Nuke the NIMBYs

A dark figure stumbles down an alleyway. His clothes are ragged and dirty. He upends a beer and finishes it, smashing the empty bottle against a dumpster. He shouts expletives to someone unseen and weaves away, nearly stumbling. He stops suddenly and pulls down his fly. He pisses openly in the alley, giving a big middle finger to anyone who might see. Is this the stereotypical vagrant that privileged America has come to fear?

Or is that just me? I’ve dealt with numerous unhoused people over the past year. None of the ones I’ve encountered have been as terrifying or dangerous as the “upstanding citizens” surrounding them. The drunk drivers, the bar fighters, the school shooters, the wage thieves, the “peacekeepers,” and worst of all, the politicians. All capable of more destruction than the average transient could ever dream of. As an advocate for the unhoused, and disadvantaged people everywhere, I felt it was my duty to report on the results of the city council meeting where they’d vote yes or no on the construction of a new temporary shelter.

There’s nothing as dreadful and boring as a city council meeting. The grinding gears of local democracy turned slowly as representatives from different entities showcased their plans to expand an industrial storage facility, or to rezone an empty field to make way for more parking lots and shopping centers in the future. The dead cricket by my foot should have been an obvious indication of the general feeling everyone in the room shared. But now it was time for the big event.

A councilmember read off a string of numbers and the proposition: to rezone a structure on Porter Avenue so that it may become a temporary homeless shelter. A city attorney approaches the podium. Here is the plan: The property on Porter will be renovated for roughly two million dollars, four times what the city had set aside for a new temporary shelter. It will be a low-barrier shelter, meaning there are less requirements to get in. The entrance to the shelter will be on Rich Street, opposite the nearby Tarahumara’s. And the courtyard fence will be eight feet tall, twice the height required by local standards. The council questions the city attorney about specifics, but he has no answers. His presentation was passable, but by no means “good;” though this would be but a small factor in the outcome of the vote.

The council opened up the floor and let concerned citizens speak before it. The first voice, an old man, asks what the economic impact would be. Won’t somebody think of the businesses? He steps down once his three minutes are up and his wife takes his place. Her shirt reads “JESUS. COFFEE. NAPS.” What WOULD Jesus do with the homeless? This woman has never cared to know, because according to her, we don’t need another homeless shelter. What we need instead is an indoor park where disabled children can listen to non-violent music without profanity. And what of the daycare nearby? Won’t somebody think of the children?

Now it’s a contest. Which group is the most vulnerable? The elderly throw their hat in the ring. A woman old enough to be the first resident of the Silk Stocking district says that the whole neighborhood has gone downhill. The next speaker reinforces the point, affirming that the homeless in the area litter, vandalize, and jaywalk. They’re publicly indecent, they’re vagrants, they’re animals, essentially!

The next speaker is a bit different from the rest. He’s ex-unhoused. He speaks calmly and eloquently, and he can say firsthand that the city needs a new shelter. He was homeless once, and being able to sleep indoors helped him tremendously. Now he’s got a job, and a car. His life is back on track, thanks to the resources provided by the shelter.

The citizen replacing him carries on like the last never existed. “Why should WE have to take care of the homeless? Why should MY tax dollars build a new shelter? They chose this life, and being in a comfortable position would only incentivize them to loaf about more.” The man carries on angrily. The speech is reminiscent of the half-lucid speeches you’d hear in the rec room of a nursing home. The ex-homeless man watches the speaker with a look of blissful resignation. There’s an understanding behind those eyes that I couldn’t summarize here. To try; he knows that these people don’t understand, and that’s okay.

His patience far exceeds mine. The longer the speeches go on, the more vitriolic they become. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes or audibly scoff. If these people were to turn on me, I’d be far outnumbered. The only allies I have so far are the man who took the podium before, and the woman who’s taking it now. She’s currently unhoused. Another victim of circumstance. The women’s shelter is doing a great job of taking care of her, and is providing her with the resources to get her back on her feet. She’s not a drug-addicted criminal jaywalking vandalizer. She looks like somebody’s grandma. A sweet little old lady whose face I’ll watch drop as the night wears on.

