Category: NYC

Categories
Education Homelessness NYC

How Long Do People Stay Here?

Let’s visit a homeless shelter in New York City.

There’s no sign on the building. On the sidewalk outside of the unmarked entrance are several men. Three of them are chatting with each other. Two others are leaning against the wall, taking drags from their cigarettes. After you pass, one of them coughs up a wad of phlegm and spits it out. A man sitting on the sidewalk asks, “Spare some change?” He shakes a tattered coffee cup at you. The few coins inside jangle.

You try to pull the door open. It’s locked. Through the glass you see a few people looking out at you. They’re not smiling. Finding the doorbell, you press the white button. A few seconds pass. A harsh, steady buzz suddenly fills the air, informing you that you may now enter.

“Sign in!” a man barks at you. Behind the splintered desk is a man in a security uniform. He’s pointing at a log book, the page nearly filled with names in blue ink.

As you write in your information, he asks, “Who are you? Where you from?”

“Empty your pockets.”

“Open your bag.”

Satisfied with your answers and confident that you don’t have weapons, drugs, or alcohol, he steps out from behind the desk with a metal detector wand. After he waves it over your body, he says, “Go. You’re fine.”

Before you see the thick, plastic chairs in the main room, you smell the odor of fetid sweat. Seated in the chairs are men wearing unwashed jeans, oversized shirts, baggy jackets, and generic baseball caps. Some of them are reading newspapers and books. A few older women are sleeping upright, their chins nearly resting on their chests. One of them is wearing sandals; her toenails are discolored and misshapen from fungus. Her ankles look like eggplants. A young man seated in a wheelchair tries to drink his coffee, but his tremulous hand cannot keep the cup steady. Next to him is a man wearing a porkpie hat, red lipstick, two winter coats, board shorts over torn tuxedo pants, and yellow sandals. Three women are shouting at each other; one of them reaches for the neck of another and screams, “I’M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU—”

“How long do people stay here?” you ask, realizing that the room is filled with people. You can’t imagine living like this; you’d get out of here as soon as you could.

They feel the exact same way.

But you ask an excellent question. What is the average length of stay in a homeless shelter?

Some caveats: Data on homelessness is almost always incomplete and inaccurate:

  1. Researchers can only collect data that is available. People who stay in homeless shelters are available. People who live in cars, abandoned lots, and in transit stations—away from researchers—are generally unavailable.
  2. Researchers often must rely on the information homeless individuals share (“self report”). For a variety of reasons, people who are homeless may not share much about themselves… if they consent to interviews at all.

That being said, available evidence suggests that people stay in homeless shelters anywhere from two [1. “The average length of stay in emergency shelter was 69 days for single men, 51 days for single women, and 70 days for families.”] to seven months. [2. “In a survey of 24 cities, people remain homeless an average of seven months…”] (I read a paper within the last year that I now cannot find—of course—that demonstrated that the majority of people who experience homelessness are homeless for less than six months. Furthermore, of those people, most of them are homeless for only one day!)

This suggests that the majority of people in shelters do not experience chronic homelessness. Emergency shelters, then, are arguably used just for that: emergencies. Those who enter shelters obtain the help and resources (either within or outside of the shelter) to get them back on their feet. They exit the shelter system in less than a year—sometimes within a few months—and never use the system again.

However, there are individuals in shelters who meet the definition of “chronically homeless”. Some researchers have “identified that approximately 10 percent of users account[ed] for 50 percent of the annual nights of shelter provided”. [3. See page 1-10 of this document for the statistic that 10% of shelter users account for 50% of annual nights of shelter provided.] These numbers should sound familiar to those of you who follow health care policy discussions, where “5% of patients use 50% of all health care spending dollars”. [4. More about “A Small Proportion of the Total Population Accounts for Half of All U.S. Medical Spending” here.]

So what’s going on with these individuals who experience chronic homelessness? Are there risk factors for chronic homelessness? If so, what do you think they are?

Categories
Education Homelessness NYC

Do All New Yorkers Have a Home?

