I was talking to Michael Edward Lee Porter and his wife Regina McCauley (a homeless couple who I’ve written about before) when Porter dropped the p-word on Star of Hope. I’d read some less-than-positive reviews from other homeless who had stayed there, but a prison?

“I’d rather sleep on the street,” McCauley told me bluntly.

That’s a hell of a thing, choosing cold concrete over shelter. Was there something going on there that was hurting the homeless? Something scandalous?

Too Strict

The common complaint was strictness. Porter said it was “straight-up ran just like an institution.”

He was unhappy with rules that required residents to be back in the shelter early. The downtown men’s shelter requires residents to be inside by 4:30 p.m. Women go in a few hours later.

“You’re locked in there as soon as you get there,” Porter complained.

I heard other complaints about treatment by homeless residents working for Star of Hope in their work program.

“They take people in off the street, bring them into these programs,” said Mike Ferguson, a homeless man who calls his experience at Star of Hope “really, really bad.”

“After about 30 days, 40 days, they give these people authority. They give them jobs inside Star of Hope,” Ferguson said.

Star of Hope’s director of public relations Scott Arthur said some of the homeless help with intake at the downtown men’s shelter.

Ferguson refused to say what happened to him when he stayed there out of respect for the shelter. He did say that the work system could use improvement, though.

“When you take someone who’s been homeless… and you give them authority over another man, it can be a really horrendous situation,” Ferguson said. “These are not nice people. That was one thing I thought [Star of Hope] could do, is do a better job of picking who they give the authority to.”

Reasons Why

Arthur explained some of criticism of Star of Hope. Setting up ground rules for residents is necessary to help them transition into regular life.

“We wouldn’t be able to do what we do without rules and structure,” he said. “We run a very tight ship because we know that we can have structure.”

Star of Hope runs a comprehensive program to help the homeless get back on their feet. It’s very much an all-or-nothing approach. You can always stay the night in one of their emergency shelters. Long-term residents have to follow the rules and buy into the program, even if that means showing up at 4:30 p.m. so staff can do the laundry.

The shelter offers the whole package- housing, childcare, three square meals a day, education, job training, practice interviews, resume building, religious services, counseling, substance abuse recovery, parenting classes and computer experience. It’s everything you’d need to get on your feet again.

I asked Arthur if Star of Hope’s comprehensive and sometimes strict approach to helping the homeless turned some people away.

“All the time,” Arthur said. “Let’s assume that you’ve got somebody that’s been on the street for 5 years, and he decides to get in the van and come to the shelter and look around. He’s not used to close quarters. He’s not used to structure. So his mindset has been street survival, not [the mindset of] following the rules.

“So yeah, it happens. And what we do is say, ‘You know what, we’re here. We’re here for you. Let’s try again some other time.’”

Too Normal

Star of Hope isn’t a prison. There’s no scandal, no shocking facts that you should go share with your friends on Facebook. It’s just a homeless shelter that serves 15,000 meals every week.

The worst thing you could say about Star of Hope is that it occasionally hands bitter residents too much authority over other homeless people.

This is good news for Houston. It’s great that a homeless shelter doing good is actually doing good. God knows the homeless need every bit of help they can get.

Even the people who’ve turned away from the shelter don’t refuse to speak poorly of it. Despite his negative experience, Ferguson praised Star of Hope.

“I think the goodness that they’re doing is outweighing the bad things that happen,” he said.

It’s almost daylight. Better get out bed and wake the kids- if you had a bed or kids you’d seen in the last 9 years.

Roll over. Rouse your wife, Gina. She wakes slowly. She’s tired. So tired. You both have been on the streets for months now. How long has it been? Five months? A year? You don’t remember.

Your name is Michael Edward Lee Porter, and this is your life being homeless.

Morning

Mornings are focused. Get out of bed. Get ready to face the day. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve hidden yourself sleeping behind Mattress Firm. If the cops catch you in bed by daybreak, they’ll force you to move.

You dislike the police. After 9 years in prison and two run-ins for stealing a car and jaywalking (yes, jaywalking), you don’t trust them. You could swear Officer Parker goes out of his way to harass you when he patrols your area.

