As Tent City's population exceeds capacity, Fort Lauderdale officials say the homeless are once again free to crash in the city's parks. So, how come they're afraid to fall asleep?
When dozens of people were locked out of Fort Lauderdale's infamous homeless tent last week, city residents, police, and business leaders got a sobering look at the future.
Slumbering bodies littered the lawn and benches in Stranahan Park, which most visitors drive past on their way to the city's trendy Las Olas Boulevard. Under the eerie glow of street lights, it looked like some strange Civil War re-enactment gone awry.
And the park in front of the main library on Broward Boulevard wasn't the only destination for displaced Tent City residents seeking temporary refuge. Other parks and benches throughout the downtown area became overnight havens for those who had nowhere else to go.
"They were bivouacked all over," one homeless man said with wide-eyed wonder.
His amazement is understandable. During the nearly five years that have passed since the tent was erected to appease residents who wanted the unsightly, unwashed masses out of their parks, homeless people have learned the rules well.
And rule No. 1 is: To sleep outside in full view of the world is to risk almost certain arrest.
That unbreakable rule, however, became breakable when the city was forced to cap the population of the tent to satisfy those who claim that it's inhumane, unsanitary and illegal to cram as many as 400 people into the dingy tent - a practice that's become routine in recent weeks.
The instant the population of the tent reached 240 and the gates were locked, a no-arrest policy went into effect throughout the city.
Obviously, homeless people still could be arrested for stealing or robbing or mugging or raping, but because of federal court rulings, they couldn't be arrested simply for sleeping in a public park after hours.
And according to many homeless advocates, the same scenario may play out if city officials dismantle Tent City when the much trumpeted and hard-fought-for Homeless Assistance Center (HAC) opens next year.
Unless some provisions are made for the hundreds of homeless people who won't be served by the $7.7 million center now under construction on Sunrise Boulevard, homeless people again will have the right to sleep in city parks and along city streets, says Janet Reilly, an attorney with Legal Aid Services of Broward County.
"I don't want to bad-mouth the HAC because it's a great idea," she says. "But it won't be the be-all-end-all to all the problems."
If city officials and other leaders don't recognize the limitations of the center they approved with great fanfare over the enormous reservations of those who live nearby, the entire problem that so enraged the citizenry and led to the creation of Tent City will come full circle.
"It would be a shame to go all this way to get back to square one,"
Reilly says.
Homeless by our rules
The issue revolves around safe zones, a concept created by U.S. District Court Judge Clyde C. Adkins when he ruled eight years ago (1990) that the city of Miami couldn't harass, intimidate or arrest homeless people for living on the streets when the city had not given them any other place to go.
Mindful of the ruling and the possibility of huge fines for violating homeless people's constitutional rights, Fort Lauderdale city commissioners established Tent City, called it a safe zone and then gave city police the go-ahead to begin arresting anyone who refused to accept their hospitality at the open-air camp.
That done, they set about trying to find someplace to build a permanent homeless shelter to replace Tent City. After years of searching, city leaders and county officials, who are bankrolling the center, last year made numerous concessions to Sunrise Boulevard area homeowners to persuade them that the shelter won't destroy their neighborhood.
One of the concessions is that those who live at the 200-bed shelter will have to follow strict rules. They will have to swear off drugs and alcohol, enter job training programs, get counseling and do whatever professionals say they must do to get back on their feet.
Further, city and county officials promised, no drop-in guests would be allowed. For those unwilling to accept the rules and regulations, there will be no room at the inn.
To Reilly, that means the center won't be a safe zone. If people who just want to get out of the weather can't use it then they have no alternative but the street, she says.
The 165 human service agencies who are members of the Homeless Coalition of Broward County agree.
"A safe zone needs to accomodate people who do not want help," says Laura Carey, executive director of the coalition. "As far as the coalition is concerned, the HAC doesn't constitute a safe zone."
So they say,other accomodations will have to be made.
The solution that many say makes the most sense is one used in Jacksonville and Orlando. In both cities, homeless shelters include large rooms, equipped with showers and lockers, where those who don't want help can crash for the night and then leave without having to answer questions about their goals in life.
But while the system has gotten great reviews in some camps, the solution appears to be out of reach here. Unless the city and county are willing to renege on their promises to Sunrise Boulevard homeowners, such a room couldn't be made part of the new center.
On the other hand, many business leaders contributed millions toward the construction of the center in hopes of making the downtown Fort Lauderdale homeless problem go away.
