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Could Supplemental Security Income house the homeless?
A board and care resident proposes a possible solution
The Spring Valley Library: meeting of the minds — and hearts.
Recently, I was at a housing and homelessness meeting at the Spring Valley library, and I asked the speakers how many of the homeless were receiving SSI or SSDI checks. (SSDI is Social Security Disability Insurance; SSI is Supplemental Security Income, and is granted to those who have not worked enough to receive SSDI.) I asked because group homes and board and care facilities have a loophole that allows them to accept SSI as full payment for room and board. No one at the meeting knew the answer to my question. So I started asking homeless people directly — on the street, on the bus, in the library — if they had SSI. Almost no one did; many people found the question upsetting.
What I found upsetting was that for all the talk from the city about helping the homeless, no one was helping these people get these benefits, benefits that could possibly change their lives for the better. (They are not easy to obtain; I myself was rejected twice, and I don’t have a mental illness, which would make things much, much more difficult.) One of the speakers at the Spring Valley meeting said payments were only $800, and so would not be enough to cover housing. I replied that the minimum payment is now $943, and that there are agencies to cover the gap if someone is in a group home. The speaker looked baffled.
In 2009, I was living in a pain rehab facility. The pain was bad enough that I was unable to cook, clean, or shop for myself, and so the rehab’s owner, realizing that I could not live independently and so needed to find housing, dove me to the Grossmont Hospital emergency room. He instructed me to tell them I wanted to be admitted to the psychiatric ward — specifically in order to get assistance in finding housing. I had no idea that could be a reason for admission; I thought you needed to be suicidal, or at least anxious or depressed. I doubted the plan would work, but to my surprise, they admitted me.
The following day, I met with a social worker who connected me with Fred, a nurse who owned an independent living facility in National City. The next day, Fred showed up at the hospital and signed me out so that I could go and look at the room he had for rent. On the way, he bought me two Snickers bars and a bunch of other snacks — an obvious bribe, but it wasn’t necessary, because the next day, the social worker told me I was being discharged to Fred’s facility whether I liked it or not. I think there were 12 people there in total, with a Filipino caregiver. The place was pretty filthy: there were roaches everywhere, and serious issues with the plumbing. The cleanest room in the house was the garage; I wished I could join the three people living there.
How many homeless people could find a happy ending if they only had SSI?
Happily, there was an adult day care facility right across the street where people on Medi-Cal could spend the day doing activities and even get a free lunch. I went to check it out, and the nurse there was alarmed to hear I was living at Fred’s. She told me her friend owned a board and care facility in Spring Valley, and that I would like it better. Within 20 minutes, her friend was there to pick me up. The facility was licensed for the elderly, but she said she was allowed to have young people. It turned out that she was having so much trouble filling the rooms that she offered me a discount. Hard to imagine in these days of housing scarcity.
I lived at that board and care facility until 2014; the entire time, my rent was only $860 for my own room in a beautiful house with wonderful furnishings on the nicest cul-de-sac in the city. There were five board and cares on that one street, all owned by Filipino immigrants. (The owner of mine was a nurse with a husband in the military.) They housed between six and twelve people, and there was always an employee present who cooked, cleaned, and supervised the residents, making sure they took their medications and got to their appointments on time. Some residents could come and go as they pleased.
The idea of group homes may make some homeowners anxious. There goes the neighborhood. But none of the other owners on that street even knew we were there. Often, once people got cleaned up and started taking their medications, there just wasn’t an issue. Parents brought their kids to trick or treat on our block. I started dressing up to hand out candy, and that’s how I met my neighbors: they brought their two-year-old twins to our door. They eventually invited me for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Michelle was such a good cook; I will never forget those meals.
Here’s what I mean about medications and cleaning up: while I was there, my housemate Cheryl died of a heart-related ailment, and three months later, her family showed up at the house. I was livid — I had lived with Cheryl for three years, and never knew she had any family at all. How dare they come now that she was dead? But then they told me they had been looking for her for more than 10 years, and had come after the City Recorder contacted them and gave them the address. They wanted to learn about how she had lived. They told me that after her schizophrenia had gotten the best of her, she had ended up living in homeless encampments where Petco Park was now. I was shocked; I had assumed that Cheryl lived with us because she was elderly. I never knew she had schizophrenia. She was quiet and kept to herself, coming out of her room only to watch Wheel of Fortune and Lawrence Welk. But she never seemed mentally ill.
Why didn’t she contact her family? Well, family is often triggering for schizophrenics. But Cheryl’s family said they used to drive around Downtown looking for her, and they used to see her on occasion. Then she disappeared. My theory is that she turned 65, aged into the system, started receiving Social Security benefits, had a medical emergency that put her in the hospital, and was then placed in our board and care. By the time I met her, you never would have guessed that she had spent years living on the streets. It made me wonder how many other people could have a relatively happy ending like Cheryl’s, if only someone could help them navigate the system.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Could Supplemental Security Income house the homeless?