Before I write about “homeless psychiatry”, let’s talk about homelessness.

In New York City, most people are familiar with the sight of people who are clearly homeless. These men and women, sometimes pushing carts and often saddled with several overflowing bags, are in city parks, on subway cars, and under bridges. People grow so accustomed to the homeless that, after a while, they don’t see them anymore, even if they’re looking directly at them. (Once you are actively looking for them, however, you will see them everywhere—and where they sleep, even if they aren’t there.)

Would you believe that New York City has one of the lowest ratios of street homeless individuals in the country? (Please note that there are differences between people who are homeless on the street and people who are homeless in shelters. More about this below.) In New York City, there is one street homeless person for every 2,688 people in the general population. In Los Angeles, there is one street homeless person for every 154 people. [1. See the last page of the document that compares street homeless populations of different US cities. Briefly, this data comes from volunteers who survey the city on one single night, usually during the coldest month of the year.]

What could explain this? Maybe it’s because of the cold, snowy winters and the sweltering summers. Perhaps people who are homeless leave the city and move to places with temperate climes. Those who have worked in hospitals too long might argue that many of the homeless aren’t on the streets; they’re in the hospitals. Those who work in the correctional system may make the same argument, except they replace the word “hospitals” with “jails”. Or maybe they’re hiding somewhere to avoid encounters with the police.

While those reasons may hold true for some people, one major reason that explains the low ratio of street homeless people in New York is the class action lawsuit Callahan v. Carey. The result of this lawsuit decreed that the City and State of New York must

provide shelter and board to all homeless men [and, later on, women] who met the need standard for welfare or who were homeless “by reason of physical, mental, or social dysfunction.” Thus the decree established a right to shelter for all homeless men in New York City, and also detailed the minimum standards which the City and State must maintain in shelters, including basic health and safety standards. [2. Excellent summary of Callahan v. Carey.]

As far as I know, New York is the only state where people have a legal right to shelter.

Even though New York City has a low ratio of unsheltered homeless individuals, there are many people who are homeless who stay in shelters. The Department of Homeless Services in New York (which also shares the acronym “DHS”) keeps a count of homeless individuals throughout the city.

Take a guess: How many people stay in a New York City shelter on an average night?

Those of you who have witnessed the New York City Marathon can attest to the endless waves of people who are running (plodding, whatever) in the streets. Tens of thousands of people make their way towards the finish line. About 45,000 people finished the marathon in 2010.

New York City’s Department of Homeless Services publishes the shelter census every day. The number has recently been around 37,000 people. While there is a difference between the shelter census number and the marathon finisher number, you now have a sense of the size of the shelter population.

Take another guess: How many of those 37,000 people are children?

About 16,000. [3. Statistics about the population of homeless people and children in New York.]

That’s right: In New York City shelters, there are more homeless children than homeless single adults.

These numbers tell us only about people who are willing and able to go through the process of registering for and staying in shelter beds. There are people who are homeless who either cannot or choose not to stay in shelters. [4. Here is a literary example.] As far as I know, there is no literature that describes the differences between these two populations, though I suspect that the differences are significant.

Furthermore, there are major differences between people who are homeless for a shorter period of time versus those who are “chronically” street homeless.

But before we get into those distinctions, let’s think about the definition of “homeless”. Many scholars, politicians, and advocates have tried to provide an accurate description of this word. How would you define it?

Categories
NYC

5:30am in the Financial District.

Prior to my departure from New York, my boss there granted me permission to freely write about the work I did in Manhattan. Though there are many psychiatrists in New York, very few work literally in the streets of the city. Future (original) posts will describe in greater detail my experiences as a “homeless psychiatrist”. As an introduction, here is a post that I originally wrote the following in December 2009.

The moon still floats in the sky at 5:30am and the wind coming off of the river feels like a cold pickle against the skin.

