ANTIOCH
Homelessness in the exurbs
According to a survey of Contra Costa County, homelessness and vacant building rates are growing in East Contra Costa, but nowhere else in the county. Over the last several years, homeless encampments have cropped up all around the train tracks near downtown Antioch.
105,630
Population
$65,770
Median household income
10%
Poverty rate
Source: Census.gov, ACS 2010-2014 estimates
Spencer Silva
Journalist
far east
"Dumping grounds"
Teri House is remarkably cheery for a woman who has dedicated her working life to issues of abject poverty. The resonant, operatic tones in which she speaks have a way of softening the realities she relates, realities she understands better than most: House was once homeless herself.
She remembers, as a 16-year-old runaway, dumpster diving for scraps, sponge bathing in public restrooms and working full-time while furiously keeping her homelessness under wraps. This was many years ago, she says, long before services for the homeless were widespread.
For the last 20 years, as a chair of the Contra Costa County Council on Homelessness, House has fought for resources on behalf of cities. She represents Antioch, a river town about 40 miles east of San Francisco where encampments dot the banks of the San Joaquin River Delta and railroad tracks that lead downtown.
Over the last two decades, as the cost of living has risen and affordable-housing stock has become increasingly scarce, many of the Bay Area's poor and homeless have packed their bags and headed further and further east. Since 2009, Antioch has become one destination — or "dumping grounds," some say, for other cities to offload their unwanted populations.
House and others see the suffusion of poverty to the suburbs as the byproduct of another trend: gentrification. Or, what House calls, "the squeeze."
She remembers, as a 16-year-old runaway, dumpster diving for scraps, sponge bathing in public restrooms and working full-time while furiously keeping her homelessness under wraps. This was many years ago, she says, long before services for the homeless were widespread.
For the last 20 years, as a chair of the Contra Costa County Council on Homelessness, House has fought for resources on behalf of cities. She represents Antioch, a river town about 40 miles east of San Francisco where encampments dot the banks of the San Joaquin River Delta and railroad tracks that lead downtown.
Over the last two decades, as the cost of living has risen and affordable-housing stock has become increasingly scarce, many of the Bay Area's poor and homeless have packed their bags and headed further and further east. Since 2009, Antioch has become one destination — or "dumping grounds," some say, for other cities to offload their unwanted populations.
House and others see the suffusion of poverty to the suburbs as the byproduct of another trend: gentrification. Or, what House calls, "the squeeze."
"[It] starts from the west and pushes out to the east," House explains. "That squeeze can and does displace vulnerable residents all along its path."
Since the onset of the Great Recession in 2008, the amount of unsheltered homeless in Contra Costa has fallen dramatically. It's fallen everywhere except East Contra Costa, where more than 300 homeless sleep outside on a given night. More than half live in Antioch.
"Unless there's suddenly a whole bunch of affordable housing built in cities west of Antioch… we're going to be the dumping ground," House opines.
Since the onset of the Great Recession in 2008, the amount of unsheltered homeless in Contra Costa has fallen dramatically. It's fallen everywhere except East Contra Costa, where more than 300 homeless sleep outside on a given night. More than half live in Antioch.
"Unless there's suddenly a whole bunch of affordable housing built in cities west of Antioch… we're going to be the dumping ground," House opines.
HOMELESSNESS
"The last American cattle drive"
Antioch is one of California's oldest towns. In the late 19th century, its hills produced more coal than anywhere in the state, serving as a popular pit stop for steamboats carrying gold and goods from Sacramento to San Francisco.
Starting in the mid-1980s, as demand for suburban housing in the Bay Area grew, Antioch's rolling hills were flattened, giving way to subdivisions of track homes with names like "Eagle's Ridge" and "Deer Valley." By the early 2000s, Antioch was the second largest city in Contra Costa at well over 100,000 people.
The first unsettling came with the 2008 foreclosure crisis, the second with the squeeze from the Bay Area's swift recovery from that crisis.
Starting in the mid-1980s, as demand for suburban housing in the Bay Area grew, Antioch's rolling hills were flattened, giving way to subdivisions of track homes with names like "Eagle's Ridge" and "Deer Valley." By the early 2000s, Antioch was the second largest city in Contra Costa at well over 100,000 people.
The first unsettling came with the 2008 foreclosure crisis, the second with the squeeze from the Bay Area's swift recovery from that crisis.
