Sweet Home(less) Part 3
I spent the next 20 minutes reconnoitering three sides of the encampment. It drastically distinguished itself from other encampments I'd observed or traversed. First, it was obviously sanctioned by the city to some degree because it had definite organization with a mini town square, a dumpster, two portable toilets and sawhorses to delineate boundaries and parking. Most of the tents were pitched on pallets. There was no garbage or collections of useless, inexplicable shit. I didn't see the practice myself but I assumed residents were powering phones and other devices from outdoor outlets still hot and paid for by the city. Same with water. A few hundred feet away was a street ministry that advertised multiple services and some staffer or volunteer had hung bags of toiletries from a power pole.
All and all, there was structural order to the encampment, humanitarian intent, and not a hint of squalor. Watching it operate for only 30 seconds begged the question: why haven't other Oregon cities with considerably more progressive tendencies adopted similar temporary measures? Sweet Home city officials had clearly decided to move/herd/relocate the local homeless population into one concentrated area where they could provide basic services and most likely keep a better eye on them. Such a central arrangement also provided city or county caseworkers and various outreach workers the ability to contact clients on a regular schedule, something that was frequently reported in the Portland print media as almost never happening.
I had about a million questions of this Sweet Home encampment? Whose idea? What kind of battle royal on the city council had transpired to approve such an idea? What did the cops think? The nearby businesses? The two or three churches in the neighborhood? Those living in tents? Was there a lot of fucking around at night and disturbing the peace? Who were these homeless men and women of Sweet Home? Were they making use of a great bookstore a block away? Who was in charge inside the encampment? Had they drawn up a kind of Mayflower Compact or code of conduct that everyone had to obey, and if they did not, were kicked out? How many strikes did you get? Were any of the residents working jobs?
Obviously the next course of action for me was to walk right in and introduce myself and go full tilt Woodward and Bernstein on the story. It was a sunny day and the residents were outside and apparently in a festive mood. I could send out for pizzas and hustle up some malt liquor. They might invite me to sit around the fire!
But I didn't walk in and continue the investigation and initially couldn't explain to myself why not. I had pledged in recent months to dive deeper into the swollen river that is the story of the New American Diaspora. And I had, on a one-on-one level. This Sweet Home scene was, however, something much, much larger, a one-on-30 level. I didn't fear for my safety or anything like that. I just wasn't yet prepared. What would be my editorial strategy? Did I even need one? Maybe I should ask a question of the Magic 8-Ball, shake it up, and go from there.
My eyes needed a break. I needed to compose my thoughts and jot down notes. I saw a dive sports bar across the street from the bookstore and decided to drink a beer, perhaps even ask a few questions about the encampment. Someone in there would have to know something about it.