On a single night in January 2022, 582,462 people were experiencing homelessness in the United States. Sixty percent were staying in locations like emergency shelters or in accommodations provided by transitional housing programs, and 40 percent were living on the street or somewhere similar, according to an annual U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development report. (The pandemic impacted the accuracy of homelessness data collection in 2021, however, and the number of people without a home is likely far higher.) Meanwhile, across the country, many housing advocates and government officials are embracing a practical short-term solution to the homelessness crisis: the rapid construction of tiny-home villages—some with upward of 50 units, others with just 10 tiny homes, or pods. The hope is that with access to a personal, lockable shelter and some essential services (laundry and showers, as well as housing and employment assistance programs), unsheltered people will be able to find permanent, affordable housing quicker than if they were still fending for themselves on the streets.

In Oregon, one of the states at the forefront of the country’s homelessness crisis, cities like Portland and Salem have already invested in tiny-home communities. The City of Portland alone has contracted with five different tiny-house makers to develop six new Safe Rest Villages using American Rescue Plan Act funds. Tiny-home villages, which have appeared in states from Oregon, Washington, and California to Texas, Michigan, and Massachusetts, have gotten a fair amount of press for their ability to be a part of the emergency response to the crisis. We spoke to three residents of micro-shelter communities in Oregon to get a sense of what the tiny homes are actually like to live in and how the alternative-housing villages function.

Renee Dorie, 58

Menlo Park Safe Rest Village in Southeast Portland

Renee Dorie was the first person to move into this Safe Rest Village, which opened in late 2022. Operated by local nonprofit Cultivate Initiatives, it features 55 pods (49 are housing shelters; the remainder are used for staff offices, health services, case management, and more). After a 2019 fire destroyed her Portland home, Dorie was unhoused for three years, living in a trailer, then her car. Last year, while participating in Cultivate Initiatives’ paid workforce development program, she applied for a host role at the nonprofit’s new Menlo Park Safe Rest Village—and got it. Now, she works as a host at the village, cleaning the common areas and being a point person for other residents. She lives in a 150-square-foot pod with a covered front porch, made by local manufacturer Stanley Tiny Homes.

I’m very grateful for my little house. It’s comfy. I came with my boyfriend. We got two separate pods in case we ever broke up, so neither one of us would have to go back on the streets. We put our two beds together [in one of the pods], so it’s like I have a big king-size bed. It’s wonderful! And then I have my TV on top of the dresser. We use the other pod for storage.

It’s very, very warm. The heater is a Pioneer ductless split; it turns to AC in the summer. You use a remote control to turn it up or down. I always have mine too high. [Laughs.] It warms up real quick!

There’s a kitchenette, which closes at 10:00 p.m., with a fridge and microwaves and hot plates that we can sign out. Breakfast is served every day at 8:00 a.m. and dinner anywhere from 4:30 to 5:30 p.m. We also have a minifridge in our houses for drinks, lunch meat for a sandwich, or something to throw together. They supply the bowls, plates, cups, and silverware. There are restrooms up there [on the opposite side of the village] with the showers. We have a couple Porta Potties at the other end. We have two washers and two dryers on-site, too.

As host, my job includes cleaning the restrooms, showers, and kitchen—just taking care of the village and getting to know all the neighbors. If there’s anything I can do to help them, whatever resources they need. If they wanna just talk. I’m a talker! I talk, talk, talk with them all the time and mingle throughout my shift. It’s pretty laid-back, really. It’s a nice job. We’re starting to get some entertainment going. We have a suggestion box where people can put in what they want to do—painting, a jewelry class. I wanna do horseback riding!

We can come and go as we please—we just have to sign in and out at the security pod. There should be no drugs or alcohol on-site. We can’t know what everyone brings—if we don’t see it, we don’t know, but our policy is that we’re drug-free. If I see that someone is using or drinking, I tell them, “Hey, maybe you need to go take a nap?” As long as they are not starting problems for other people or staff. We’re here to support them and try to help them as much as we can. We can only do so much. If they want to get clean, we help them get to treatment centers and encourage them. Our peer-support specialists or case managers can help them with getting to appointments.

I’m a recovering addict. I’ve been there, done that. My goal is to leave here and have a house and still be working. I’ve got my name on some places with [local nonprofit housing authority] Home Forward. I might be too picky, but I want a house. I still wanna go to school and study to be a peer-support specialist. So I am in the process of getting on the list for the next class with an organization like Mental Health and Addiction Association of Oregon. I’m a people person. I love to help.

I don’t have a problem with our no-guest policy. Well, only when it comes to my grandkids. My daughter came to the parking lot the other day and my grandkids came running and they wanted to come in: “Grandma, I wanna see where you live!” I explained to them that I can’t. I struggled with that. It’s hard explaining it to my grandkids.

Stacy Hunt, 56

Village of Hope in Salem, Oregon

Stacy Hunt’s long stretch of housing insecurity started in 1995. When the Georgia native took a good friend who was unhoused into his North Salem apartment, that friend invited lots of other people over, and eventually Hunt’s landlord kicked him out—even while he had a stable job at a food-processing facility. He moved back in with his mom at her home of roughly two decades, but in 2015, a stroke left her paralyzed and she moved to Tacoma to live with Hunt’s brother. Then, in 2018, Hunt received a foreclosure notice on the house. The owner gave him two months to pack everything and move out. After a few years living under a bridge and in city parks, Hunt met an outreach worker from Church at the Park who encouraged him to apply for a tiny house last summer at the Salem organization’s 40-pod micro-shelter community, Village of Hope. His 72-square-foot unit is made by local manufacturer Cozy Homes.