"Quality of life" issues have been placed on the backburner since the violent wave of foreclosures crashed property tax revenues in the late 2000s.
A homeless man who goes by the name of Mr. Rick once lived in neighboring Brentwood, a country club town on the edge of the Delta. He's been homeless since 2012, when he lost his home to foreclosure. Now, the middle-aged man whose red handlebar mustache evokes Yosemite Sam, lives in Antioch, out of a bumperless Toyota pickup he parks, with permission, at his church.
Mr. Rick doesn't get harassed by the police in Antioch, but says neighboring towns notoriously play hot potato with their homeless populations, shuffling them from one town to another. He says most of the displaced homeless end up in Antioch. He says neighboring Pittsburg orders its police to clear camps and "herd" the homeless across the border to Antioch.
"It's the last great American cattle drive," he likes to say.
Mr. Rick doesn't get harassed by the police in Antioch, but says neighboring towns notoriously play hot potato with their homeless populations, shuffling them from one town to another. He says most of the displaced homeless end up in Antioch. He says neighboring Pittsburg orders its police to clear camps and "herd" the homeless across the border to Antioch.
"It's the last great American cattle drive," he likes to say.
When Captain Diane Aguinaga of the Antioch Police Department browsed jail logs from the 1930s and 40s recently, she learned that "vagrancy" was the once the department's most popular citation. While the size and scope of homelessness has reached new heights in recent years, it's not new.
"There's always been homelessness in Antioch," Aguinaga says. "Now it's just more visible."
Visibility is the reason she receives calls from residents. Like police officers in urban areas like San Francisco, Aguinaga explains that "being homeless isn't illegal," but they nevertheless remain targets for frustration.
"It's a shame when people want to target the most vulnerable because they don't want to look at them," Aguinaga says. "The community need to be stakeholders too, because it's a community problem that needs community solving."
Besides, "quality of life" issues have been placed on the backburner since the violent wave of foreclosures crashed property tax revenues in the late 2000s, leaving Antioch on the verge of bankruptcy.
"There's always been homelessness in Antioch," Aguinaga says. "Now it's just more visible."
Visibility is the reason she receives calls from residents. Like police officers in urban areas like San Francisco, Aguinaga explains that "being homeless isn't illegal," but they nevertheless remain targets for frustration.
"It's a shame when people want to target the most vulnerable because they don't want to look at them," Aguinaga says. "The community need to be stakeholders too, because it's a community problem that needs community solving."
Besides, "quality of life" issues have been placed on the backburner since the violent wave of foreclosures crashed property tax revenues in the late 2000s, leaving Antioch on the verge of bankruptcy.
FINANCES
Counting the losses
Just as crime and other symptoms of poverty swept through town, the coffers were empty. In 2008, for instance, with violent crime rising, the city laid off more than 30 percent of its police force. With limited resources, strategic decisions were made about enforcement.
"All we could deal with was violent crime," Aguinaga remembers. Today the department has about 90 officers, or 10 more than it had after the layoff.
Most funding for homeless services across the country comes from the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). Annual spending tops $2.5 billion. Research shows that permanent, not transitional, housing greatly reduces homeless recidivism.
While experts like House agree on the fact, they say that HUD has subsequently withdrawn money from transitional housing, which they say helps get homeless "in the door." Perhaps Antioch's most stifling problem: the homeless have nowhere to go.
Over the last year, Antioch lost a transitional housing shelter and its only homeless service center. The latter still offers beds to homeless with severe mental illness, but the service center closed after it was met with four times the demand for services than it could handle. After an eruption of complaints and police visits, the center closed.
"All we could deal with was violent crime," Aguinaga remembers. Today the department has about 90 officers, or 10 more than it had after the layoff.
Most funding for homeless services across the country comes from the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). Annual spending tops $2.5 billion. Research shows that permanent, not transitional, housing greatly reduces homeless recidivism.
While experts like House agree on the fact, they say that HUD has subsequently withdrawn money from transitional housing, which they say helps get homeless "in the door." Perhaps Antioch's most stifling problem: the homeless have nowhere to go.
Over the last year, Antioch lost a transitional housing shelter and its only homeless service center. The latter still offers beds to homeless with severe mental illness, but the service center closed after it was met with four times the demand for services than it could handle. After an eruption of complaints and police visits, the center closed.
