Opinion: Why Black people are overrepresented among L.A.'s homeless population

People in marginalized groups are particularly vulnerable to falling into homelessness: Black people represent only 8% of Los Angeles’ population but make up 34% of the city’s unhoused population . Centuries of American history contribute to this overrepresentation, including decades of racist housing policy and redlining that deprived generations of Black Americans of wealth. Some consequences of such racist legacies can be quantified — for instance, in the average wealth of white households ($189,000) versus Black ($24,000). When something goes wrong, such as a medical crisis or a job loss, such wealth can make the difference between weathering the storm or becoming unhoused. The stories of some of my unhoused neighbors on the Westside — including James, Bobo and Dywaine — remind us that there often are crucial moments in life when a little assistance could make a huge difference, all the more so for many members of marginalized groups. We can’t erase the racist policies that have led us to this point, but we should address their consequences swiftly, humanely and collectively. James, Bobo and Dywaine, who spoke with me this summer, all agreed to share their stories with The Times on condition that their last names not be used. — Robert Karron

James

My name is James, and I’m 55. I was born in Monroe, La. I was raised in South-Central, but every summer I’d go back to Monroe. It was loving there. I stayed with my grandmothers, uncles and cousins. I stayed with love. In a way I’d like to be back, but there’s no more there; everybody’s gone.

After high school I enlisted in the Navy and worked on F-14 fighter jets. “Top Gun”? I launched those planes off the USS Eisenhower — three years active, five years reserve at Point Mugu, working on F-18 Hornets. Honorable discharge.

Then I went to Northeast Louisiana State, but I dropped out so I could drive an 18-wheeler. I did that off and on, until I got a job in Atlanta; I was a boat tank operator, loading cement into a tanker truck. Paid real good money, because it was union. In 1994, I was getting $18 an hour. I did that for five years, until the unions were busted. They wanted the unions out of there.

'What am I going to do? What is James going to do? That brings me back to reality.'

I went back to school and got A+ certification in Microsoft systems, MCSE certification, then came here and worked for a few companies. I wanted out of blue-collar work — all that dust and dirt. I wanted an office job. I had one on Westwood and Santa Monica boulevards, selling toner cartridges. But they saw that I was skilled so they asked me to help with web design. These were the early days of the web — “You’ve got mail.” We were helping people with their domain names. We were on the ground floor, but we gave up a little bit prematurely. If we’d stayed with it, we’d be on top today. James would be a multi-multimillionaire today.

After that, I worked odd jobs, sometimes going back to trucking. But then I had a meltdown, and I’m still melting down.

Here’s the thing: A lot of the people who are “assisting” the homeless just use us. I went to PATH (People Assisting the Homeless). I was living under a bridge. They asked, “Are you a veteran?” Yes, I am. They said, “Come on in.” I see they’ve got this whole structure. All this money, to build their offices. I worked with them for four months — and nothing came of it. “Hey, we need this document. We need this document.” I’d give them all they wanted. I went out myself and talked to landlords. I found one. I went back to them and said: “I have a landlord, and I’m ready to move in. All I need is first and last month, and a security deposit. Then I can get back into the workforce, and sustain myself.” That’s what the program was designed for. My housing navigator says to me: “We need this document” (again). So I give it to her (again). Then she quits. So I have nothing. They have all these housing navigators — paid with funds I can’t access, funds that are intended for me. It’s wrong. And then they blame us. They discredit us. It makes me crazy. I’m so angry. Veterans Affairs is like this, too. They build new buildings instead of hiring more doctors for us.

My parents are going to be gone soon. I don’t want them to see me like this. My sister doesn’t talk to me. That hurts. I’ve done nothing to her.

What am I going to do? What is James going to do? That brings me back to reality. What do you want to do, for you, now, to better yourself? Well, I’ll have to find another place to move into. I’ll have to save up, and use my own money. I’m on disability: I was injured during active duty. My country is compensating me for that. I’ll just need to save up, that’s all. But more than that, I have to stop being bitter. I have to get past that.

Bobo

My name is Bobo, and I’m 25-plus. I was born and raised in Virginia. The nation’s capital is there, so they’re as politically correct as possible. I’d say that in Virginia the law is upheld, mostly. D.C. isn’t the South, but it isn’t the North, either. You’ve got a bit of everything. You’ve got that hospitality: We don’t lock our doors. People don’t steal from other people in their neighborhood.

I graduated high school and went to two community colleges. I’m 18 credits away from a degree in business management. I didn’t finish because I had to work, to pay bills; I had jobs in office management, restaurant management and some project management. I also worked in advertising. I’ve been working since I was 14. I was raised by my grandmother. She did her best.

Compared to Virginia, here it’s the Wild West. Anything could happen. Accountability is at zero. People don’t love each other. Clearly, I am Black. I’ve experienced more racism and hatred here than in Virginia or anywhere else. I got here in 2015. A friend bought me a ticket to California and said, “Just come.”