Let me tell you the bad stuff first: The pods are really small, and it’s not enough space for two people. We have to have a roommate. It’s so tiny—and people have stuff! It’s crowded and there are tensions. The last roommate I didn’t like too well. He called me every dirty name in the book. I talked to the staff. If I was to hit him, then I’d be kicked out. I didn’t wanna do that. They talked to him, so I went back in. And then he starts throwing things at me! I have a different roommate now. We get along much better.

I also have a girlfriend who lives here. I’ve known her since I was living at Cascades Gateway Park [a Salem park where the city once sanctioned homeless camping]. She has a dog that loves me to death. Me and her want to move in together, but to be in the same pod, we would’ve had to sign up together. They say the rules are you can’t be in each other’s pods. I can understand not allowing people in from the outside. But when I’m in a relationship...we might want to sit down and watch TV or a movie, you know? Nope, nope, can’t do that.

“The good part is being out of the cold and not having to worry about a tent. But the bad thing is having two people in a small area. If they could get more of the micro-shelters, it’d be great!”
—Stacy Hunt, resident at Village of Hope

Other than that, my pod is nice and warm. Sometimes it be so hot I have to go out and get some fresh air. We got little space heaters—boy, they put out some heat. In the summer, we had this big old air conditioner. I’d pick these over a tent any day.

I like this location. We’re not too far from downtown. Also, we’re on the bus line. We can go in and out whenever we want. But if we want to go to, say, the coast, we’ll let them know how long we’re gonna go and be back. If you don’t call in, you get kicked out. We can’t use alcohol or drugs. We’ve got a designated smoking area.

We get dinner seven days a week. Sometimes people donate food, too. There are two pods out there [in the parking lot]. One is for storage for extra stuff; the other is for clothing. There’s also one with a shower and another that’s a laundry room.

Everybody loves me here! I’m like a celebrity. They say, “Hey, Stacy, how ya doin’?!” I told the staff, “Anybody disrespects you here, you better hold me back!” These people come out of their way to help you, and you get off the streets and are going to sit here and disrespect them?

James Brown, 49

Beacon Village in Northeast Portland

Born and raised in Portland, James Brown moved to Washington, D.C., in the late 1990s with his then girlfriend and became executive chef at a seafood restaurant. After the relationship ended, he moved back to Portland and lived off money he’d saved, which he says largely funded heavy drinking. Eventually, he was kicked out of his rental. Brown couch-surfed for a while before he began living on the streets in 2001. When Beacon PDX, a homeless services entity, opened a 10-unit tiny-house village in Northeast Portland in November 2021, Brown was one of the first in line for an insulated Pallet shelter, which has heat, air-conditioning, and two Murphy bed–style sleeping bunks that fold down from the walls. Brown now helps prepare Beacon Village’s daily free lunches for unhoused individuals, served at a Southeast Portland church.

I’ve been here since it opened—Thanksgiving 2021. The Pallet shelters you see downtown are half the size of the ones we have; ours are 14 feet wide by 7 feet deep. They’re nice—they have heat and air-conditioning. There are a lot of gaps, though. They call it ventilation, but it’s just a way for air and spiders to get in.

My next-door neighbor puts her milk under her bed because it stays cold enough under there. [Laughs.] I don’t have my beds down, but when you’re on those it’s fine. As soon as you get your feet on the ground it’s cold. The door has a quarter-inch gap below it. Everyone got one of those pool noodles—you tape it on and it keeps the gap closed. [My door] faces east, so when an east wind comes in, boy oh boy. The walls are an inch and a half thick. They’re thermal set plastic but have a foam core. It’s just the gaps that kill you. I took some of that foaming stuff and put it all over the place. It’s fine now.

When it first rained, the roof would leak, but the people at Pallet came by and fixed it. They tightened a few bolts. Mine got worse. The second time they took off the whole top and put a new one on.

There are just 10 units here. I pretty much knew everybody when they moved in [from Hard Times Supper or living in an area park]. So there’s no surprises there. We’ve had some problems, but those people are gone. The rule is, keep sober if you can. If you’re not, don’t go crazy. Whatever it is, keep it in your cabin. Other than that, just don’t be foolish. When you came in, you signed a contract. Honor that. Don’t steal, don’t fight, don’t cuss, don’t bring guns—essentially, don’t do drugs, but if people want to do them, they’re gonna. The ones who caused a problem got booted out.

When the staff leaves, you can’t have guests. I think it’s a silly rule. I mean, we’re grown-ups! We’re only open until 3:00 p.m. on Saturday. And we’re not open at all on Sunday, so we’re not supposed to have guests.

But that’s the thing: Some people had guests who’d be out and about and looking around units—shady shit. When we moved in, that’s the one thing we all said: “No thieves!” We were so sick and tired of people stealing shit out of our tents. That’s the best part about living here. I like the people. You can trust them. I can leave my door open if I want. No one is rifling through my stuff.

Here at the village, we all have weekly chores. This week, mine is showers—clean the showers and washer pods. It’s not paid, but if people didn’t do their chores things would go to hell. If you don’t do your chores, guess what happens. You lose some hours [of your job]. I work making lunches five days a week.

We can make our own food in the communal kitchen in the basement of the church. We all pretty much have food stamps. We also have a tent outside with a fridge where we can store food, but we have minifridges in our places.

There are Thursday group dinners. If you want to cook, the staff will take you shopping to buy food. You cook for everybody. My neighbor Steve did one last week. He made breaded pork chops. I was very impressed. I didn’t know he could cook!

I signed up for a couple of apartments. One is near where I went to high school. That one is really nice: It has marble counters, things like that. A washer/dryer in the unit. I was like, “What?”

—

Head back to the March/April 2023 issue homepage