As Community Development Block Grant Coordinator for the city, House doles out a portion of the county's HUD grants to shelters and other homeless service providers. The council recognizes Antioch as a priority, but even still, House's annual budget for Antioch pencils at less than $1 million. Her wishlist is unlikely to be filled soon.
"We really need a homeless campus [in Antioch]. What we need is 50 beds of shelter out there. What we need is detox beds. We need a warming center where homeless people can go and be safe. We need services for homeless youths," House says. "People need alternatives to the lifestyle they're living."
In recent years, the council has teamed up with the local housing authority to create a bridge from homeless programs to Section 8, the federal housing program that subsidizes rent. While simply prioritizing the homeless may not sound like much, it is.
According to Joseph Villarreal, executive director of the Contra Costa Housing Authority, when the county last opened its wait list in 2008, it received some 40,000 applications from 27 states for a few hundred spots. The waitlist may open again in 2017, which will likely see a new deluge of applications.
Antioch, however, has a testy history with Section 8.
"We really need a homeless campus [in Antioch]. What we need is 50 beds of shelter out there. What we need is detox beds. We need a warming center where homeless people can go and be safe. We need services for homeless youths," House says. "People need alternatives to the lifestyle they're living."
In recent years, the council has teamed up with the local housing authority to create a bridge from homeless programs to Section 8, the federal housing program that subsidizes rent. While simply prioritizing the homeless may not sound like much, it is.
According to Joseph Villarreal, executive director of the Contra Costa Housing Authority, when the county last opened its wait list in 2008, it received some 40,000 applications from 27 states for a few hundred spots. The waitlist may open again in 2017, which will likely see a new deluge of applications.
Antioch, however, has a testy history with Section 8.
the future
Moving on
In 1998, a federal reform of Section 8 allowed for vouchers to be "ported" anywhere in the country. Antioch, long one of the Bay Area's foremost bargains, saw a large influx of residents using Section 8 — a 76.7 percent increase from 2000 to 2010. Many of them were African American. The subsequent rise in crime led many in the community to point the finger at newcomers.
In 2011, the issue culminated when the Antioch Police Department settled a high profile lawsuit with four African-American women who alleged a special police unit had been used to target and harass minorities under the pretext of Section 8 complaints.
In 2015, Villarreal and the housing authority began offering larger subsidies to voucher holders who settle in places other than East County. Most of the county, however, is still extremely expensive; housing is undersupplied. Even Antioch has become less affordable.
According to the 2015 American Community Survey, more than 60 percent of Antioch renters spend 30 or more percent of their earnings on rent. While Antioch is likely to continue to be one of the Bay Area's homeless meccas, House says the organizations she works with are now placing people even further than Antioch.
"They go where the affordable housing is. Now we're having to place people in Stockton and Tracy and Manteca," she says. "The new homeless people, they're displacing some of our homeless people."
In 2011, the issue culminated when the Antioch Police Department settled a high profile lawsuit with four African-American women who alleged a special police unit had been used to target and harass minorities under the pretext of Section 8 complaints.
In 2015, Villarreal and the housing authority began offering larger subsidies to voucher holders who settle in places other than East County. Most of the county, however, is still extremely expensive; housing is undersupplied. Even Antioch has become less affordable.
According to the 2015 American Community Survey, more than 60 percent of Antioch renters spend 30 or more percent of their earnings on rent. While Antioch is likely to continue to be one of the Bay Area's homeless meccas, House says the organizations she works with are now placing people even further than Antioch.
"They go where the affordable housing is. Now we're having to place people in Stockton and Tracy and Manteca," she says. "The new homeless people, they're displacing some of our homeless people."
Locally grown grape is cheap and very juicy
Life on a Homeless Camp
You only have a few seconds to brace yourself before the wail of the oncoming train drowns out everything else. Most passersby cover their ears, but for the folks who live in Rivertown, one of many homeless camps along the train tracks of Antioch, the noise pollution comes with the territory. No one flinches, no one looks up. They simply delay conversation until the faint chug of steel wheels on steel tracks fades enough to get a word in.
By Rafael Roy
By Rafael Roy
According to The Contra Costa Homeless Continuum of Care, homelessness in the county rose more than 30 percent from last year to more than 300. Half of the county's homeless population lives in Antioch. While homelessness is generally associated with big cities, even the exurbs now have their homeless population and few resources to address the growing population.
Contra Costa Homeless Outreach ceased operations in July due to lack of funding, and Antioch has no shelter. The city estimates the new shelter will be ready in late 2017. In the meantime, the homeless population must seek alternatives.