A parade of vehicles make their way south on Broadway, their tail lights glowing red in the dark ink of the yet unwritten day. Large trucks, the kind with eight or ten large wheels, roaring engines, and rattling cargo, rumble slowly along, their unoiled brakes screeching with each push of the drivers’ brakes. Taxis wander along the road, veering to the right, then to the left, then back to the right, of these large trucks, like flies looking for a place to rest their wings. Impatience overtakes the taxi drivers and intermittent honking ensues.

Underground, the subways are filled with people. Most of them are not Caucasian. Most of them are men. Many of them wear construction belts and boots. When the subway reaches the last stop, most of the people file off. A dozen or so, however, remain in each car. These individuals are wearing multiple layers of clothing, are surrounded by pieces of luggage and plastic bags stuffed with what look like more plastic bags, and are fast asleep in postures that look uncomfortable. These are the homeless who have found shelter, warmth, and relative peace for the night.

Back above ground, the sidewalks are almost empty. A young woman wearing tech clothing on her body and ear buds in her ears jogs past, her exhalations light, wispy, and grey. An older man in a dark suit, a yarmulke on his head, and a beard on his face ambles past, following the lead of his golden retriever. The space in front of the New York Stock Exchange, usually filled with tourists, chain-smoking day traders in bright coats, seemingly important men in three-piece suits, and police officers touting assault weapons, is completely empty.

The tiny trailers filled with pastries, bagels, and coffee are already set up and on site. The men inside, however, are napping, their chins tucked into their chests, their crossed arms resting on their abdomens that gently rise and fall with each breath.

A woman approaches one tiny trailer and giggles when she realizes that the merchant inside is sleeping. The man suddenly awakens upon hearing her and bolts upright.

“I’m sorry,” he sheepishly says. “What would you like?”

A few delivery men hoist boxes onto their hand carts. They swiftly push the cart into motion and easily steer the cargo along the sidewalks. Some of them whistle. Some of them frown.

A man sits on a rolling luggage cart, which is purposely positioned above a heated grate. His tattered clothes gently flap from the heat emitting from the vent. His nails are thick and yellow from growing yeast and grime is packed in the ridges of his fingers. To his left is a shopping cart, packed with plastic bags filled with newspapers, aluminum cans, and styrofoam containers. To his right is a lidless jar of peanut butter. A white plastic spoon or fork sits inside.

He faces the street and large trucks rumble past, their bright white headlights slicing through the darkness. Farther out, the lights along the river glow peach-orange, their reflections wobbling and choppy in the water.

The man’s lips move, though no sound comes forth. He shrugs his shoulders and then reaches over to the jar of peanut butter. He deftly pulls out the spoon, opens his mouth, and puts a glob of peanut butter in. He is missing many teeth.

The moon will set, the sun will rise, and the city will wake up. And the man eating the peanut butter will disappear.

Categories
Nonfiction NYC

Visiting Rikers Island (IV).

The people operating the sally port were not vigilant. They opened the first door and permitted us to walk in. Before the first door, now behind us, completely closed, the second door, in front of us, opened. We could not see the officers who were monitoring the doors. They were located above us and hidden behind a darkened window. We only heard them knock on the glass and saw one shady hand point at the black light on the wall. They wanted us to put our hands there so they could see the stamp that was placed on them earlier.

Two officers greeted us on the other side.

“Who are you here to see?”

“The Person,” we said.

“Go to Table 14, over there in the corner,” an officer instructed, pointing over a group of inmates seated near them. They were in grey jumpsuits, wearing flip-flops on their bare feet, and examining us.

The top of each table was about knee-height. Three grey chairs were on one side of the table. One red chair was on the other side of the table. All the red chairs faced the single point of entry to the room.

The Person strolled in and sat in a chair, looking around.

“The Person?” the officers called. “The Person? Go to Table 14! Over there!”

Fellow inmates laughed as The Person jumped up and looked at Table 14. The Person had no idea who we were. I hadn’t seen The Person in over six months and didn’t recognize The Person, either.

Our conversation was short. The Person didn’t have much to say to us and it was noisy room. Many of the tables in the room were occupied, some by couples who were holding hands (above the table), others by family and friends, everyone leaning in over the table. People laughed, chatted, and murmured.

