GREENVILLE, S.C. (AP) - It’s a crisp mid-December Wednesday in Greenville, South Carolina, and for as far as the eye can see, household items abound. White chairs are stacked neatly on top of one another. A pair of navy blue Nikes lay ready for someone to lace them up. A small round wooden table at which one could eat sits in the middle of the layout. And, naturally, a mattress that’s already broken in awaits someone’s slumber.
The only thing missing? The house.
That’s because all those everyday objects, found below the Pete Hollis Bridge, right off Huff Line Lane, mark memories of the homeless, and, perhaps more lasting, memories of Tent City, a pop-up homeless community that surfaced a few hundred yards from where this debris sits. That congregation met further down the bridge at a space that is currently fenced off, complete with barbed wire atop the divide.
Officials shut things down in 2014. In short, it was the age-old adage that no good deed goes unpunished. After a newspaper article profiled the living space, residents took it upon themselves to find the bridge and donate whatever they could - blankets, food, clothing - to the homeless living underneath it.
The problem? It became too popular to sustain itself. Fights broke out. Homeless people from other communities began frequenting the spot, causing even more issues between the homeless haves and the homeless have-nots. It got to a point where if it didn’t shut down, leaders in the community were worried that someone would die.
“It grew from a peaceful community of 30 or 40 people that we all knew to 100 that we had never seen before,” says Deb Richardson-Moore, the pastor/director of the Triune Mercy Center, one of Greenville’s most celebrated homeless services outlets. “They were violent. Two of our men got hospitalized because they worked, and when they went down there, they had $50 in their pocket.”
And so, Richardson-Moore, along with other workers from other agencies around town, visited the community to let them all know that law enforcement would fence up the area and kick its residents out after six months. In return, Richardson-Moore and other volunteers assured the Tent City residents that they would try and find each one of them a home, take them to rehab or do whatever else was needed to ensure they would be OK.
By the time the sheriff rolled around, six months later, the space under the bridge was empty. So, mission accomplished, right?
“We in no way shape or form felt like we solved the homeless problem, going under there,” Richardson-Moore admits. “All it solved was a massive crime riddled encampment.”
THE AFFORDABLLE HOUSING CONUNDRUM
Fabric. If you talk to anybody in town about what industry dominated the area during its most lucrative years, they’ll tell you fabric. By the beginning of the 1900s, there were almost 15 cotton mills in Greenville and by the time 1917 came around, the town was known as the “Textile Center of the South.” Fast-forward to after World War II and that distinction evolved from “the South” into “the world.”
These days, the most dominant industry is automotive as BMW has plants in both Spartanburg and Greer, the latter of which is only 12 miles away from the city. The fabric industry isn’t what it used to be stateside and the dissolution of it in Greenville ostensibly planted the seeds for perhaps the city’s biggest current issue: gentrification.
While the presence of BMW has aided the growth of the city, none of its leaders appeared to think through the consequences such success can bring. One of its most lasting ramifications has been the lack of affordable housing for its residents. The visuals in disparity are striking. One minute, you could drive by a million-dollar house, only to make a right turn and find a structure that barely looks like it can stand.
Such an imbalance in class and wealth has led to more residents becoming homeless - so much so that according to Lorain Crowl, executive director for United Housing Connections, an organization that connects those who are homeless with homes, both the mayor and city council recognized an “affordable housing crises” some five years ago. As a result, an affordable housing fund was established, and in it, the city put $2 million.
“But that’s a drop in the bucket,” Crowl says. “We’re down in the city 2,500 units and that’s affordable units. In the county, it’s about 12,000 units. When I say affordable, I’m saying it costs 30 percent of someone’s income. Much of our low-income housing that was gentrified has not come back.”
Crowl estimates that there are between 700 and 800 homeless people in the city throughout the year and somewhere between 300 and 400 at one time. She knows that her organization can’t end homelessness, but she remains optimistic about what the city and county can do to help alleviate the problem.
‘WHERE ARE YOUR HOMELESS PEOPLE?’
It was Dec. 11, 1995, when Knox H. White took office as Greenville’s mayor. A quarter of a century later, his run has become the longest tenure anyone has served in the position for the city. In many ways, talking to him is like a breath of fresh air. He’s at once eternally optimistic but somewhat of a realist. Speaking with a faded drawl, he epitomizes Southern charm, even if he did once spend time living in the Washington, D.C. area.
Above all, though, he champions Greenville with an unbridled enthusiasm that should be a prerequisite for all mayors of all towns. As he reflects on his city’s homeless issues, he paints the picture with bright colors.
“We get a lot of visits from other cities all the time to see our beautiful downtown and one of the most common remarks we get all the time is, ‘Where are your homeless people?’” he says with a chuckle. “It’s not as visible here. It’s almost out of control in so many other cities, and we don’t have anything like that, so we’re very fortunate.”