A board and care resident proposes a possible solution
Could Supplemental Security Income house the homeless?
A board and care resident proposes a possible solution
The Spring Valley Library: meeting of the minds — and hearts.
Recently, I was at a housing and homelessness meeting at the Spring Valley library, and I asked the speakers how many of the homeless were receiving SSI or SSDI checks. (SSDI is Social Security Disability Insurance; SSI is Supplemental Security Income, and is granted to those who have not worked enough to receive SSDI.) I asked because group homes and board and care facilities have a loophole that allows them to accept SSI as full payment for room and board. No one at the meeting knew the answer to my question. So I started asking homeless people directly — on the street, on the bus, in the library — if they had SSI. Almost no one did; many people found the question upsetting.
What I found upsetting was that for all the talk from the city about helping the homeless, no one was helping these people get these benefits, benefits that could possibly change their lives for the better. (They are not easy to obtain; I myself was rejected twice, and I don’t have a mental illness, which would make things much, much more difficult.) One of the speakers at the Spring Valley meeting said payments were only $800, and so would not be enough to cover housing. I replied that the minimum payment is now $943, and that there are agencies to cover the gap if someone is in a group home. The speaker looked baffled.
In 2009, I was living in a pain rehab facility. The pain was bad enough that I was unable to cook, clean, or shop for myself, and so the rehab’s owner, realizing that I could not live independently and so needed to find housing, dove me to the Grossmont Hospital emergency room. He instructed me to tell them I wanted to be admitted to the psychiatric ward — specifically in order to get assistance in finding housing. I had no idea that could be a reason for admission; I thought you needed to be suicidal, or at least anxious or depressed. I doubted the plan would work, but to my surprise, they admitted me.
The following day, I met with a social worker who connected me with Fred, a nurse who owned an independent living facility in National City. The next day, Fred showed up at the hospital and signed me out so that I could go and look at the room he had for rent. On the way, he bought me two Snickers bars and a bunch of other snacks — an obvious bribe, but it wasn’t necessary, because the next day, the social worker told me I was being discharged to Fred’s facility whether I liked it or not. I think there were 12 people there in total, with a Filipino caregiver. The place was pretty filthy: there were roaches everywhere, and serious issues with the plumbing. The cleanest room in the house was the garage; I wished I could join the three people living there.
How many homeless people could find a happy ending if they only had SSI?
Happily, there was an adult day care facility right across the street where people on Medi-Cal could spend the day doing activities and even get a free lunch. I went to check it out, and the nurse there was alarmed to hear I was living at Fred’s. She told me her friend owned a board and care facility in Spring Valley, and that I would like it better. Within 20 minutes, her friend was there to pick me up. The facility was licensed for the elderly, but she said she was allowed to have young people. It turned out that she was having so much trouble filling the rooms that she offered me a discount. Hard to imagine in these days of housing scarcity.
I lived at that board and care facility until 2014; the entire time, my rent was only $860 for my own room in a beautiful house with wonderful furnishings on the nicest cul-de-sac in the city. There were five board and cares on that one street, all owned by Filipino immigrants. (The owner of mine was a nurse with a husband in the military.) They housed between six and twelve people, and there was always an employee present who cooked, cleaned, and supervised the residents, making sure they took their medications and got to their appointments on time. Some residents could come and go as they pleased.
The idea of group homes may make some homeowners anxious. There goes the neighborhood. But none of the other owners on that street even knew we were there. Often, once people got cleaned up and started taking their medications, there just wasn’t an issue. Parents brought their kids to trick or treat on our block. I started dressing up to hand out candy, and that’s how I met my neighbors: they brought their two-year-old twins to our door. They eventually invited me for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Michelle was such a good cook; I will never forget those meals.
Here’s what I mean about medications and cleaning up: while I was there, my housemate Cheryl died of a heart-related ailment, and three months later, her family showed up at the house. I was livid — I had lived with Cheryl for three years, and never knew she had any family at all. How dare they come now that she was dead? But then they told me they had been looking for her for more than 10 years, and had come after the City Recorder contacted them and gave them the address. They wanted to learn about how she had lived. They told me that after her schizophrenia had gotten the best of her, she had ended up living in homeless encampments where Petco Park was now. I was shocked; I had assumed that Cheryl lived with us because she was elderly. I never knew she had schizophrenia. She was quiet and kept to herself, coming out of her room only to watch Wheel of Fortune and Lawrence Welk. But she never seemed mentally ill.
Why didn’t she contact her family? Well, family is often triggering for schizophrenics. But Cheryl’s family said they used to drive around Downtown looking for her, and they used to see her on occasion. Then she disappeared. My theory is that she turned 65, aged into the system, started receiving Social Security benefits, had a medical emergency that put her in the hospital, and was then placed in our board and care. By the time I met her, you never would have guessed that she had spent years living on the streets. It made me wonder how many other people could have a relatively happy ending like Cheryl’s, if only someone could help them navigate the system.
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