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Michigan homeless camp crackdowns leave some ‘just trying to survive'

Michigan homeless camp crackdowns leave some ‘just trying to survive'

LANSING, Mich. (AP) — The radio is silent in Greg Pratt's van, but that doesn't mean it's quiet as dozens of styrofoam containers filled with food squeal loudly from the trunk with each bump and turn.
A former Marine, stay-at-home dad and Lansing resident, Pratt spends at least one night a week canvassing the city looking for homeless encampments to deliver meals to. How he delivers, and how often he goes out, is dictated by a mixture of available donations and the weather.
'Our biggest problem right now is, they're going so far back in the woods, that nobody goes back' to help, said Pratt, who's been doing outreach in the area for the last five years.
Lansing is among a growing number of local governments in Michigan and the country that are cracking down on homeless encampments, which Pratt contends has pushed some of the area's most needy further into the trees.
The city is suing two businesses for 'allowing' a homeless camp to expand on their property despite safety concerns, and it's ticketing people for sleeping in public parks, including a pregnant woman two weeks ago.
The US Supreme Court last year ruled that cities can issue citations to homeless people for 'public camping' even if there are no shelter beds available. Last month, President Donald Trump went further with an executive order calling for the forced institutionalization of homeless people deemed 'a risk to themselves or others.'
States that don't comply with the order could lose federal housing funds. White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt said the order is a way to remove ' vagrant criminals from our streets.'
Homeless advocates like Pratt say large-scale institutionalization is not feasible in a state like Michigan, which already has a psychiatric bed shortage. Ticketing people effectively for being homeless can add additional monetary and legal hurdles to obtaining housing, they say.
But cities attempting to keep order and serve constituents wary of visible homeless camps have been taking more aggressive steps.
Officials in Anchorage, Alaska, cleared two of the city's largest encampments this summer, dispersing an estimated 100 people. In Bend, Oregon, officials recently undertook what one area advocacy group called the ' largest eviction of a homeless camp in recent history.'
In Michigan, debate over homeless services and institutionalization has intensified in recent weeks after a homeless man stabbed 11 people at a Walmart in Traverse City. His brother says he suffered from mental illness but ' fell through the cracks ' for decades.
Traverse City had dispersed a large encampment, known as The Pines, in May. Reviews are mixed on whether it was the best approach. Even with the city expanding shelter availability, it has not kept everyone off the streets.
'The net positive or the net negative is something that we'll ultimately have to measure over years,' said Mitchell Treadwell, a Democrat and Traverse City City Commissioner.
While forced closure of The Pines was difficult to see on a personal level, Treadwell said, he hopes the commission's recent vote to fund a part-time shelter year-round will better serve the area's homeless population.
Creating encampments
Nick Cook, policy director for the Michigan Coalition Against Homelessness, frequently accompanies Pratt on his rounds of encampments in Lansing.
Together, he and Pratt pair make up the community advocacy group Michigan Helping Others with Purpose and Empathy, or Michigan HOPE. Pratt serves as president.
There's no real way to know how many encampments exist in the city on any given night, Cook said, but there are a slew of reasons why a person may choose to camp rather than seek out a homeless shelter.
Want to sleep? Bed availability isn't guaranteed. Married but don't have kids? Can't stay at the same place. Struggling with addiction or poor mental health? You could get banned from local shelters, Cook said.
Homeless encampments have long existed but the COVID-19 pandemic strained alternative systems: Some shelters were forced to further limit bedspace or close altogether, according to a 2023 report from the National Alliance to End Homelessness.
The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at one point urged states not to break up encampments during the pandemic unless shelter space was immediately available.
About 33,226 Michiganders experienced homelessness in 2023, the most recent year for which statewide data is available. That was an increase of about 2%, or 521 individuals, from 2022, and an even larger jump from 2020, when the state reported 30,746 people experiencing homelessness. A record high 653,105 people additionally experienced homelessness on a single night in January 2023 according to national data from the National Alliance to End Homelessness — a 12.1% increase from the year prior.
In Michigan, it's difficult to track down how many homeless individuals have received tickets or citations due, in part or full, to a lack of permanent housing.
An official with the Michigan State Court Administrative Office told Bridge Michigan earlier this week that citations given to homeless residents is not something the agency 'currently keeps track of' and wasn't certain whether it would be 'on the radar' in the near future.
While most cities do first warn homeless residents prior to ticketing, homeless response advocate Clint Brugger says some ordinances are written in a way that it effectively only applies to unhoused people.
Kalamazoo has a ban on sleeping or using bedding in public parks. Grand Rapids approved fines for panhandling near an ATM or for storing personal items on public property. Brugger's own Hillsdale even banned public camping in 2023 in an effort to address concerns about homelessness.
People don't think about the aftermath of ticketing, he said, because they want to believe it ultimately serves to get a homeless person off the streets.