She concludes her statement and takes her seat. Eyes bore into her, recognizing that she’s “one of them.” The next lady comes up and criticizes the “homeless lifestyle,” again painting the picture of a stereotype that looks nothing like the two people here who have experienced being unhoused firsthand. They can advocate for themselves, but who’s going to listen to them? The council calls a name and the room groans. She takes the podium with a small laptop and introduces herself as a doctor (of economics, I’d find later.)

She implores the citizens surrounding her to look at this as a housing problem. Her husband, also a doctor, points out how ridiculous it is to be afraid of unhoused people. “There’s plenty of better things to be afraid of. You see how many LAWYERS we have walking around now? And they far outnumber the unhoused!” This draws up a few bashful chuckles. The room is smiling, but the gap cannot be bridged by humor alone. The next speakers come up and their statements rival the hatefulness of all the speeches before. “They SNAKE through our neighborhood during the day.” “What about them spreading bedbugs? And body lice?” “Helping the homeless would be suicide for our local businesses, and our town.” “Just look at the BLIGHT of Gray Street nowadays.”

The atmosphere of the room is polluted with a contemptuous air. Concerned citizens against the homeless. Me against the concerned citizens. The council suggests we take a break and I dart for the door. I light a cigarette and imagine how the rest of the meeting is going to go. Some speaker should come in and say what’s on all of these people’s hive-mind, get this thing over with already. I can see it now:

A whole troupe marches into the room as a man in a sharp suit struts straight forward to the podium. He gently leans over and introduces himself by his name and address. But nobody can really place where he lives. They’re too swept away by his next statement, which is that he represents an ordinance company. He eagerly and sincerely looks at the council as he begins his speech:

“Are you tired of seeing the blight cast upon our city? Men sleeping in the gutters? Women defecating in your yard?”

The screen overhead plays a video of unhoused people huddling together around a fire.

“Needles litter our playgrounds, trash litters are streets. And constantly we ask ourselves, “what can we do?” Ladies and gentlemen, do I have the solution for you! We shall round up all of these vagrants, and move them to a plot of land out of town. Far out of town.”

The audience turns to each other and nods. Affirming murmurs rise from the crowd.

“When we get them there, my proposition is this…”

Women in glittery corsets and tight shorts walk down the aisles holding signs. The video shows a disheveled man looking up and being blinded by a great white light.

“We NUKE the HOMELESS!”

The video shows a mushroom cloud rising toward the sky. The women turn their signs, revealing that they repeat the man’s solution. The people in the room shoot out of their seats, cheering. Men wave their hats. The council dully considers as he continues his spiel.

“Atomic energy will take care of this problem once and for all. Our streets will once again be clean, and our city will be safe. We bus the homeless far out of town, ridding ourselves of their existence forever. And incentivize those on the brink to get their act together.” He adds, in an effort to boost the proposition’s appeal.

“In one atomic plume we can end poverty, drug addiction, vagrancy, indecency, essentially ALL crime. Because, let’s face it folks. Homelessness IS the root of all evil.”

The crowd claps him on the back as he walks away from the stage. The showgirls hand out free suckers to the kids and pose for pictures with the men. The council board quietly considers, then makes a motion to pass. Instantly, the results come up onscreen. All in favor. The local bums are rounded up into buses and dropped off in the middle of the desert. There’s hundreds standing around, scratching their bellies and asking if anyone has a smoke. At that very moment an intercontinental ballistic missile is bearing down on them at supersonic speed. BOOM! 10 square miles reduced to glass and used needles.

Yeah, that’s probably how this will end. In five minutes they’re going to resume. How many more speeches are there? How much more can I take? I blow my smoke towards the growing stars. It’s getting late. I should go home. I know how this is going to end and I don’t care to hear any more. But something compels me back inside. I’ve got to witness it for myself. See it. The loudest voices went first, speaking without giving themselves time to think. Surely the thoughts of the doctors who just went up indicate an inevitable shift in tone. Maybe the rational thinkers will overwhelm the board. This is still anyone’s game.