And all that would be well and good - if only it were true. Or, at least, so says Susan McLarty, who serves as the coordinator of United Ministries and the Greenville Homeless Alliance, which is a public/private initiative aimed at battling homelessness in the county. Upon hearing Mayor White’s comments, she looks mildly baffled.
Driving her response is a study by the Alliance that found more than 3,600 men, women and children experienced homelessness in Greenville County in 2018-19. That number is up from 2016, when about 1,000 people were experiencing homelessness throughout the county. For context, the 2016 total number is about on par with only the number of children who experienced homelessness in 2018-19, which, according to the study, was 1,106.
McLarty is well-versed in these numbers, partly because her position is to bridge the gap between the city and county when it comes to how they can work together to come up with solutions for the area’s growing homelessness challenge. Hers is the only job in Greenville that receives some funding from the city for work against homelessness.
She remains passionate about finding solutions for those in need. Her theory is that a more wholistic approach could pay dividends in the fight against homelessness. The more the county and the city can work together, the better off the Greenville area will be for it, she believes.
Still, when she’s asked if she thinks the city of Greenville has failed its residents by a) not providing enough direct funding toward eliminating homelessness and b) not anticipating an affordable housing crisis while it grows, McLarty gets silent.
“That’s tough,” she admits. “I think we’re at a point where we can say we haven’t failed - yet.”
But is the city heading in that direction?
“Yes,” she says instantly. “We’ve had consultants do studies and we haven’t listened to the scale on which those studies recommend we be investing. From the city, we’ve allocated $3.5 million from our surplus dollars. They also budgeted about $5 million into our capital improvement plan over the next five years. But we’re trying to get the revenue stream increased because the consultant said that it needs to be on a scale of $10 million a year for the next 20 years to get us back in a better position.
Mayor White, meanwhile, feels unfazed by the challenges in front of him as the city’s leader. He touts random public restrooms throughout the downtown area among the things Greenville has done to help those in need of shelter. He also notes how the city is donating land to the affordable housing fund, and on it, he anticipates the construction of affordable housing units tailored to low-income households.
When it comes to homelessness, though? He remains confident that the local services can adequately handle it on their own.
“We have remarkable confidence in our agencies and the approach they take,” he says. “Yes, we are in that category of cities that are growing fast in a fairly short period of time, so almost on a dime, we’ve had to turn and focus on affordability issues. I think we’re doing some creative things.
FROM TENT CITY TO HAMPTON STATION
For three and a half years now, Marcus Davis has been back and forth between homelessness. Originally from Lexington, South Carolina, he found himself in Greenville after following a woman to town. After things went south with her, he fell into alcoholism, which has played the most prominent role in his struggle with shelter.
These days, he’s doing well, though. He’s taken a liking to Richardson-Moore and as he tells it, he’ll be transitioning out of homelessness soon with hopes of going to school to get his degree in business management.
Davis contends that Greenville’s services for the homeless are good, but they could be improved.
Still, Davis can recall a day when he woke up from a seizure on the street and didn’t have a phone to call an ambulance. The Salvation Army quickly stepped in to lend a hand, prompting him to conclude that by in large, the city has done good by him.
Richardson-Moore, for her part, is less kind.
“I think the city should have a role in helping the homeless,” she says. “If they could just build affordable housing for us, that would be enough. Susan (McLarty) has pulled in the county and the city, which has never been done before, so this is all new for us. We have a solid foundation of services; it’s the housing, we need.”
It isn’t long after she says this that she gets in her car to revisit Tent City. While there, she stares at the fence, barbed wire and overgrown foliage.
A swanky new industrial shopping center named Hampton Station nearly runs right up to one of the mattresses once left by the homeless. Among the businesses occupying storefronts are Craft Axe Throwing, The Noble Dog Hotel and the White Duck Taco Shop, where two artisan tacos will run you about eight bucks.
It’s such a stark dichotomy between what used to happen in and around that space and what currently happens in and around that space that it’s impossible to lose sight of the irony such a juxtaposition presents.
On this warm, sunny afternoon, the architect for the facility drops by for a meeting with potential clients. His name is Scott Johnston and when he’s asked about the homeless community that once called the nearby property their home, he responds by explaining how some of the tenants have already complained to him about the presence of the homeless now and then. He’s looking into what he can do about it, he says, and doesn’t offer much else by way of sympathy.
Perhaps there’s a paradox, then, in the gigantic mural that rests on one side of the building housing all the shops. Next to speakers and a woman with her mouth wide open, letters are etched.
“Be a voice. Not an echo.”
And with that, it’s tough not to wonder who, if anybody, is listening.
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