprofit group dedicated to expanding housing for the poor, says his group recently used a United Way grant to conduct a census of the homeless in Fresno and Madera counties. The survey set Clovis' homeless population at 1,416, he says.
Clovis officials question Prestridge's figure, but he stands by the survey's methodology.
Many of the central San Joaquin Valley's larger cities have emergency or transitional homeless shelters.
Madera has a rescue mission, and the Housing Authority provides some homeless housing, says Planning Director Larry Red. The city's homeless problem is small, Red adds, "but it never crossed our mind " to send the people to Fresno. "They are people in our community, and we should try to provide housing for them."
Merced Planing Manager Kim Espinosa says several private shelters operate in the city, and the local armory is opened in the winter so that homeless people can get out of the cold.
Porterville in southern Tulare County also has homeless services. Helping Hand President Roy Rockholt says his organization operates the Daybell Brooks Men's Shelter for drug-free homeless men who want to work. The shelter also has one room with two beds as an emergency shelter for homeless men.
Clovis City Council member Armstrong says it's not fair to compare his city with these communities because they are relatively isolated while Clovis shares a lengthy boundary with Fresno, where nonprofit shelters and county programs are already in place.
[Photo from above of two men sleeping on mats in a dumpster enclosure.]
[Photo caption: PHOTOS BY KURT HEGRE — THE FESNO
BEE
Billy, back, and Ken sleep behind an abandoned
building in Clovis. The men close the wooden doors to the
enclosure for privacy. Many of Clovis' homeless say they
have been on the streets off and on for years.]
Fresno County Administrative Officer Bart Bohn says the country does not have a policy of concentrating its services in downtown Fresno. He says the county is developing regional centers to provide services in communities where the needs are greatest, adding that "Clovis wouldn't be high on that priority list."
Sumner, the city's housing-project manager, says the fast-growing city may require a homeless shelter for youths within five to 10 years. If so, its location could stir public debate.
The housing element proposes allowing homeless shelters in certain commercial areas "by right." That means a homeless shelter operator with sufficient funds and a plan that meets city building codes could open for business anywhere in those designated areas and City Hall couldn't stop him or her.
Most of those designated commercial areas are found along two of Clovis' busiest retail corridors — long stretches of Herndon and Shaw avenues. The housing element also would allow homeless shelters in certain high-density residential (apartments and condominiums) areas with conditional-use permits.
Clovis officials say the city has no zones that permitted homeless shelters "by right." Linda Nichols, an official with the state Department of Housing and Community Development, says the "by right" provision is a "far leap forward" for Clovis' homeless policy.
Some Clovis business owners and city officials say they had no idea the housing element would allow homeless shelters in popular retail districts.
Jerry Cook, one of Clovis' leading owners of retail property along Shaw, says he didn't know until informed by a reporter last week. "I need to learn more about this," Cook says, adding that he is "sensitive to everyone's needs, including the homeless."
Chris Godbout, manager of Pool Mart on West Shaw, says he would not be bothered by a homeless shelter on either Shaw or Herndon: "We've got to be progressive sometime."
Council member Wynne says she doesn't recall voting for such a provision. Nor does Mayor Flores, who adds: "Usually, we're smarter than what you're describing."
Armstrong says he doesn't know anything about the decision's internal politics, then adds that the final housing element will allow City Hall to regulate homeless shelters within retail areas.
The harsh truth about homelessness, says Prestridge of the Corporation for Supportive Housing, is that it doesn't stop at any county or city boundary: "You're going to get them some way — the hospital emergency rooms, the morgues, the jails."
That the streets of Clovis can be deadly for the homeless was made clear Aug. 2, when the life of Steve Law ended. Few people knew his last name. Business owners sometimes gave him food and left empty bottles and cans outside their rear doors for him to recycle.
Steve slept for six months in what the homeless call a "Dumpster surround" on Shaw. It's an enclosure with concrete blocks on three sides and an unlocked gate on the fourth side, where a business keeps its trash bin.
Steve's Dumpster surround had no bin. On a Wednesday afternoon, when the temperature rose to 99 degrees, he had spent six hours lying unshaded on a stained couch cushion near a drain used as a urinal at night. Graig Giddens, a friend who is now off the streets, and a Bee reporter found Steve barely able to move and summoned paramedics. The paramedics couldn't get a pulse or a blood pressure reading from either of his skinny arms.
An empty quart beer bottle sat on a curb near Steve's head. His belt, tightened to the last hole, doubled back to encircle his left hip. Paramedics asked him questions, but Steve responded only with mumbles. His brown skin had a yellowish tinge.
"We need a shelter, we need a shelter," repeated Giddens as the ambulance hustled Steve to Saint Agnes Medical Center.
Giddens is now a volunteer computer-repair technician at the Clovis Salvation Army.
[Photo: Man in a tee-shirt and with a long moustache and neatly trimmed beard sits outside the dumpster enclosure next to a bicycle.]
[Photo caption: Craig once lived on the streets of Clovis. Sleeping behind stores along Shaw Avenue, he eventually found his way to a boarding house, where he now lives. He often hangs out with his pals from the streets, meeting them in the same spots where he used to sleep.]
Fresno County Senior Deputy Coroner Richard Tobin said Steve died from a combination of alcohol abuse and complications from his long life on the streets: "He was homeless. … There are homeless people that die in Fresno all the time."