Imagine what will happen if H. Wayne Huizenga, who either personally contributed or got others to donate $3 million toward the center, comes to work one morning to find a group of homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk in front of his building (Republic Industries). Imagine what will happen if he is told that because Tent City is closed and there is no safe zone that there is no way he or anyone else can force them to leave.
Could that be why he recently pledged $1 million if local officials pass a tax to generate additional money for homeless services? Probably a good bet.
The problem, all agree, can't be ignored.
"The issue has to come to a head at some point," Carey says. "But the
city's in a double bind. To site the HAC they had to make promises to the
people who live near it but they also have to answer to the business
community who put up all the money to build it."
Guess who's coming to dinner?
To Alan Reesor, director of the Broward Outreach Center, which opened a 60-bed shelter in Hollywood last year, Huizenga's answer to the problem is the correct one: money.
And, Reesor says, contrary to some, it's not a matter of opening what will become a bottomless pit.
"It's not billions and billions of dollars," he says. "It's not an undoable situation."
In fact, he says, he could solve the problem by taking $2 from every Broward County resident each year.
The whole problem, like most, boils down to simple mathematics. That and an understanding of the problem.
For starters, he and others say people have to recognize that even if the safe zone issue didn't exist, there's no way the new center could solve the county's homeless problem. Even if the county makes good on its pledge to build another 200-bed shelter in the northern part of the county by the year 2000, the demand for beds will far exceed the supply.
Even when the new shelter opens next year, there will only be 450 beds to serve the estimated 5,000 homeless people in the county. Quick math shows that will satisfy less than 10 percent of the need.
Further, Reesor says, the center won't serve the majority of those who live in Tent City.
The center will help the vast majority of the homeless-the estimated 4,000 men, women, and children who are now invisible to most Broward residents. They aren't the people living on the streets but rather the ones who live like nomads, shuffling back and forth between the homes of friends and relatives and occasionally, when they have worn out their welcomes, living in their cars, he says.
They are the people who still have hope and want to turn their lives around.
The ones the center won't serve are those who make up the majority of residents of Tent City. They are those whose homelessness is a product of mental illness, not shiftlessness, Reesor says.
For them, he proposes establishing group homes throughout the county where three or four homeless people could live under the watchful eyes and guidance of counselors. Money many of them already get for their disabilities could be used to cover mortgage payments on the houses and living expenses. Taxpayers would be asked to come up with the estimated $3 million a year it would cost to pay the counselors to run the homes.
The homes would take care of all but perhaps 300 of those who make their homes on the street. And, Reesor says, most of those could work but choose not to. Not only does he have little sympathy for them, but he says most are savvy enough to avoid arrest - something the mentally ill aren't equipped to do.
Web author's note - The lengths to which some of these deceitful Tent City residents is so extreme that they have been known to "bullrush" well-meaning church groups giving away blankets and clothing for those who really need them, literally knocking down others, cutting into organized lines, as well as food lines,and then turn around and resell those same clothes and blankets in order to procure money for the next trip to the Hess station or Tallent Liquors on Broward Boulevard, or for a down-payment on crack cocaine or other illegal substances.]
And, Reesor says, there is a readily available source of money for the estimated $3 million a year it would cost to operate the group homes. A proposed 1 percent restaurant tax would generate between $3.9 million and $7 million a year depending on which restaurants are included.
"That's $1 on a $100 restaurant tab," he says. "If you can go out and spend $100 at a restaurant you can afford $1 for the homeless. Even if you eat at McDonald's. If you spend $5, the tax is a nickel. This is almost a no-brainer. The cost for the average person is negligible."
But while a restaurant tax may be a no-brainer to Reesor and other homeless advocates, for many business leaders and politicians it's a no-wayer.
The restaurant industry already has lined up against a tax and county commissioners failed to embrace it last month. Without their support, the issue has little chance of being passed by state lawmakers who must give the county permission to impose it.
Ron Book, an influential lobbyist who has become a crusader for homeless issues,says the tax is far from dead. And, he says, he's also floating the idea of a gas tax that would generate roughly $6.5 million annually for services to the homeless. Currently, gas taxes can only be used for transportation-related projects, so state law would have to be changed to enable the county to use proceeds from a 1 percent gas tax for the homeless.
In Tallahassee last week (2/4/98),Book was trying to drum up support for the two taxes and determine which has the best chance of passing in an election year when new taxes are anathema to vote-conscious lawmakers.
