Homeless Man's Death Revives Supportive Housing Argument
By Betsy Tranquilli, Record-Journal Staff

MERIDEN — In 1995, the St. Vincent DePaul Society set out to provide a long-term solution to homelessness in the city by proposing 24 units of supportive and affordable housing units in an abandoned factory on Randolph Avenue.

The project was met with fierce opposition from neighbors and politicians, claiming the housing plan would threaten the safety of the neighborhood and lower property values.

Despite the vocal objections, the State Bond Commission approved $1.5 million for the conversion of the factory to affordable and supportive housing units. Two days later, an arsonist destroyed the building and any hopes for a large-scale supportive housing project in the city. It was the second such property owned by the St. Vincent DePaul Society burned by an arsonist in a year.

Fast-forward almost a decade. After being turned away repeatedly from hospitals and shelters, the chronically homeless, alcohol-dependent Thomas Knapp, 64, laid in a bed of snow against the former Canberra building to sleep. He didn't make it through that sub-freezing night.

For those working in the housing and homeless networks in the state, like Meriden resident Jeffrey Freiser, Knapp's death brought back memories of the 1995 lost battle for supportive housing in Meriden. It also presented an opportunity to renew the concept of supportive housing as a solution to helping homeless like Knapp, not only in Meriden, but throughout the state.

"I think it's one of the few answers we do have to ending homelessness," said Freiser, executive director of the Connecticut Housing Coalition.

Supportive housing is affordable housing combined with on-site or visiting support and employment services. The units are meant to help chronically homeless, low-income, substance-abusing people and those living in violent situations to secure a safe home and integrate back into society. People living in supportive housing pay a subsidized rent for their apartments and get more consistent access to medical care and social services.

"It's not rocket science, but it is so good," said Betsy Cronin, director of supportive housing for the nonprofit group The Connection, Inc., which oversees supportive housing units in the state, including in Meriden, Wallingford and Middletown. "We can really offer permanent and stable places that provide intensive, home-based treatment, schooling, and counseling that families need to move forward."

For example, The Connection's supportive housing case worker Stacie Goldiamond will meet weekly, and sometimes daily, with clients at their unit, act as a liaison with landlords to mediate problems, and work with the greater community to secure services and programs for clients.

"I think it's the best thing to have someone like a case manager work with people year-round to focus on their issues," Goldiamond said in an interview at her office in Middletown. "A lot of clients become homeless because they didn't have these resources. …I tell my clients that this is a team effort. This is their journey, I'm just a passenger telling them to look out for potholes."

It is estimated that over 32,000 people are homeless over the course of the year in the state, and 40 percent of those individuals are children, according to the Corporation for Supportive Housing. Connecticut is one of the leaders nationally in providing supportive housing units, with about 2,200 units in the state. Most of those units are in single apartments scattered through cities and towns, while 281 units are housed in nine large developments in cities like Hartford, New Haven, Stamford, Bridgeport and Middletown. Meriden has several single supportive housing units scattered throughout the city, but is still lagging behind the statewide movement, Freiser said.

"It used to be that ‘nimby' referred to the suburbs," Freiser said, using the popular acronym for the phrase "not in my backyard." "Now it's become a reference used in the city as well."

Housing advocates will tell you that opposition to supportive housing projects from neighborhoods and elected officials like what was encountered in Meriden 10 years ago is still a common occurrence. But for Meriden neighborhood activist David Swedock, it isn't necessarily opposition to services for the poor, but rather a fight to have a say in who comes in and out of their neighborhoods.

"Personally, I'm not in favor of a recovery house being introduced into the neighborhood before the residents have had a chance to voice our opinion," Swedock said. "We'd like to have control over our neighborhoods. Our biggest concern is these types of uses invite undesirable elements, like drug dealing. And we don't want drug dealing."

This common perception of supportive housing leaves housing advocates with the task of not only eradicating homelessness, but educating communities about the benefits of having supportive housing units in their neighborhood, according to Janice Elliott, director of the non-profit Corporation for Supportive Housing. Neighborhood outreach has become a central component to a statewide campaign called "Reaching Home," which aims to produce 10,000 supportive housing apartments in the state over the next 10 years. "People have a lot of questions and misconceptions about supportive housing coming to their city or neighborhood," Elliott said. "Supportive housing is actually a real asset to any community."

For instance, when Liberty Commons opened in the old Arriwani Hotel in Middletown, property values nearly doubled, Elliott said.

Former Gov. John Rowland gave a boost to the initiative last April when he created an interagency council to create a plan to develop 1,000 supportive housing units in the state in the next year. But just like Meriden in 1995, housing proponents know they face a fight with residents and local officials each time an expansive supportive housing project is proposed.

The best defense to opposition, according to housing proponents, is the success stories of people who live in supportive housing units. The "Reaching Home" campaign recently released a video narrated by UConn men's basketball coach Jim Calhoun highlighting the plight of the homeless. The video also presented success stories of supportive housing tenants, including a Meriden woman who overcame drug addiction, homelessness and domestic violence and through supportive housing was able to find work, pay rent and earn back custody of her daughter.

There was also the story of 46-year-old Curtis Singleton. Since 1999, Singleton has been living in one of 25 efficiency apartments in Cedar Hill, a supportive housing project in New Haven. Each month, he pays his rent from money earned as the maintenance man for the building. He sees his children regularly and recently became a proud grandfather. He cooks his dinner every night in his own kitchen with his own refrigerator, showers in his own large bathroom, watches Divorce Court on his own television during the afternoon and hangs pictures of his family on the wall over his bed.

These may seem like mundane things, but it is a far cry from where Singleton was before he landed at Cedar Hill. Like Knapp, for he battled addiction, leaving him to bounce from hospitals, shelters, detox centers and many nights sleeping in abandoned buildings and washing up in gas station bathrooms. He was near death from heart disease and AIDS and hardly ever saw doctors or took his medications.

"Curtis is one of the ones that probably would be dead right now if he was still out on the street," according to Emily Robinson, the service coordinator at Cedar Hill. "We try to teach people that if you do good things, good things happen."

And good things have happened for Singleton. All he needed was a chance, he said. He got that chance after entering another detox program in 1999 and was set up with the opportunity to live at Cedar Hill. Five years later, Singleton's HIV has gone from near full-blown AIDS to almost undetectable. He works, sees a doctor regularly, reconnected with his family and most importantly, has the keys to his own place.

"I don't want to lose my keys," Singleton said. "I know now that it's hard to find a place to live, but it's easy to lose it. I don't want that life no more. I'm too old. That's no kind of life."

Back