Starting in August, homeless outreach teams swept through San Francisco, tasked with offering encampment residents bus tickets out of town — or, if they declined, shelter beds.
The goal of the city’s “very aggressive” tent clearing, according to Mayor London Breed, was to make street dwellers “so uncomfortable on the streets of San Francisco that they have to take our offer” of shelter. The city has for years urged those dwelling on the streets to seek a bed inside, but the mayor’s ultimatum — made in an election year — was clarified in a July memo: Accept shelter or face arrest.
But unhoused people Mission Local interviewed during these sweeps claimed they didn’t want a bed — they already had one. They chose not to sleep in city shelters, many said, because they preferred being on the street.
Some complained of the shelters’ unsanitary conditions and dearth of food — residents are served two meals a day, the sites’ employees said. Others, particularly women concerned about sexual assault and harassment, have long complained about security and the lack of freedom to walk in and out of the shelters at will.
Rules that govern all city shelters forbid, among other “disruptive” behaviors, drug use, destruction of property, and the possession of unchecked weapons. Still, those affected by the sweeps described high rates of theft, crowded and chaotic living quarters, and unsympathetic staff. They criticized the congregate shelters’ lack of privacy, saying they would rather sleep in their own tent than in a room with dozens of strangers.
Unhoused people who did leave the streets, meanwhile, explained how they are making the most of life within the shelters’ confines. Mission Local toured three different temporary housing options to see what’s on offer.
Next Door on Polk Street
Men and women, alongside bags of their belongings, fill the sidewalks leading up to Next Door Shelter at 1001 Polk St. The three-story maze of metal beds houses up to 334 people, and has offered shelter to San Franciscans for over 30 years.
Before entering, residents and visitors alike must pass through a metal detector, checking weapons like knives and butane torches at the door. Across the city’s shelters, residents are required to sign in and out — it’s a simple way to keep track of peoples’ whereabouts while maintaining a low barrier for entry, staff said.
Staff can’t force guests to stay or return. But this system, coupled with periodic wellness checks, allows them to monitor how often the shelters’ resources are being used. If someone is gone for over 48 hours, they forfeit their bed.
The shelter’s managers said that given the wait lists, they try to balance letting people come and go freely while ensuring that beds don’t become storage spaces.
Next Door is at capacity most of the time, according to Brandi Marshall, the director of housing at the nonprofit Five Keys, which operates this shelter and five others in San Francisco. Some beds are reserved for participants of the County Adult Assistance Programs, which provide welfare to San Franciscans who cannot work.
In the last year, 112 Next Door residents found permanent housing while 758 others have moved in, according to the city. Marshall estimated that 20 to 25 people a week forfeit their beds.
On any given night up to half of the beds are empty. But most of those, Marshall said, are considered occupied — some residents work night shifts or prefer to be out at night, and asleep during the day.
For the most part, floors are separated by gender (staff announce when a visitor of the opposite gender enters the floor). A few televisions, computers, and Covid-19 isolation rooms are dispersed throughout. In the basement, down a series of echoing stairwells, is a library and cafeteria.
The metal bunk beds are a new addition to help increase the shelter’s capacity, said Emily Cohen, the deputy director for communications for the homeless department. At midday on a Tuesday in August, many are empty. But some are occupied by sleeping figures wrapped in their sheets. Others are piled with personal belongings: A Spider-Man blanket, plastic bags of clothes, stuffed animals. One woman’s kitten, Zaza, prowls along the top of a cement divider.
Residents can bring their pets and, at most, two bags, a rolled up tent, and a bike to Next Door. Their belongings must fit underneath their beds or within their locker.
The city tries to make the most of the space it has, Cohen said. That means that some buildings, like Next Door, a former car dealership, have their eccentricities. “This reminds me of a prison setup,” said Marshall, the shelter’s housing director, pointing to a small room enclosed by glass at the center of the women’s floor that is used as a common area. “COs would be right here,” Marshall noted, using the acronym for “corrections officers.”
Five Keys prides itself on employing people with experience in the criminal justice system, CEO Steve Good said. Street dwellers who chose to abandon their shelter beds told Mission Local they disliked being monitored by formerly incarcerated people, but Good said that this “irrational fear” was often just an excuse not to return.
One Next Door resident, who asked to be identified as Mabiel, has lived in the shelter since he was released from prison. Sometimes, Mabiel said, life in the shelter reminds him of life in jail. Check-ins with staff can feel like reporting to a deputy. And the lack of privacy can be claustrophobic, he said. Nonetheless, he has remained for nearly two years in the hopes of being matched to city-funded housing.
As he waits for a single-room occupancy hotel to become available, Mabiel said that he avoids sleeping face-down because he can feel everyone’s eyes on him. At night, he said, he covers himself in sheets.
“The only privacy you have is in the toilet when you go to take a shit,” Mabiel said. Sometimes not even then, he added, describing how he’s often had to listen to his neighbors watching pornography on their phones.
There are about 100 residents on both the third and fourth floors, and about 55 on both the first and second floors. Across all four floors there are six bathrooms with 22 stalls, 18 showers, and four urinals. On the afternoon Mission Local visited, all looked sparse, but clean.
For Mabiel, the prevalence of drugs in the shelter — worse than in prison, he said — can be overwhelming, despite the shelter’s rules against drug usage. Some of his neighbors, he acknowledged, choose to remain at the shelter instead of accepting housing because they don’t want to live alone with their addiction. But others, he added, use the shelter as a free place to sleep while they’re high.
