Tallying the homeless

Volunteers also glean stories of heartbreak behind the statistics

By MICHAEL R. SHEA
BEE STAFF WRITER

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A woman paces outside the King-Kennedy Memorial Center on Modesto's west side clutching a pack of Sonoma cigarettes and a box of Country Choice crackers.

When Anne Robin and Jim Riley see her, they know she is homeless. The dull, expressionless eyes, aimless pace, oily hair, the cracker crumbs and cigarette butts — they're all dead giveaways.

Robin parks her Subaru and slowly walks over to the woman. Riley keeps his distance in order not to spook her, but from 50 yards away he can still see the woman embrace Robin and burst into tears. Robin and the woman, Cornelia, knew each other seven years ago. For Cornelia, it's been a long seven years.

"I don't want to hurt myself anymore," Cornelia sobs into Robin's arms. "I don't want to."

Cornelia throws a glass crack pipe and it shatters on the pavement. She throws a razor blade and pulls up her sleeve. Her wrist is covered in scars and open cuts — deep red lines scabbed over and swollen.

"I don't want to hurt myself," Cornelia says again.

"You've been cutting?" Robin asks.

"I've been cutting, yeah," she says. "I need meds. I need meds. I really need meds. That medicine (crack) is no good for me."

"Do you think you need rehab to get off the crack?" Robin asks.

"I was trying. I was trying," Cornelia sobs. "They told me I don't qualify. I'm tired of not qualifying. I'm so sick of it. Sick! I'm tired of not qualifying."

Riley carefully picks up the razor blade and throws it in a trash can.

Robin and Riley, who work at the Stanislaus Homeless Outreach Program, or SHOP, were among the 90 volunteers counting homeless people across the county Friday. The one-day street count, a requirement for federal funding, happens every two years.

Six mobile teams — including Robin and Riley — checked out riverbanks and reservoirs while 20 collection sites were set up at shelters, soup kitchens, recycling centers and other homeless hot spots.

People they found were asked 25 questions ranging from "What was the last city you lived in before you became homeless?" to "Where will you sleep tonight?" in hopes of helping service providers better understand the homeless population.

Robin has been an administrator with SHOP for six years, after almost 15 years in the mental health field in San Diego; Riley has been a team leader for six years after 10 years in drug and alcohol prevention and mental health with Merced County and 20 years as a drug and alcohol counselor in the Air Force. He also teaches at Merced College.

SHOP is on the front lines of homelessness. Funded by Proposition 63, the Mental Health Services Act, the program has taken 300 people with severe and chronic mental illness and returned them to the mainstream. But Gov. Schwarzenegger's proposed budget threatens cuts to the mental health act, which essentially taxes the ultrarich to pay for services such as SHOP.

SHOP has teams of outreach workers who look for homeless with chronic and severe mental illnesses every day. Robin and Riley, for the most part, are office-bound, but Friday, because of the homeless count, nearly every county service provider was volunteering. By 6:30 a.m., Robin and Riley were walking through Legion Park, along the Tuolumne River, weaving down overgrown trails and checking public bathrooms.

"Anyone home? Homeless count," Robin says into a dense thicket of wild blackberry bushes.

"Hello, Hello," Riley says. "Anybody home? Homeless count."

The pair duck beneath a low-hanging branch down a well-worn path. Plastic bags and old newspapers litter the ground. Cardboard and old blankets are laid out in the little clearing.