Contra Costa Homeless Outreach ceased operations in July due to lack of funding, and Antioch has no shelter. The city estimates the new shelter will be ready in late 2017. In the meantime, the homeless population must seek alternatives.
The Rivertown camp has historically been a popular spot for the homeless, as the access to water and public bathrooms at the Antioch Marina provide the rotating group of 15 residents with amenities that are otherwise scarce.
In a field of thorny bushes, on a slope just inland of the marina, you'll find nearly a dozen makeshift shelters. Some come with wheels or a shopping cart for mobility. Some are simply a vinyl tarp and a sleeping bag. Some are borrowed, gifted, passed down. This is my second time visiting the camp. I plan to spend the day.
In a field of thorny bushes, on a slope just inland of the marina, you'll find nearly a dozen makeshift shelters. Some come with wheels or a shopping cart for mobility. Some are simply a vinyl tarp and a sleeping bag. Some are borrowed, gifted, passed down. This is my second time visiting the camp. I plan to spend the day.
Morning
There's a row of benches along the bike path running parallel to the train tracks. As I approach, familiar faces flash friendly smiles. On these benches, two blocks from city hall, and a mile from downtown, residents of Rivertown congregate to share stories, cellphones and the occasional toke. A family of passersby approach, walking their terrier. Suddenly two chihuahuas spring out of a tent, their heavy leashes dragging behind them. "Get back here!" yells Maria from the bench. "They don't bite other people! Just me!" she adds.
Maria is a fixture in Rivertown. She's more senior in years than most other residents, being in her late sixties, but she's new to the homeless experience. She says she was kicked out of her assisted living facility in February because she obtained a second service animal, her dog Starburst. "She's my emotional support," says Maria. "I can just look into her eyes and she absorbs all my sadness."
On another bench, the backrest is so sunken in that you feel as if you're sitting in a recliner. At the farthest end of the bench sits Donna––better known as "Alabama," showing off the new coat her boyfriend recently bought for her. It's a waxed cotton jacket with barely a crease. The stiff material makes the movements of her arm stilted and robotic. "It's super warm," says Donna in her southern drawl. She's been homeless for more than two years.
Maria is a fixture in Rivertown. She's more senior in years than most other residents, being in her late sixties, but she's new to the homeless experience. She says she was kicked out of her assisted living facility in February because she obtained a second service animal, her dog Starburst. "She's my emotional support," says Maria. "I can just look into her eyes and she absorbs all my sadness."
On another bench, the backrest is so sunken in that you feel as if you're sitting in a recliner. At the farthest end of the bench sits Donna––better known as "Alabama," showing off the new coat her boyfriend recently bought for her. It's a waxed cotton jacket with barely a crease. The stiff material makes the movements of her arm stilted and robotic. "It's super warm," says Donna in her southern drawl. She's been homeless for more than two years.
On Thanksgiving Day this year the American Legion Hall in Antioch hosted a traditional dinner for the homeless and elderly. Three people died and five more fell ill after the event.
In the four decades she's lived in Antioch, she still hasn't lost her accent. Donna has been homeless for more than two years. "I came here a scared 19-year-old, pregnant with my first child," says Donna. "Now I got 9 grand babies." Every time a car passes she looks over her shoulder to the street. "My son's picking me up for Thanksgiving dinner," she tells me, her face beaming. "They was too busy working on the real day, but now they're havin' me over and I get to see all my grand babies."
On Thanksgiving Day this year the American Legion Hall in Antioch hosted a traditional dinner for the homeless and elderly. Three people died and five more fell ill after the event. Doctors say it was food poisoning. Luckily, none of the members of Rivertown were affected. Alabama was safe. She stayed at camp that day.
One member of the Rivertown community was wary of the incident. A man named Mister White said he had attended the event, and though he didn't get sick himself, he wonders if the homeless community was somehow being targeted. "I dunno, man," says White. "As a black man out here, I don't really trust anyone."
Mister White hasn't seen family in over three years. He's been homeless ever since he and his wife divorced 7 years ago. "That demon woman took everything out of me," he says. He finishes rolling himself a joint, and looks up at me. "Did you know weed is legal now?"
On Thanksgiving Day this year the American Legion Hall in Antioch hosted a traditional dinner for the homeless and elderly. Three people died and five more fell ill after the event. Doctors say it was food poisoning. Luckily, none of the members of Rivertown were affected. Alabama was safe. She stayed at camp that day.