For his part, Mabiel said he focuses on building relationships with staff, seeking counseling, and learning to navigate the city’s housing system. Even though he often feels ashamed of his living conditions, Mabiel said he understands that he’s lucky to have food and a roof over his head.
“I don’t like the idea of being in a shelter,” he said. “I wanted to leave yesterday, but I’d rather be here than be in the streets and getting in trouble.”
The Bayshore Navigation Center
The navigation center sits opposite a block of encampments near Bayshore Boulevard that were cleared by city authorities on Aug. 1 (and later popped up on Jerrold Ave.). While residents of these encampments alleged prevalent theft, disregard for their possessions, and a lack of support while staying in the shelter, the residents inside tell a different story.
The city’s navigation centers, staff say, offer “intensive case management” and aim to have as low a barrier to entry as possible. In addition to regular amenities like bathrooms and common areas, Bayshore’s fenced-in center contains outdoor spaces landscaped with succulents, a smoking area, and a multi-story cat-tree. Stored underneath one bed is a bulldog in a crate, and, under another, a litter box patrolled by a surly free-range tuxedo cat.
Some of the bags of belongings seized by the city during neighborhood sweeps are stored in a cavernous room on site. The room also stores guests’ extra belongings even though they are only supposed to have what fits underneath their bed and in their lockers, said Marshall of Five Keys, which also operates this center.
Still, like typical congregate housing, all residents share a single room filled with rows of 128 beds. Arguments between neighbors, when they arise, can be heard throughout.
According to Marshall, the center is always full, but less so at night, when about 20 beds are unoccupied. Around 10 people a week are removed from the system for abandoning their beds.
Half the time, the director estimated, these residents turn up later asking to return, a request staff try to accommodate. Meanwhile, Marshall added, 130 people have left in the last year because they found permanent housing.
“Most of the folks that are in shelter but still go outside to sleep, they just want their freedom,” said Craig Neely — no relation to the author — an on-site case manager supervisor who has worked at the center for four years.
One of the most challenging aspects of his work, Neely explained, is convincing people with “trauma” to trust him. Neely, who has been homeless and incarcerated himself, said that while he tries to encourage people to use the shelter “full time,” he can’t force it. After all, “not everybody wants to help themselves.”
But some, like Avery Baxter, do.
After completing a yearlong substance abuse program in Fremont, Baxter, a 45-year-old Oakland native, said he came to Bayshore because he’d heard the site had good case managers who could help him find housing. The services they’ve provided have been instrumental to his recovery, Baxter said.
Most of Baxter’s nights are spent at the navigation center. But when he needs his own space, he stays at a friend’s apartment, pitches his tent at the beach, or takes his pit bull, Passion, to the skatepark. Even though the skateboards drive Passion crazy, Baxter said, being there is a source of comfort for the skateboarding enthusiast, who was once profiled by Jenkem Magazine.
Now, Baxter said he looks back on that interview with sadness. High on meth and living in a tent at the time, he was unable to fully take advantage of the opportunity, he reflected.
At the shelter, Baxter said he avoids temptation by sticking to his routine: Check in, shower, and speak mostly to staff. “Here you could do any drug you want and you can get lost in it,” he explained. “And it’s not the place to get lost. You might as well take advantage of the benefits.”
Mission Cabins at 16th Street
After side-stepping vendors blanketing the 16th Street BART plaza and a line of people hanging out on Mission Street, the tranquility of Mission Cabins’ 24,000-square-foot complex across the street is an inviting surprise.
The cement within the 1979 Mission St. complex’s eight-foot-tall wire fences (the space was initially a parking lot) is spotless. A couple of residents sit quietly at kelly green metal tables that gleam in the sunlight. Otherwise, “ambassadors” in blue Five Keys shirts are the only people wandering around.
The site, constructed as part of a two-year project, offers tiny homes to 68 adults — 56 units for singles and four for couples — by invitation only. Mission Cabins and a similar site at 33 Gough St. are a couple of the only city-funded shelters that offer individual rooms.
Both residents and staff recognize that Mission Cabins is “unique.” It’s the “privacy factor” of having your “own space” and a “real door to close,” site supervisor Jacoby Morales said. Sometimes, he added, people come knocking and have to be turned down.
Still, convincing residents to sleep in their city-provided bed rather than on the street is an everyday challenge, Morales said. “They’ll come here, they’ll sign in, show that they’re still showing an interest … but then they’ll go sleep at their tent.”
When Mission Cabins first opened in April, many of its residents weren’t used to returning every night, Morales said. But, he continued, they grew more comfortable when they learned of the services available to them. In the last five months, three residents have been asked to leave for abandoning their cabins. Another five have left because they found housing, according to Morales.
Morales, who said he struggled with homelessness himself as a child in Monterey County, acknowledged that transitioning from living in a tent to a place with rules and security checks can be “scary” and “uncomfortable.” Some people have been hesitant about moving in because they don’t want to give up their belongings, the supervisor said, describing one woman who arrived with bags of rocks and knives. He said he understood her apprehension — she’d been defending herself on the streets for two decades.
Skylara Starzz, who has lived at Mission Cabins since mid June, said she’s been in San Francisco for over 20 years and homeless for “a very long time.” This is her first experience with city housing, she said, praising the site’s staff for creating one of the only private places in the city where she’s felt safe.
“I’m just glad that we’re not on concrete,” Starzz sighed, rubbing the worn fabric of her fingerless gloves. “It’s so freaking hard out there.”
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