The Human Side of Homelessness and Lessons Learned from Untold Stories
They’re people, too

It was my first year at Portland State University, and I was living downtown in the dorms on campus. I came from a small town in western Oregon and was in awe of my new home more and more each day.
I went running along the waterfront almost every morning and can easily name the several bridges — in order — that my feet crossed hundreds of times. I’ve never stopped loving that city, even after I left. It was the first place I made my home all by myself, and it nurtured and grew me in so many ways during my five years living there.
But Portland isn’t loved by everyone
Over the past few years, Portland has gotten a bad rap, mainly for the homelessness crisis that worsened when the COVID-19 pandemic began. Between 2020 and 2022, the population of homeless people in families with children increased by a whopping 27%.
Oregon has been considered home to the nation’s highest rate of chronic homelessness, with Portland being the primary hub. And although there are many reasons for this, that’s not the point of this story.
One point I’m getting at is Portland isn’t loved by everyone, but it’s loved by me. Even with the many changes to occur, it still has a special place in my heart and always will.
The other point I want to make is about the homelessness. In some strange way, I think it’s what made Portland appeal to me in the first place.
Stay with me.
I was taught to treat the homeless just like I would anyone else
Growing up, my mom was one of those moms who was always pulling over to give the homeless food or money. She talked to them just like you would anyone else, and I think preferred talking to them over anyone else.
I was taught from a young age not to be afraid of those who are homeless. They’re people, too, and they’ve all got a story we don’t — and may never — know.
So, when I moved to Portland, I just saw the homeless population as a struggling group of people who needed a helping hand. I thought, how great they are in this large city with so many resources.
Soon after moving to the big city, I went to my first concert alone: City and Colour. The venue was down on Burnside and near China Town, a popular hub for the homeless to hangout. I didn’t yet know this, just like I didn’t yet know how to use public transportation.
It was a long, dark, and somewhat scary walk back to my dorm that night, but I just kept reminding myself, they’re people too and, I’m probably safer than if no one was around.
They just need a helping hand.
During my morning runs along the water, I’d become distracted and disheartened by the many people sleeping on benches, eating beans from a tin can, and nursing injuries they couldn’t see a doctor for.
I’d always wave and try to acknowledge each one I could because I was also distracted by how outwardly rude others were to the homeless. A smile goes a long way.
They’re people too.
Then there was that time I stuffed brown paper bags full in my dorm room and handed them out to the homeless
After some time, my morning interactions with the homeless inspired me to use my resources to prepare brown paper bags full of the items I deemed useful.
It was nearing winter, so I bought items like chapstick, hand warmers, and socks. I also made hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my dorm room. I threw these in with a bag of chips, a granola bar, and some other things I cannot recall.
All I know is I stuffed these bags full with a couple of college friends in my very tiny dorm room. Then, we topped them with a handwritten note saying different affirmations, like:
You are loved.
You are not forgotten.
Stay strong.
Together, we spent a chilly afternoon handing them out along the water. Some people would start crying and thank us over and over, while others wanted to swap their bag of chips for a different flavor.
I tried to remain compassionate with both types of people and would ask how they ended up homeless and how long they had been on the streets. I wanted to understand their stories, and the ones I was lucky enough to hear shook me.
I knew what most of these people actually needed, I could not deliver as an 18-year-old college student. But I so badly wanted to help.
I wanted to understand what the true barriers for the homeless are
Not long after handing out the brown paper bags, I started volunteering at one of the homeless shelters in downtown Portland. A couple days a month, I’d show up around 5 AM and help serve breakfast to those lining the streets of Burnside.
Until then, I didn’t realize just how accessible food was to the homeless population. At the end of breakfast, any open sacks of bread had to be thrown away, but we would first offer them to the homeless to take with them.
I couldn’t believe how many turned the bread down and watched us throw it in the bin.
I soon learned, food is not the issue.
But what was? So many times I had heard that money was a poor solution for helping the homeless, too. They’d just use it to buy cigarettes, drugs or alcohol, which, can you blame them?
Once, I was walking downtown, and an old-innocent-looking man in a wheelchair stopped me. He had said he just got out of the hospital and was trying to get home, but needed help to get a bus ticket.
I asked him where his family was and why he was all alone, and he told me he didn’t have any family left. My heart broke piece by piece and I went and took money out of the ATM for this old man so he could get home safely.
A few months later, I saw him again outside of my dorm building. This time, he was telling someone else his same sad story from his wheelchair. I was so upset after this and promised myself I would never give money to the homeless again.
Yet I’ve learned over time, you cannot remain attached to that what you give. If you’re going to give it all, it must be from a place of true love and acceptance. I must be able to accept that if you buy cigarettes, that must be what you feel you need most at this moment.
It’s hard to have a savings account when you are just trying to survive and get through each day.
The story of Luke and Olive
There’s not much of a homeless population where I live now in eastern Oregon. Yet, out of the handful of people without a warm place to rest their head at night, I ended up living next to two of them for some time.
