Progress, Not Presto-Chango

IN MY VIEW - 

If We Want People Off the Streets, We Have to Give Them Somewhere to Go.

I was about five years old, walking through Chicago's Loop with my father at Christmastime, when I spotted a man sleeping in a doorway. I remember being horrified that someone was lying there while shoppers hurried past.

“Daddy, Daddy, look! He needs help!” I cried.

My father took my hand and hurried me along. “Come on, come on. Let's go. Keep going.”

I don't remember where we were going that day, but I've never forgotten that man. Even as a little girl, I couldn't understand why we were leaving him there.

More than sixty years later, I still see people we hurry past. Only now, some are sleeping in cars, moving between transit parking lots and Walmart parking lots, hoping no one notices them. Some are older adults who worked their entire lives, raised families, paid taxes, and expected their golden years to look very different.

And I still find myself asking the same question I asked my father all those years ago.

Can't we help them?

The answer, of course, is that we can. And sometimes we do.

Which brings me to Mayor Karen Bass.

Can we give her some damn credit?

According to the Mayor's Office, her Inside Safe initiative had brought more than 6,200 people off the streets and indoors by early October 2026. A City report issued in May documented more than 1,400 people who had moved into permanent housing through the program as of February.

And yes, yes, I know. There have been bumps in the road. Some placements haven't worked out, mistakes have been made, and not everyone who came indoors has remained housed. But when you're traveling a road that hasn't been traveled before, you cannot possibly anticipate every pothole, every detour, or every obstacle waiting around the next bend.

Homelessness isn't going to disappear with the wave of a magic wand, all in one fell swoop. It's progress, not presto-chango. We have to chip away at this crisis, one person, one family, and one workable solution at a time, building on what succeeds and learning from what doesn't.

Every person who finds a safe place to sleep matters. Every person who makes the transition into permanent housing matters. And every successful effort gives us something to build upon.

The Golden Years, in a Parking Lot

Imagine working your entire life, raising a family, paying your taxes, and looking forward to the golden years you've been promised, only to discover that retirement means searching for a parking lot where you can sleep in your car without being noticed.

It's called stealth camping, although there's nothing remotely recreational about it. For someone living in a car, a dead battery, a failed transmission, or an unexpected towing bill can mean losing the last shelter they have.

And this is no isolated tragedy.

According to Los Angeles homeless count figures, the number of people 65 and older experiencing homelessness in the city climbed from approximately 3,427 in 2023 to 4,680 in 2025—an increase of nearly 37% in just two years.

Statewide, the California Commission on Aging reports that the number of adults over 65 accessing homelessness services increased by more than 166% between 2017 and 2022.

Think about that. People who should be enjoying retirement are instead worrying about where they can safely park their cars, whether they can afford their next meal, and what will happen when their health begins to fail.

These aren't simply statistics. They're parents, grandparents, retired workers, and neighbors whose lives took an unexpected turn.

And if we're serious about addressing homelessness, we must start asking not only how to get people off the streets, but how to keep them from ending up there in the first place.

An Ounce of Prevention

An elderly widow facing foreclosure may need temporary financial assistance, not a homeless shelter. A family devastated by medical bills may need emergency rental support.

We should measure success not only by how many people we move off the streets, but by how many never end up there.

The Man Beneath the Overpass

Some years ago, I met Danny Mancini, a man in his early forties living beneath a highway overpass in Granada Hills with his little Chihuahua.

I brought him food, money, and dog supplies. Eventually, he told me about growing up on Ludlow Street and spending much of his life in juvenile detention and prison.

Did he want to get off the street? Yes.

His brother's name was Henry Mancini. Finding him took three and a half weeks, thanks largely to search results dominated by the famous composer. The circuitous route could fill a novel the size of War and Peace, so I won't belabor you with the details.

But I found him.

Henry hadn't seen Danny in more than ten years. Already caring for another adult brother with Down syndrome, he nevertheless welcomed Danny home. Remarkably, Henry also had a Chihuahua.

I felt as though I had won the lottery.

Two days later, Danny rode down my street on a bicycle, his Chihuahua in the basket.