No one in the room was white.

My companion and I got up to leave. We had only spent about fifteen minutes in the room.

“SIT DOWN!” the officers shouted at us. “The Person needs to leave first.”

We immediately sat back down. The Person nonchalantly got up and walked back into the jail block. Rooted in our chairs, we looked at the officers, waiting our turn to go.

“Okay, now you can leave,” they said. They handed us back the notecards that documented our times of entry at the various checkpoints in our trip.

Back out the sally port we went—they were more vigilant about our exit—and we rejoined the crowd of over 20 people in the waiting area. The officer who opened my locker said out loud to no one in particular, “Why did people spend so little time in there?”

Buses reportedly only came around once an hour. This meant that the officers had to monitor us until a bus arrived to take us back to the main gate.

Everyone had put their earrings back into their earlobes, rings back onto their fingers, necklaces around their necks, and belts through the loops. Overall, everyone seemed more relaxed; people talked to each other and were leaning casually against the wall. One woman, though, appeared sad and on the verge of tears. She stared blankly out the far window.

Buses rumbled past and people expectedly crowded near the exit, hoping to get out of the jail first. They sighed audibly with disappointment and irritation when the buses didn’t stop.

Ah, New York, I thought.

A bus finally pulled up about fifteen minutes later and the driver honked the horn. The police officer was still big and burly, but no longer bilious: He smiled broadly at us as he collected our notecards. His teeth were straight and white.

The bus was completely full. People stood in the middle aisle and gripped the vinyl seats for stability. I was the last person to get on the bus and balanced myself on the steps leading into the vehicle.

“Lean back,” he barked at me when he began to turn a tight corner. “I can’t see the mirror.”

I bit my tongue and leaned back. Don’t complain, don’t explain.

After stopping at another cell block to let people off and other people on, we finally arrived at the main gate. People pushed their way off of the bus and walked quickly through the gated chain fence. A city bus, the Q100, was at the stop and people were boarding.

“Wait wait wait,” people breathlessly said as they raced up to the Q100.

“Hey, there’s the bus,” I said to my companion, bracing my bag as I picked up my legs to run.

“Wait—we still have to get our stuff from the locker,” he called out to me. I immediately halted, starting to smile at myself.

“Right,” I said. “Right. I am so ready to get out of here that I completely forgot about all of my stuff.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I almost did, too.”

I think he was just being nice. We hastily walked back to the lockers as a steady stream of people walked in the opposite direction, many of them picking up speed as they noticed the city bus.

There wasn’t a single white person in the crowd.

(Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here.)

Categories
Nonfiction NYC

Visiting Rikers Island (III).

We were seated over a rear wheel. The bus was probably older than me and any shock absorption it may have had in the past was now completely gone.

The bus pulled away from the building and lurched onto the main road on the expansive grounds of the jail. We passed open fields surrounded by tall chain-linked fences that were wrapped in concertina wire. Canadian geese sat on the grass, their necks tucked into their bodies. There were structures that looked like mobile homes on the outer perimeter; some of them had signs that suggested that they were legal centers. Most of the cars in the parking lots were neither fancy nor wrecks: trucks, vans, sedans, and coupes. An identical bus, half filled with people, roared past us in the opposite direction.

There was the view of Laguardia again, and then a view of the island of Manhattan. The skyscrapers looked like dollhouse structures from that distance.

The bus halted in front of a cement building and some people began to get up. We glanced at the stamped initials on our notecards, then at the name of the building. They matched.

A police officer, big, burly, and bilious, opened the door of the structure as we walked up. An automated voice—that of a young woman—filled the small foyer. She repeated instructions about what items were permitted in the jail and what were not. The police officer then began to talk over the automated voice, barking instructions to remove your shoes, no jewelry is allowed, take our your ID, put everything in a bin, put your items in a locker, the other officer will write the number on the back….