'My mind is going at 100 miles a minute. I used to be an efficient, productive member of society. Now I don’t feel comfortable enough to sit for five minutes.'

I’d always wanted to come. I love being outdoors. If I don’t get sunshine, I feel not well. I was going through a lot of loss. I lost my father, my sister and my grandmother, all in a two-year span. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d had a breakdown of sorts. After I got here, I started laughing and smiling and working again. Only then did I realize how depressed I’d been.

Right now I’m in between housing. Four years ago I was in an apartment where they discovered mold. They’d covered it up. I suffered from long-term mold exposure. I have a fungal parasite that I can never get rid of. I have scars all over my body. I can only minimize its effects. I was feeling sick and not able to breathe indoors, so I came out here and discovered a whole community. It took two years for any doctor to listen to me and send me to a specialist. For a while, I had emergency hotel housing in Inglewood, but a couple of months ago they said we had 24 hours to get out. They sent us to this place downtown, but after a friend died there, I had to leave.

I’ve been in this neighborhood since, but never in the same place for very long. I move around. It’s safer that way. “ Real Gs move in silence, like lasagna ” — the silent G. People attack you out here. If you’re on the street, you’re a target. I’ve been hatcheted in the head. Last summer I was drugged and held captive. Have I talked to anyone about it? No. People can get over anything. Worse things have happened to me. I mean, I’m alive. The important thing is to stay in groups. People look at us as “less than,” but we’re really the superior ones. We can make it under any conditions.

I’m working odd jobs now and saving money. I do physical labor, things like demolition. After dealing with my health issue, I realized I needed to work for myself. Why work for someone else, when you can work harder, and make more, for yourself? When I get enough money, I’m thinking of going to Vegas with my friend and letting him gamble it. I’ve never been to Vegas, so why not try it? The house always wins? Not with this guy. Trust me.

The health department said I needed to file my own claim against the building where I got sick, but I haven’t had the time, because my mind is going at 100 miles a minute. I used to be an efficient, productive member of society. Now I don’t feel comfortable enough to sit for five minutes.

Dywaine

My name is Dywaine, and I’m 44. I was born and raised in L.A. I went to Fairfax High, where I was in special ed for ADHD. I wasn’t on any medication, because my grandparents didn’t want that for me. I was raised by them; my mother was on the streets, and my father was in prison. My favorite subject was art (those are my paintings, behind me). After graduation, I got my certificate in animation and desktop publishing. It took two years, through Job Corps. I loved it. It was a very good experience. I met new people, made new friends, learned things I didn’t know before. I ended up having to do security, because there was no room in my field.

I met my wife on a bus when I was 23. I’d seen her a few times on that route. One day I decided to jump off and walk her home. That was the beginning.

We were living with my grandmother, until she died, in 2022. I was in her house with my family — my wife and two daughters. Then, when she died, my uncle sold the house. This was in May 2022. Since then, we’ve been on the street. My family is in a hotel, in Torrance. We haven’t paid rent in a month, so they could be kicked out at any minute. I eventually got some inheritance from the sale of the house, but that went to living expenses and a car for my wife. (I also got a car, but I was parking it on different streets, and one day I guess I parked on the wrong street because they torched it. I’d only had it a few days; I hadn’t even got insurance yet.) Yes, I could be in the hotel with my family now. But I have to be out here to make something happen. I’m working with the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority and some other organizations, trying to get an apartment for us. I’m in a tight situation.

'My wife’s family had an opportunity for us at one point, but we would have had to move. I couldn’t do it. If I’d left my grandmother, she would have passed earlier.'

I’d love to get into graphic design, but at this point I’m so far behind on programs, I’d have to be retrained again. I’m trying to get back into security. Before the pandemic, I had a job clearing glasses at a bar and doing security for a dispensary. I had my guard card and my weapons permit. When the pandemic hit, I lost both of those jobs. Now I have to reapply for my guard card, which costs around $500. And, of course, to get a job, you need an address.

If my family gets kicked out of the hotel before I find them an apartment, they’ll probably move across the country, to be with my wife’s family. My wife could make a phone call today, and her stepmother would buy them plane tickets. But she’s waiting on me. It’s their safety net, not mine.

My wife’s family had an opportunity for us at one point, but we would have had to move. I couldn’t do it. If I’d left my grandmother, she would have passed earlier. I took care of her until the end. I couldn’t even see her, because she got COVID. They kept her in a room by herself. When my mother heard, she had two heart attacks. They both died in the same month. My mother was 69. She led a rough life. My grandmother was 96. She led a good life.

I’m usually in touch with my kids daily, but last week someone stole my phone. LAHSA could help with that; I’ll get a phone later today. But I also need seed money to get my guard card, and money to get my family set up somewhere. Once I have that, I can move forward.

Robert Karron teaches English at Santa Monica College. Instagram: @robertkarron

This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times .