He was homeless again.

Henry had done something extraordinarily generous. But Danny needed a different living arrangement and professional support that Henry could not reasonably provide.

Finding someone a roof and providing the support necessary to remain beneath it are two very different things.

We should approach homelessness much as we approach eldercare. Some people can live independently, others need occasional assistance, some require supervised residential care, and still others need intensive, long-term support. We recognize these differences when caring for older adults. Why should homelessness be any different?

And then there's our rather ass-backward, parochial insistence that people must first get clean and sober, complete treatment, or even give up their pets before they're allowed through the door.

Not every American program imposes these restrictions, but where they exist, they can defeat the very purpose of helping people escape homelessness.

Expecting someone to overcome addiction, stabilize their mental health, and surrender their only companion while continuing to live on the street is a master class in futility and stupidity, all in one.

Finland's Housing First approach reverses that thinking: provide stable housing, then help people address their problems. Surely that's preferable to leaving someone struggling with addiction on a sidewalk a block from an elementary school.

Danny eventually disappeared. I never learned what became of him. But I've often wondered whether the right kind of support might have changed his future.

A Town That Opened Its Doors

For roughly 750 years, families in Geel, Belgium, have welcomed adults with psychiatric conditions into their homes, a tradition associated with Saint Dymphna and recognized by UNESCO.

What moves me most is that this extraordinary arrangement sometimes continues across generations. When host parents grow old or die, their adult children may voluntarily continue caring for someone who has become part of their family.

Imagine growing up alongside someone unrelated to you by blood, then choosing to continue that relationship when your parents no longer can.

That's more than shelter. That's belonging.

Geel primarily serves adults with psychiatric conditions, not homeless people, and its model includes professional oversight. But its philosophy offers Los Angeles something worth considering: a home, human connection, and appropriate support can work together.

The United Kingdom's Shared Lives programs also place adults needing assistance with approved, trained, compensated caregivers.

A Hundred Open Doors

Los Angeles already has organizations matching people needing housing with homeowners who have spare rooms. But a bedroom someone cannot afford is hardly a solution.

I'm proposing a publicly funded adult foster-home pilot, initially serving 100 older adults and newly homeless people priced out of housing.

Pay the host with public funds, not with the guest's meager Social Security check.

If someone receives $800 a month in benefits, they need that money for food, medication, clothing, and the ordinary necessities of living. Taking most of it for rent simply transfers their poverty to another address.

Government should provide meaningful stipends directly to screened, trained hosts, with professional oversight and additional services where needed. Able-bodied guests could voluntarily contribute reasonable household chores, with safeguards against exploitation.

Some participants might need little more than companionship and a stable bedroom. Others would need professional visits or more structured care. That's why screening and individualized placements matter.

Use existing homes and adapt established adult foster-care practices. Measure safety, stability, costs, and quality of life. If the pilot works, expand it.

We're already spending enormous sums responding to homelessness. Why not invest some of those resources in giving people somewhere safe to belong?

Opening More Than Doors

I have no doubt that by the time readers reach the end of this article, some will have thought of a billion reasons why this couldn't possibly work in Los Angeles. Liability concerns, regulations, screening requirements, administrative challenges, and, of course, the inevitable question of who would pay for it.

Those are legitimate questions, and they deserve serious answers. But surely we can devote some of the ingenuity and resources we've committed to managing homelessness toward preventing it and finding more humane ways to address it.

Because while we debate the obstacles, older adults are sleeping in parking lots, people who worked their entire lives are losing their homes, and vulnerable human beings are spending their nights on sidewalks.

A one-size-fits-all approach will never solve homelessness. There are simply too many individual circumstances, too many different needs, and too many levels of care required. What works for one person may fail miserably for another. The answer isn't one perfect solution, but a willingness to embrace many different approaches, recognizing that every person we help is a step in the right direction.

We call ourselves the City of Angels, after all. Maybe it's time we opened our hearts—and a few doors.

(Eva Amar is a West San Fernando Valley community organizer, contributor to CityWatch Los Angeles, and National Sexual Assault Victims Advocate. [email protected])