In the window were Polaroid photographs. Several were of men whose hands were handcuffed together, dark rectangular bars over their eyes. “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU TRY TO BRING ILLEGAL ITEMS INTO THE JAIL.” In other photographs were men seated on examining tables, their torsos, arms, and legs severed open and oozing blood. “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU GIVE RAZOR BLADES TO INMATES.”

Most of us quietly took a plastic bin and began to remove our jewelry. A man—tall, older, with dark skin—began to vent his frustration: “We pay taxes, you know. They can’t treat us like this. We’re citizens. We’re not under arrest. We have rights.”

“Put your stuff in a bin,” the police officer sternly said to him.

The man sighed irritably, pulled off his belt, and tried to shove it quickly into the bin. He began to walk through the metal detector with shoes still on his feet.

“TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF,” the police officer shouted. “I said that before. You need to listen.”

The man walked backwards, pulled off his sneakers, put them on the conveyor belt, and walked through the metal detector. Another officer, a woman with her hair tightly pulled back away from her face, looked at the screen attached to the conveyor belt. She nodded once.

The man retrieved his shoes and began to put them on.

“Take the bin off of the machine,” the police officer ordered. The man stifled a comment and grabbed the bin.

The metal detector beeped when I walked through. The disgruntled police officer took a wand. We stood, arms at our sides, facing each other.

“Move your—” he said, clearly annoyed, moving his arms apart. Realizing what I was supposed to do, I lifted my arms. He floated the wand over my chest and abdomen.

“Turn around,” he muttered. After finishing the task, he mumbled, “You’re fine. Take your bin.”

I slid my feet back into my shoes and then put my bag inside a locker. My companion and I had our IDs in our hands. The female officer saw us clutching our IDs and sighed impatiently. “You gotta put your IDs in the lockers. None of y’all are listening today.”

My companion blurted, “I thought that’s what he said—” I shook my head. Don’t complain, don’t explain.

We had only our clothes and shoes on after we stowed our IDs. The female officer scanned the group and then began pointing at several women.

“You, you, you, and you,” she said, pointing at me last. “Come with me, ladies.”

We were directed behind a curtain. I was probably the oldest person there. The youngest looked like she was in her late teens. She was flicking the rod in her tongue piercing over her teeth.

The cops allow that…?

“Sit down,” the officer ordered. We immediately settled down into the hard plastic chairs.

“Take off your shoes and socks.”

Standing with her arms crossed in front of her chest, she scanned our bare feet. She and I were about the same height, though I had no doubt that she could throw me into a wall. Maybe I could run faster than her. Maybe.

“Put them back on.”

“Stand up.”

“Put your hands in your pockets and then turn them inside out.”

Her eyes looked at our pockets. One woman had something glistening in her fingers.

“What is that?”

“Candy wrapper.”

“Throw that away.”

The officer nodded, tacitly instructing us to put our pockets back into our pants.

“Put your thumbs inside the waist of your pants and run them around your entire waist.”

A woman in the group clearly had gone through this routine before. Unsure of what the officer wanted, I sneaked a glance at this woman before following the instructions. She pulled the waistband away from her skin. If anything was lodged there, it would have fallen to the floor.

We all pulled our pants away from our waists.

“Turn around.”

The officer walked to the other side of the spontaneous circle we had formed.

“Lift up your shirts, lean forward, and shake.”

What?

I again sneaked a glance at the returning visitor. Through her shirt, she had hooked her fingers underneath her bra, leaned forward, and shimmied. This was meant to dislodge anything we might have hidden in our bras.

“Mouth.”

We all opened our mouths. The officer looked.

“Why do you have that in there?” the officer asked the young woman with the tongue piercing. “You can’t have that here. You either go out and remove it or give it up.”

The young woman frowned, indecision on her face.

“You either go out or give it up. Ladies, the rest of you can go.”

We were directed to a second waiting room outside of the sally port. I waited for my companion to undergo his inspection. He and I exchanged wordless glances of relief when he joined me.

Over two hours had passed since we had first arrived at the jail. We now looked at the sally port, wondering when it would open.

(Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here.)