Houseless vs. Homeless: Rethinking Community in the Nation's Oldest City

“I don’t consider myself homeless. I consider myself houseless.” It was one of those quotes that always seems to accompany a life-changing moment, easy to associate with a memory…witty…practiced almost. They were the last words John shared with me after our first meeting in the wooded camp that he and six others called home north of downtown St. Augustine, Florida. In the days that followed, I spent a great deal of time thinking about those words that John had spoken and what terms like house and home mean and how those definitions can shape our concept of community.

I had been taken to the camp by a friend and co-worker of mine named Kenny who felt that I would benefit from meeting some of the people that he had been taking food to in the evenings. He coordinates the outreach efforts of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church where he is a member.

After a short quarter-mile hike down a dusty trail I began to see a couple of taut blue tarps peeking through the grove of straight pole pines that lined the way. The air smelled of earth and campfire. My friend called out to announce our arrival before leading me into a place my own naiveté left me ill prepared to see. The couple of tarps that were visible from the trail were actually only the first in a collection of tents and make-shift shelters that comprised a miniature city.

The camp’s amenities were impressive and ingenious. On the outskirts of the camp was a large cooking area where food, that was shared communally, was kept and prepared. At night the camp was illumined by Christmas lights and filled with music from a stereo that was powered by an old motorcycle battery that they recharged using solar panels from discarded yard lights. They even had a gravity fed shower.

John and the other residents of the camp greeted us warmly. Around the glowing embers of a dying fire they shared their lives. The familial atmosphere that permeated the camp, and their warm hospitality, was almost instantly comforting.  

For as welcome as we were made to feel, the fear of that considered “outside” was palpable. John, for example, made a point of showing me all of the implements he could employ to protect the camp. Though the St. John’s County Sheriff’s Office could not corroborate his claims, John legitimized the need for such precautions with stories of people who had tried to steal from them or set fires in the woods in an attempt burn them out of their camp. I couldn’t tell if he shared what he did as a warning, or to help me to understand the dangers he perceived inherent to his lifestyle. Maybe it was both.

In either case, it was clear that the development of this community was no different than any other. Everyone in the camp saw great value and comfort in the relationships that they had forged with one another. They seemed to have shared experiences, similar fears, and common hopes. It was order and stability amidst the possibility of great danger and chaos and therefore worthy preservation.

Though relatively content in the oasis they worked so hard to create, many of them talked of families that were waiting for them in the world beyond the trees. The ones who felt comfortable enough to open up seemed to have experienced profound pain in their lives either as a result of the loss of a job, divorce, or other disruptive experiences.

Carl shared his story as he gave us a tour of his meticulously ordered home. Originally from Louisiana, his parents divorced when he was young and he moved to Florida to live with his dad. Carl became an electrician, married, and had a child; but when we met him that life seemed long gone. He and his wife had separated; and he had just lost his full-time job with the railroad. He now lives in tent under the trees barely scraping by on the seasonal part-time work he can find at local resorts or hotels. His wife does come to visit him from time to time; and judging by the warn edges of the picture he keeps of her, she is on his mind often.

The Emergency Services & Homeless Coalition of St. Johns County (a local coalition recognized by the Florida Coalition for the Homeless) is an organization comprised of homeless advocates, service providers, members of the faith-based community, formerly homeless persons, educators, attorneys, mental health professionals and others who are committed to putting an end to homelessness and improving the conditions of persons living without shelter. In their most recent Point-in-Time Report, which provides statistical data on the homeless population of a given county, there are over 1,300 people that fit the Federal/HUD definition of homeless in St. John’s County. Half of them report having a disabling condition which could include a physical handicap, a developmental disability, mental health issues, drug or alcohol addiction, or HIV/AIDS.

It was clear even after my first visit to the camp that they were all very aware of the “us and them” perception that exists in our culture. Kenny, my friend who brought me to the camp, explained, “The first time I came out to distribute food I was met with surprise. When I asked why, one gentleman said, ‘Most people go out of their way to avoid us. We’re not used to people wanting to spend time with us.’”

In spite of this, everyone we met considered St. Augustine home, and had so for a long time. Over 70% of the people surveyed by the Emergency Services & Homeless Coalition of St. Johns County for their Point-in-Time report stated that they had been living in St. John’s County for over a year. These were not transient people. Many of them worked. They were building what life they could, with what they had, amidst the circumstances they faced. They had dreams and desires. Many of them even volunteered through a non-profit that coordinates food distribution programs in Jacksonville and St. Augustine to serve meals to others in similar situations.  

My time with these new friends certainly helped me to understand how broad a word like community can be and how inconsistent it is with a term like homeless. It afforded me the opportunity to see people beyond their circumstance and to affirm that, regardless of whether or not that circumstance finds them in a house or in a tent, they can and should call the place where they live home.

The more time I’ve spent at the camps in and around St. Augustine, the more I’ve begun to see homelessness, or houselessness as John calls it, as a mere symptom of the deeper societal issues of our time. Substance abuse, unemployment, and mental illness (to name but a few) can afflict all people whether they live under a tarp in the woods or under the Spanish tile roof of a beachfront villa. These ills do not discriminate between the haves and the have nots. Our collective determination to, not only help others survive these travails, but to overcome them is no small task. These efforts, however, will speak volumes as to who we are as a community and will help all people who are fortunate enough see the sunrise over our sandy beaches or experience the history that runs through our ancient streets to call St. Augustine home.

For more information on Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church’s Outreach efforts contact Kenneth Kidd by e-mail at kennethdkidd@yahoo.com. For more information on the Florida Coalition for the Homeless or local coalitions in Florida visit http://www.fchonline.org.

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