Jy’s story: I’m one of the “working homeless.” I get regular work through Standby (a temporary employment service). But I don’t make enough to afford my own place. And I can’t do shelters--it feels like being incarcerated. So I sleep outside. But for two days in a row I was too tired to go to work because a cop wouldn't leave me alone. Every time I’d go to a new spot, this cop would follow me and tell me, “Move along. You can’t stay here.” I was trying to sleep in alleyways, out of the way of the yuppies. I even went to the river but he followed me there. I didn't get a ticket, but I didn't sleep either, and I lost two days pay as a result. I did get a ticket yesterday, for violating park curfew at Skyline Park (on the 16th Street Mall). It was 10:45 pm. (Park curfew is 11.) I can’t find the ticket, but I don’t have money to pay it anyway. So I’ll have a warrant. I don’t understand why they just ticketed me and my friend, who’s black. There were lots of others in the park and they didn't get ticketed.”
    George’s story: I came here from Delaware for 4-20 and just stayed. I can’t do shelters, I can’t live with other men, so I camp outside. One day I went into a dumpster by the Creamery, to look for packets of hot sauce, which I put on everything. A cop came over and said “You need two feet on the concrete.” I’m sure he just made that up, and there’s no law that says that. Then he said “Do you have alcohol on your breath? What’s your name?” He never liked me after that. He’ll come find me around midnight and if he sees me he’ll ask me “What’s that in your cup? What’s in your pockets?” He’s always harassing me.
    Tim’s story: Last October some friends and I were sitting on chairs at the edge of the sidewalk near the Corner Bakery on the 16th Street Mall. We were talking, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes. We weren't blocking the sidewalk or bothering anybody. As had happened several times before, the security guard for the Westin Hotel and the Palm Restaurant came up to us and said we were trespassing on private property and had to move. We refused to move telling him the sidewalk was public property, and if we were trespassing he could call the police to give us a ticket, and we would take it to court. But instead he called his supervisor, who backed him up saying the sidewalk belonged to the businesses. We brought up that they were only harassing us and not any of the others on the sidewalk, including customers and employees of the businesses. And what about all the people walking on the sidewalk? At that point a man who’d been watching the interaction brought a Denver police officer over. When we explained the situation to her, she told the security guards that it was a public sidewalk, owned and maintained by the city. She said we had every legal right to be on the sidewalk as long as we were not blocking it, and that the security guards had no right to make us leave. We were glad this cop straightened out the security guard, who never bothered us after that.

by Carrie Cain (Harley)

My name is Carrie Cain. I’m 32 years old, have three kids that were taken by Social Services, saying that “I’m an unfit mother because of my epilepsy and scoliosis,” have Social Security because of my disabilities, and moved to Denver in 2013 from Iowa. I moved to start over with my boyfriend, in June of last year. He kicked me out in July, one month later, but unlike many I got lucky. The Gutter Punks and Juggalos took me in, taught me how to survive, and kept me safe, warm and fed when I needed it (this is my first time being homeless). They became family. I say that because family protects, loves and is always there...even at its worst. 

Most know me as Harlequin or Momma. I’m telling my story because I want to make a difference and also show my love and thanks to all those that are now family. When I became homeless I didn’t know where to go, what to do or how to survive on the streets. A friend introduced me to the Gutter Punks and Juggalos. Yeah they are rough around the edges and may never admit it...but they have big hearts, at least that’s how I see them. But not everybody gets lucky, can survive or keep hope...Too many have died, gotten raped, beat up, lost limbs due to the frostbite, gone to drugs, or have become emotionally dead to the world. Hell, if it weren’t for my husband Wolf and my dog Scottie, and a few of the family...I would be emotionally dead, giving up on life and just a memory. 

So many times a day we all are degraded, harassed, glared at or worse...invisible. Shelters are disease-ridden black holes, that kick you out at 5 or 6 am when it’s below 0 degrees out and don’t allow couples. Almost 99% of the places that are supposed to help us, look at us like they wish we were all dead, and the ones that do care can only do so much because they spend their own money just so they can stay open and help. 