"It's hardly DOA," he says of the funding issue. "I'm not sure we've made a decision on which tax to pursue but a decision will have to be made within the next couple of weeks."
Many expect support will grow once the business community wakes up to
the fact that their dream of closing Tent City may evaporate because its
closing will enable the homeless to once again sleep on benches and
public parks throughout the city.
A war of attrition or just a strange coincidence?
While the fat cats in their fine houses debate their future, residents of the homeless tent understandably feel they are under attack.
Though they are told they won't be arrested if they are denied entry to the camp, they are familiar with the reality of the road.
"We've been up all night," two homeless men said after being locked out of the tent one night last week. "We didn't want to get arrested. So we just kept walking."
And, homeless advocates say, even though city officials know that they could be slapped with a $600,000 fine, as happened in Miami, the threat isn't enough to keep homeless people out of jail.
They're easy targets and police know it.
Even before the city began turning them away, many sensed efforts were afoot to pressure them into picking up their knapsacks and moving on.
About a month ago, cleaning eforts intensified. Several times a week they are ordered out of the tent while cleaning crews move in. New rules are making it more difficult for charitable groups to deliver food. Visits from police have become more frequent and the cops seem to be more aggressive.
"They're waging a war of attrition," one camp resident says.
"It's just a series of minor inconveniences," he admits. But he says, he's convinced it's all part of an organized effort to make life difficult for the homeless so they'll get out of town.
"It's all part of a weeding-out process," he says. "They're trying to get rid of us."
City officials insist it's just a series of strange coincidences. First the Health Department and Legal Aid started getting on them about the general condition of the tent and the number of people living in it.
"We were allowing unrestricted access by the homeless people figuring they would rather sleep under a tent where they have access to food, showers and bathrooms than on the streets," says Horace McHugh, an aide to City Manager George Hanbury.
But, he says, when Broward health inspectors visited the camp,they said the city's free-for-all policy was causing crowding that violates state health laws. According to state law, the tent must have a toilet for every 20 people. When the population swells beyond 240 people, that rule is breached.
Further, he says, Janet Reilly, an attorney with Legal Aid Services of Broward County, argued that the city was violating an agreement it made when it settled a suit the agency filed over conditions at the camp.
According to the settlement, the city can't house any more than 165 people at one time. While Reilly says she may look the other way if the city exceeds that amount slightly, [Web author's note - 240 is 45% more than 165!!!] she will oppose efforts to bring in enough bathrooms to satisfy health officials that 340 people could live in the tent.
Similarly, McHugh says, both the health department and legal aid attorneys complained that sanitation procedures at the camp were lax. Under pressure, the city ordered crews to thoroughly clean the camp each day, which means camp residents are forced to move their belongings out of the camp for a couple of hours while the crews work.
"You can imagine how thrilled we were when two agencies were threatening to sue us, " he says of recent policies that homeless people suspect were enacted purely as a form of harassment.
Further, he says, the city had no choice but to change parking procedures for those delivering food.
For years, the city has allowed groups to park in a small fenced-in area immediately north of the camp. Recently, however, the Federal Aviation Administration, which controls the lot, reminded city officials that the area is a buffer zone to a helipad, not a parking lot.
While police have allowed some to park on the sidewalk to unload their food, if problems arise, charitable groups could be forced to park around the corner and carry dozens of heavy trays of food nearly two blocks to the tent.
Arnold Abbott, who is fighting city efforts to stop him from feeding
the homeless at the beach, says the new policy is nothing more than
harassment. And, he says, it could have serious consequences because some
groups may not be willing to put up with the added inconvenience.
Arnold Abbott:Sun-Sentinel
Arnold Abbott:City Link
"Hungry people get desperate and desperate people do desperate things," he says.
But while city officials seem to have a logical reason or another agency to blame for every new rule they've devised, there's evidence they have tired of hosting the homeless at the tent.
Three weeks ago (1/21/98), during a meeting that lasted until midnight, city commissioners got in a heated discussion about the camp and even threatened to close it. Though they stopped short, they made it clear that once the HAC is open, the tent must go.
And that is one thing upon which all apparently agree.
"The tent is a human kennel," Reesor says, "We wouldn't allow, we don't allow, dogs to be kept that way. The temt has to be closed."
And no one disagrees.
The question is how much are people willing to pay - either in
lawsuits or services - to do it.
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