But the people advocating for a shelter wouldn’t stand a chance against the horde fighting against it. For the next hour, the hate speeches would continue. Overdramatized stories of hostile interactions with the unhoused; the speaker always innocent. The “victim” really the aggressor. A few advocates came up. Honest, working-class people who’d worked directly with unhoused people. And they all said the same thing: we need another shelter. But the points would go ignored.

It’s late. Everyone is getting tired and belligerent. After some more theatrics it’s time for the big moment. The councilmembers address the room and reassure that it’s a hard decision to make. They feel like there’s no way to win and no “right” thing to do. They open up the vote and it closes within a second.

The measure fails, seven to one. The better part of the room stands up and cheers. The rest of it looks around disappointed and ashamed. THIS is democracy in action. Not completely infallible, democracy is not without its victims. Though this time its victims are those most vulnerable. The interest of the business was preserved instead.

Ideally, democracy is the will of the people. But in this case, it was mob rule. The homeowners, landlords, and businessmen of the Silk Stocking felt that they were being terrorized by the unhoused. Instead of giving them a place to go at night, to keep them off the streets, they voted to uphold the status quo. Absolutely nothing will change. Political inaction through contacting your city councilperson and demanding that not a single thing be done.

The Silk Stocking got their way. It almost felt retaliatory; retribution for those few who feel they have been wronged. The most disenfranchised of our society didn’t get their shelter because they didn’t play by the rules. So they will continue doing the exact same thing they were doing before: looking for food, and slowly dying of exposure. Come next winter when the unhoused have no place to go, the icy blood of those who freeze to death will be on the hands of those who voted “no.” As victims of the local political machine that carried on to the next item with slow and dry efficiency.

I could buy the line that the shelter needed to be better planned. But with the pedestrian effort of those who organized it, the end result was inevitable. Even if there was sincere thought given by the city to the idea of a new temporary shelter, half of the Silk Stocking has become so radicalized, they’d probably raze it before remodeling could even begin. And then the cycle repeats: a shelter is proposed, the city doesn’t want it, the unhoused don’t get it. Well done, Political Theater, you’ve put on one helluva show.

My head rang as I left. I cruised comfortably in my car, back to my apartment in south Norman, passing the occasional street scene. Shopping carts, camping chairs, tents. If it were any colder there would be fires. Tonight, those people will sleep under dark clouds threatening rain. With no barrier between them and those who wish to do them harm. I walk into my cool, air-conditioned apartment. A clean, plush bed beckons. But I forgo it for a glass of rum. It doesn’t settle well. I’m too distracted by my thoughts.

It seems there’s a privileged few who think poverty should be a crime. And maybe it should be, but not for victims of it. Rather, for those who create it. Maybe there’s something inherently wrong with somebody sleeping in the street. Out in the cold of winter. The heat and humidity of summer. But they are not always to blame. It’s those that create these crises. If you want to stop homelessness, let’s take a look at who is taking away homes. Why don’t we ask why rent is so expensive? Where would we find out who is suppressing wages? Why don’t we ask these questions instead of the ones with an easy answer?

The professor I spoke to during the break introduced to me a fresh perspective: those who hate the homeless feel guilty. Chronic poverty is a window through which we view some of the problems inherent to capitalism. The system we live under is flawed and everyone in that meeting knows it. But instead of critiquing capitalism or seeking alternatives, they blame the victims of it. Once those suffering mental illness and addiction are visible to the public eye, it becomes obvious no one is willing to fund the programs that could help these people. Instead, they are told to “help themselves;” a sentiment often echoed in the competitive world of capitalism.

Another cause of guilt would be the perceived powerlessness to help unhoused people. Temporary shelters and half-baked solutions to growing problems can be discouraging to the unhoused and people who wish to help them. Thus, the cycle continues. Effective policy is not passed, poverty continues, people lose faith in local democracy.

I’m losing faith in local democracy. The system worked exactly as it should: a city councilor was voted in by the majority of their ward. They represent the interests of those people, and in this case, the people did not want another shelter. It works exactly as intended, but not without collateral damage. Are the voters to blame? Or their interests?

Of all the speeches against a new shelter tonight, half of them were concerned with business. Restaurants and rentals alike, the owners were voting to prevent a decline in income. Capital, above all else, is the interest of American democracy. Even if it must be held above human life.