It’s a double edged sword that slices into my heart. The ones who have nothing will go hungry and cold so that another can eat and be warm. Knowing and seeing, and being able to do this warms my heart. But my experience tells me that 90% of those with money care nothing for those in need. Even a simple hello is too much for them. It rips and tears at my heart realizing how uncaring people can be. I am truly lucky to have my “street family”, husband and dog...but not all are lucky so do us a favor, learn to care like we do. If we don’t take care of each other, who will?

by Darla Harvey

I am a 40 year old homeless woman. I am educated with a Bachelor’s degree and I am also a struggling artist. My story of how I became houseless isn’t much different from that of anyone else who finds themselves in the same predicament. As a divorcee, I moved back to Denver in 2011 and got mixed up with the wrong person who ended up using me for what little money I had from the settlement. And in Denver’s lousy and overpriced housing market, the money ran out out rather quickly. 

I had anticipated Denver’s art market to be more impressive than that of Spokane Washington, considering the scale and cultural diversity here, and I tried every avenue I could think of to sell my work and be as prosperous as I once was--to little avail. I eventually had to take on two roommates for a two bedroom apartment. I looked for work but found nothing that could pay the bills or suit my skills. I was drowning in debt and became discouraged, depressed and started drinking heavily. I ended up selling almost everything that was of value. 

It was shortly before Christmas and I was going to be evicted the following month because I couldn’t pay rent, so I packed up my car, abandoned my apartment and headed north to Montana. Up there was tons of work, good paying jobs but at a price. Fracking was the game up there and people from all over the country flocked in droves to cash in on the destructive nature of this new method of well drilling. I found myself living in a camper city outside of town. It was lonely and boring. After working 14 hour days there was nothing else to do but drink. After staying in Montana for just four months I decided to come back to Denver. Even with the work I found, I was still drowning in debt and struggling to survive and slowly going insane from the lack of mental stimulation that my creative mind needed. 

It was spring now but after coming back to Denver I had nowhere else to go but my car so that’s what I did, lived in my car until the day came that I had to sell it while it was still worth something. I couldn’t afford the maintenance or the insurance anymore and it was slowly falling apart. I sold my car for a meager $1,000 and used the money to pay for a small room in a communal house. That housing situation only lasted six months. The lady I rented from was absolutely insane and she kicked me out in the dead of winter for reasons unknown to me. 

Luckily at the same time I found a small studio space in the Santa Fe Arts District for the same price I was paying at this other place. I wasn’t supposed to be living in my studio at the time but me and four other people were doing just that. It was a good gig. I had a place to work and a place to be around other people that weren’t crazy. It was nice until we all got the boot about four months after I moved in. The building wasn’t up to code and it was illegal for anyone to be living in the basement, and the gallery itself was shut down for a couple months. This broke my heart but I complied to leave with a promise that I’d have a studio in the future if I hung around and helped with renovations and volunteerism. It was around the time the Urban Camping Ordinance came into play and for a year now I’ve been living out of a shopping cart and couch surfing.  

Over the past year I've been struggling with one thought on a daily basis...why am I homeless? I could get a job but I am disabled physically to a certain degree..and I have anxiety issues, PTSD, and manic depressive disorder. All of these make it difficult to be around crowds and have a normal life style. I take medication but is this an excuse to not re-enter society? 

I am very blessed to have a place to make art and have a small refuge from the boredom and stress of street life.. but every evening I must return to the streets. I feel like I live a double life, a very strange one. Since the camping ordinance, I have found it difficult to find a place to lay my head at night--either for reasons of avoiding people that want to hurt me or finding a space that is quiet and free from harassment. But I still ask myself everyday....why am I homeless? 

Quite honestly, in homelessness I find some freedom from the shackles of mundane life:  go to school, throw yourself into debt, work at a job you hate, be a slave to mass consumerism, get married, throw yourself further into debt, buy a house, have kids..blah, blah, blah. I’ve been there and I don’t want that lifestyle anymore…although I will always be open to the idea of the man of my dreams sweeping me off my feet and helping me get off the streets.