Almost 7 o’clock. Get out, shake the blankets from your body. Better find somewhere good to hide them. Keeping belongings is hellishly difficult for the homeless. Your stuff has already been stolen three times.

It’s late. Stake out a street and fly your bedraggled cardboard sign asking for help. Breakfast won’t pay for itself. If you’re lucky, you’ll collect enough money for coffee. You’ll need the caffeine. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.

You earn money, same way every other homeless person does. Stand there and hope somebody takes time out of their morning commute to roll down their window and wave a dollar at you. It’s slow, hard, inconsistent work.

The most you ever earned in a day was Easter Sunday. Everybody must have been feeling generous, because they gave you $70. Total. It only took 10 hours.

That’s almost minimum wage. Must be their Christian spirit.

Afternoon

Now it’s hot. The sun is out and you’re sweating under your blue polo shirt and baggy purple pants. Both are too large. Salvation Army never has your size 29 waist, but you take what you can get when you’re homeless.

It’s so hot. You’re exhausted from standing outside all day. Fewer cars pass by your strip of road. You wander over to your Gina, who’s resting under a tree in the shade.

You and Gina have been together for 3 years. You’re not officially married, but you’ve spent enough time together that you call her your wife anyway.

Regina McCauley lived in the building where you worked as a maintenance man. It was good work. That and a fencing job brought in almost $1,000 every week.

You would have been happy to share it all with Gina. “I’s doing great,” you say ruefully. “’Till all this came up.”

The landlord decided to make a sexual advance on Gina while you were at work one day. A 70-something-year-old man, asking a grown woman for a blowjob. It seemed absurd until he kicked you out of the apartment.

Which brings us right back to a hot street corner on the outskirts of town with your wife sitting in the shade.

Gina is a trooper. She tries to fly the sign as much as she can, but she gets tired easily. The time spent out on the street has taken a heavy toll. Her kind, round face is masked by sadness and exhaustion.

She’s got cancer, early stages. At least her Go Card pays for medical care.

Life on the streets takes it out of her. She almost passed out one time. That’s why you try to save up a couple bucks to get her into a hotel room at least once a week. The place down the street only charges $36 a night.

It’s good to shower and rest on a real mattress, not a pile of blankets behind a mattress store. Shower sounds perfect right now. You haven’t bathed in a week, and you feel nasty.

Gotta keep going. Keep standing on that street corner. Hope that somebody will take pity on you.

This is all you do. All day. Every day.

Evening

The 5 p.m. rush is over. The number of cars on the road slowly dwindles as average Houstonians return to their families and homes.

You’ve saved up a couple bucks. It’s not enough to get a hotel room, but it is enough to get some food from McDonald’s. Those golden arches are a godsend.

McDonald’s is like home base. The staff let you sit indoors in the air conditioning. They even give you free cups of water. It’s your only way to stay hydrated. Better hope the mean cashier isn’t on duty. She tries to charge a quarter for every cup.

You say hello to David, a friendly, bearded old man in a ball cap. He’s homeless and helps watch out for you. He also has crippling alcoholism. David gets the shakes if he doesn’t have a beer the moment he wakes up.

It’s good to have friends.

Nightfall

The McDonald’s food doesn’t last as long as you hoped. It never does. Time to go. Gotta find somewhere to stay.

Houston offers shelters under certain conditions. You have to get in line early to get a bed at most of them, and that means less time begging. Less money to buy food tomorrow.

Anybody who shows up at Salvation Army after 2 p.m. is sleeping on the floor. That makes Gina’s hips hurt.

Gina could go to Sally’s House. It’s a women’s shelter. Nice place. But it means you’re sleeping without her for a night. Only good men’s shelter is Salvation Army, and it’s already too late.

In the end, you return to Mattress Firm and crash there. Mercifully your stuff hasn’t been stolen. You huddle up next to Gina and fall asleep.

Tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.

————–

(image credit)

Author’s note: I met Edward and Gina by chance one day and talked to them over a meal. This story was made from what they told me during that lunch. 

They navigate what Edward calls a “sea of traumas” daily. This is what it’s like.