But Fresno has homeless shelters. Hard-core homeless substance abusers may choose to ignore the services to their detriment, but at least the shelters are there.
Instead, Clovis City Hall chooses to rely largely on altruistic people who decide on their own to help the homeless.
Among them is Tyce Ferguson, co-owner of Clovis Recycling Center. Ferguson says his first hire was a homeless man who had contracted AIDS from a dirty needle. At the end, he adds, the man "died in his own apartment."
Over the past 13 years, Ferguson says, about half of the center's hires have been homeless men he met when they brought in recyclables. Steve Law slept away an afternoon at the recycling center about a week before he died.
Estimating the number of homeless men in Clovis is a tricky task because their lives are so fluid, Ferguson says. He mentions a Clovis house where the owner lets about ten men sleep. Officially they're not homeless; if the owner booted them out, they would be.
"The people of Clovis don't want to admit there is a homeless factor here."
Perhaps the most diligent free-lance homeless-service provider is Clovis Police officer Michael Lichti, whom Giddens credits with getting him off the streets by helping secure Social Security disability payments and medication for his mental illness.
Lichti was one of two police officers who responded to Steve's plight. He says Steve had lost 50 pounds in the past six months: "He's a neat guy, but the alcohol got him."
Lichti says he tries to help some of Clovis' homeless when he can, taking them to the Department of Motor Vehicles for ID cards or checking up on them periodically.
He expresses no opinion about whether Clovis needs a homeless shelter, say only that city leaders run a risk no matter what they do: Ignore the problem and more Steves might die; convince a nonprofit to open a shelter and Clovis might become a homeless magnet.
People don't try to avoid the homeless because they hate them, he says, but because they know "we're all just one paycheck away from that lifestyle."
Lichti looks back at the filthy concrete enclosure that was Steve's final home. "It's not about how people came to be here," he says. "It's what we do after they get here."
The Salvation Army has an official presence in Clovis, providing emergency, nonperishable food handouts to the homeless, and, in rare cases, a night or two at the Rodeo Lodge.
Henry Raven, envoy for the Clovis Salvation Army, says that in the 10 months from last September through June, he has given shelter at Rodeo Lodge to 24 people totaling about 27 nights. He says the program also is for people made homeless by fire or disaster.
For the most part, Raven adds, the homeless are referred to Fresno shelters.
The Clovis housing element's homeless census started with interviews with the Clovis senior-services coordinator, the Salvation Army and the Clovis police chief. It included a homeless survey conducted by police and Sumner, the housing project manager, from Jan. 4 to 20.
Sumner says she made no phone calls to Reese at the Marjaree Mason Center, Martinez at The Sanctuary or any of the other Fresno-based homeless shelters that she listed in the housing element.
There are at least seven homeless men who live along West Shaw Avenue, seen over a series of evening visits to the city's streets. The youngest was 23, the oldest nearly 50. Most say they have been on the streets off and on for years, largely by choice, and admit they like to drink. Some say they have relatives living in permanent residences nearby, but can't (or won't) live there because the family relationships are strained.
The 23-year-old says he had been homeless only a few days.
Several estimate that the city's homeless male population is at 100 or more, including a growing number of young men and an occasional woman.
"How often do we go canning [collecting aluminum cans] and see somebody new?" a man who calls himself John says to his friend, Bill. "There's a lot more [Clovis homeless] than they're letting on."
The homeless tend to congregate in small camps on West Shaw from Clovis Avenue to Peach Avenue and near Old Town Clovis, they say. West Shaw, with its growing number of vacant stores, lends itself to relatively safe hideaways.
Clovis police may cut you some slack if you're sleeping behind a rundown strip mall, the men say, but they're quick to roust you from city parks. Lichti, the men agree, is the friendliest and most understanding of Clovis' police officers.
The irony, says Giddens, who lived on Clovis' streets for six years, is that the very lifestyle that makes Clovis so attractive to the upwardly mobile — safety, financial opportunity, a calm pace — also attracts homeless men.
Odd jobs are plentiful, he says, as are free meals from some West Shaw restaurants. Panhandling is relatively easy ("Tell the truth, if it's for beer, tell them.") and there isn't the incessant fear that you find living on downtown Fresno's mean streets, he adds.
"I like Clovis," Giddens says. "It's got low crime and good neighborhoods."
John and Bill express the same opinion late one evening on West Shaw. Sure, they say, much of their fate they brought upon themselves. Neither likes authority, but, they add, they like the freedom of the streets. Both have bicycles, giving them a measure of mobility.
And what about their futures? John, 37, retains the vitality of a relatively young man whose health hasn't been shattered by homelessness. He says he doesn't need or want a shelter in Clovis. He figures he can carry on alone.
Bill, 43, isn't as sure. Only he among the homeless men hanging out at this corner of West Shaw is clearly a physical mess: gaunt cheeks, matted hair, slurred speech, his dirty blue jeans ripped at the knee. He looks terrible, sounds terrible, smells terrible.
"I'm turning into Steve," he says.
A few minutes later, Bill and John push their bicycles toward their shelter for the night. It's the same concrete coffin where Steve Law spent his last hours on the streets of Clovis.
>> The reporter can be reached at ghostetter@fresnobee.com or 441-6272.