One member of the Rivertown community was wary of the incident. A man named Mister White said he had attended the event, and though he didn't get sick himself, he wonders if the homeless community was somehow being targeted. "I dunno, man," says White. "As a black man out here, I don't really trust anyone."
Mister White hasn't seen family in over three years. He's been homeless ever since he and his wife divorced 7 years ago. "That demon woman took everything out of me," he says. He finishes rolling himself a joint, and looks up at me. "Did you know weed is legal now?"
Afternoon
At 2 p.m., two cars roll into the empty parking lot behind the benches. A portly man with a white mustache and a fedora comes out and opens the trunk of his car. A short woman with voluminous brown hair exits the other car and does the same. A group of teenagers emerge from the other doors. Everyone on the benches stops and looks up.
"Y'all hungry?!" shouts the petite woman. "We got hot food!"
Lupe Hermosillo has been feeding the homeless for more than two years. She started the informal weekly program, Sheep in the Street, in an effort to pay it forward. After growing up in the Mission District, she became homeless at an early age. She says that finding religion and having her first child helped her dig her way out of homelessness. At age 36, she feels like her life has turned around, in part, thanks to her congregation.
"Don't ever forget where you came from," she says as she watches her daughter handing out bowls of macaroni and cheese.
Brother John, the man in the fedora, works as a resident advisor at the Bay Area Rescue Mission in Richmond. He grew up in Antioch and used to live in the park near city hall. He's seen homelessness swell here over the years, and worries that the problem has spread the city's resources thin.
"There's no more shelter in Antioch," Brother John says. "People have to go all the way to Richmond or Concord now."
As John and Lupe drive away, the camp members disperse to their own private spaces. The benches have cleared, but the watchdogs remain––tails wagging, tethered and content from their last meal.
"Y'all hungry?!" shouts the petite woman. "We got hot food!"
Lupe Hermosillo has been feeding the homeless for more than two years. She started the informal weekly program, Sheep in the Street, in an effort to pay it forward. After growing up in the Mission District, she became homeless at an early age. She says that finding religion and having her first child helped her dig her way out of homelessness. At age 36, she feels like her life has turned around, in part, thanks to her congregation.
"Don't ever forget where you came from," she says as she watches her daughter handing out bowls of macaroni and cheese.
Brother John, the man in the fedora, works as a resident advisor at the Bay Area Rescue Mission in Richmond. He grew up in Antioch and used to live in the park near city hall. He's seen homelessness swell here over the years, and worries that the problem has spread the city's resources thin.
"There's no more shelter in Antioch," Brother John says. "People have to go all the way to Richmond or Concord now."
As John and Lupe drive away, the camp members disperse to their own private spaces. The benches have cleared, but the watchdogs remain––tails wagging, tethered and content from their last meal.
Evening
The farmer's market has long packed up. Several cars have collected a new layer of condensation from the inhabitants inside. Families begin to empty out the marina parking lot, as a chill rolls in from the bay. Donna tells me they lost quite a few friends around this time last year.
"We lost Captain Bob, Gina, Justin, and Chris, all before Christmas last year," says Donna. "Gina had lent me one of her sleeping bags one night. The next morning she was dead."
Donna says the area is prone to flooding, hence the name, Rivertown. Her tent flooded earlier this month, leaving her without dry clothing for hours.
"Some die from the cold," says Donna. "But I think sometimes they die from loneliness."
Minutes later a white minivan pulls up and honks its horn. Donna smiles, says goodbye, and walks off to join her family.
"We lost Captain Bob, Gina, Justin, and Chris, all before Christmas last year," says Donna. "Gina had lent me one of her sleeping bags one night. The next morning she was dead."
Donna says the area is prone to flooding, hence the name, Rivertown. Her tent flooded earlier this month, leaving her without dry clothing for hours.
"Some die from the cold," says Donna. "But I think sometimes they die from loneliness."
Minutes later a white minivan pulls up and honks its horn. Donna smiles, says goodbye, and walks off to join her family.
Credits
Editor-in-Chief — Lydia Chavez
Editor — Laura Newberry
Photographer — Rafael Roy
Web Producer — Liliana Michelena
Editor — Laura Newberry
Photographer — Rafael Roy
Web Producer — Liliana Michelena