Luke and Olive.
Last year, the city tore down the only piece of home they had left, and I watched it happen from my living room window. The whole neighborhood watched it happen as the chief of police tried to talk Luke down off the top of the house so they could get to demolishing.
Although I do understand why the city made their decision, I still don’t agree with the actions taken. Both Luke and Olive could have benefited from something like an actual detox, or forced mental health care.
I’ll echo what I said before:
I’ve heard story after story of addicts going to rehab and being booted out a few days later from a lack of space. So, instead of them being given the time to fully detox, they are thrown back into the streets at their weakest, only to relapse and continue being controlled by their addiction.
It makes me wonder how much money we’ve thrown away, teasing — and not truly helping — others.
When it comes to mental health, police officers will make comments about how they can’t force someone to get help. But what about in situations like this one? Why do we have to let it get to this point before stepping in and saying, “Hey, obviously this person isn’t able to function in society, and/or make the best decisions for themselves. Let’s get them help — help they might know or think they need — before they destroy their life, or better yet, watch their home be destroyed in front of them.”
They’re people, too.
Stories have it that Olive was on track to be a doctor before her addiction took over. She had a husband and kids, and what some might consider a picture-perfect life.
And Luke… well, he lost his dad some time ago, and that home was the only thing he had left of them.
Luke and Olive are both still very homeless, but we don’t see Luke as often as we do Olive now. She stops by about once a month to collect our bottles and cans. Although, lately she’s been stopping by more often to tell us she’s going to pay us back as soon as her next check from the state comes.
She’s been telling us this since last year when my partner gave her a set of heavy-duty castor wheels worth $400. I’m not sure what she used them for, but she said they would be really helpful for something she was working on.
So, we let go of them without attachment.
But Olive has not forgotten that she said she would pay us for them. Every time she sees us, she brings up the money and says it’s coming. Just the other day, she stopped by as I was getting home and said it again.
And I truly believe Olive will pay us back when she can. But if she doesn’t, we will be okay with that, too, because we are no longer attached.
I’ve become jaded, but not hardened completely
I’ve become more jaded about homelessness as I’ve gotten older. Once more innocent and naïve, I’ve learned there are more barriers standing in the way than a lack of food and money. The problems go much deeper than that and, and the homeless need more than a helping hand.
Effective mental health care and addiction treatment are what we need most. And more housing. But instead of making a worthwhile change, we keep doing the same things we’ve been doing while wondering why the crisis isn’t improving.
It’s hard to watch.
And it’s easy to just sit back and complain… especially those in rural communities like mine.
We get used to not seeing much of a homeless population that the one or two camps set up around town have us writing a letter to the mayor; we end up complaining more than those living in the thick of more widespread homelessness.
On Thanksgiving evening, we stopped by Olive’s new camp to drop off a large dish of food from our family gathering. Though, after calling out her name and circling the neighborhood a few times, she was nowhere to be found.
We couldn’t find her the next day, either; or the day after that.
Part of me was worried and sad, but the other part of me was hopeful she had found a warmer place to stay this winter. With temperatures below zero some days, eastern Oregon is not the place to be homeless.
Last winter, she showed up shivering at our front door in a tank top and leggings, and we sent her away with bedding, socks, a brand-new pair of coveralls, and other winter gear.
Olive knows she can come to us if she needs help. We don’t agree with how she’s choosing to live her life, but we know she’s got no one else and is doing her best to figure it out with the limited resources she has.
I can also confirm — after having Olive stop by while in the middle of writing this article — that she is indeed someplace warmer than the streets. One of our community non-profits got her put into a hotel for what sounds like a while.
Olive said she was slowly collecting her stuff and not to worry about Thanksgiving because she was spoiled by many others. “I had so many turkey dinners,” she laughed.
It was the first time I caught a glimpse of relief in Olive, and the first time I was grateful for the actions taken by my local community to support the homeless.
As my partner said, “It’s crazy how much clearer you can think with a warm place to lay your head at night.”
They’re people, too
I don’t know what role I play in the homelessness crisis, but I do think it starts with being a friend to those within my proximity.
We’d all turn insane if we were without a house and, on top of other struggles, treated like some alien. At that point, what do you have to lose?
I’m grateful I was raised to love those less fortunate than me and treat them with kindness. For me, there’s never been another option.
I still smile with pride at the younger 17-year-old version of me that handed out trays full of food to the homeless in New York City one evening. I had just finished attending an event at a college I was interested in, and the kitchen was going to be discarding all the leftovers from their gourmet spread.
I asked the cooks if I could take the leftovers, and they sent me on my way with my arms so full I could barely see where I was walking. I managed to find my way on the Subway and back near Times Square, where I was staying. The entire way, passing out hoagies, fruit, and other fancy finger foods.
Again, I know food is not the actual issue, but it sure does connect people… and it’s always been a good reason to talk to those much different from I; to let them know they are cared for and not the alien the world sometimes makes them out to be.
They’re people, too.