'But if you give them a citation, that's just one more barrier that they have to pay for in the process of them trying to become housed,' said Brugger, director of Training and Outreach at Community Action Agency in Jackson, Lenawee and Hillsdale Counties.
To think the state has the bed space to institutionalize people for being homeless, he added, is laughable.
'There's been no help'
While the state may not keep track of citations given specifically to homeless people, they are happening.
In Lansing, 41-year-old Crystal White was issued an $130 citation on July 31 for being in a closed park after 10 pm 'or posted time.' She's one of 26 people who've received such a citation since July 1, 2024, according to the Lansing Police Department.
White — who is homeless, six months pregnant and goes by the street name 'Pixie Dust' — told Bridge she lives near Lansing's Maguire Park with a handful of others she calls her family.
The way she tells it, White received a hotel voucher last month to get off the street for a few nights but ended her stay prematurely due to perceived mistreatment and guilt. She returned to Maguire Park where, around 3 am, a police officer woke her and told her she couldn't sleep under the pavilion.
From there, White said she had a choice: Either move her sleeping bag out of the park and onto the sidewalk, where it was raining, or remain where she was at and get a ticket. She chose the latter.
A spokesperson with the Lansing Police Department confirmed the interaction, telling Bridge in a statement that an officer had been out to Maguire Park before the 3 am ticketing to tell those at the pavilion they 'needed to pack up and leave, as the park was closing.'
'I can tell you that we don't take these matters lightly and we do provide significant resources and assistance before the written notice and a final order to leave and clean-up is enacted,' Scott Bean, communications director for the city of Lansing, said in a statement to Bridge late Wednesday.
'These make-shift sites do not offer safe or sanitary conditions as there are no toilets, running water, trash collection… thereby posing a public health risk in our parks.'
White said she doesn't know what to do next but doesn't plan to pay the ticket, noting that the city provides animal waste bags at dog parks but won't let homeless humans sleep nearby.
'I'm just out here trying to sleep and trying to find a place to go,' said White, who is due to deliver a baby girl this November. 'There's been no help, no matter how hard I try.'
A delicate balance
While 'everyone's well intended' in thinking of ways to keep people from living on the streets, Northwest Michigan Coalition to End Homelessness Director Ashley Halladay-Schmandt said a proven way already exists — housing first.
The approach is simple: Put a person into some level of permanent, supportive housing as they work to address any mental or behavioral health problems, rather than offer housing as a conditional reward in the process.
It's been a 'proven, effective way to address homelessness for a very long time,' said Halladay-Schmandt, noting it's overall cheaper for a community to house a person than incarcerate them. Which is why, she said, the president's order openly calling to end 'support for 'housing first' policies' concerns her.
'I'm just confused and baffled about what this means for us and the folks we serve,' said Halladay-Schmandt, whose organization works in five northern Michigan counties — including in Grand Traverse County, where The Pines encampment once stood.
Michigan is making stridestoward addressing a lack of affordable, permanent housing, but the effort is a marathon, not a sprint. Many planned developments are focused on addressing housing stock for mid- to low-income earners, but not necessarily very low income earners like homeless individuals.
As of May, the State Housing Development Authority estimated Michigan was short about 119,000 housing units. An official told Bridge the authority is awaiting further guidance from federal partners on 'how they plan to implement' Trump's July executive order for forced institutionalization of homeless individuals deemed 'a risk.'
Pratt, Michigan HOPE's president, said it scares him to think about what it could mean if the state turns away from housing first and toward incarceration or institutionalization — even if it seems like some cities are reluctant to do so.
In the meantime, he and Cook plan to keep delivering food to homeless people in Lansing.
'A lot of them are just trying to survive until the next day,' Cook said. 'Some of them know their demons and are trying to overcome them. … Any of us could be there someday.'
___
This story was originally published by Bridge Michigan and distributed through a partnership with The Associated Press.
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Bobby believed conservatives and moderates alike might "fall for that God and country stuff." Given his druthers, Kennedy would have chosen Goldwater as his Republican challenger. The preeminent conservative of the day, the senator from Arizona was seen by many, including moderates in his own party, to be an extremist who lacked the temperament to be president in the nuclear age. The impression was reinforced by statements that were considered outrageous by the standards of the early-1960s, including Goldwater's suggestion to drop "a low-yield atomic bomb on the Chinese supply lines in Vietnam," and, rather than sending a space craft to the moon, lobbing "one into the men's room of the Kremlin." They helped to explain a March 1963 poll that had Kennedy winning over Goldwater by a margin of 67 to 27 percent, with 74 percent expecting that Kennedy would be reelected. For Kennedy, a face-off with Goldwater would have been too good to be true. 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When Charlie Bartlett brought up the rumor during a skinny-dip in the White House pool, Kennedy impatiently snapped, "Why would I do a thing like that? That would be absolutely crazy. It would tear up the relationship and hurt me in Texas. That would be the most foolish thing I could do." Indeed, Texas was on Kennedy's mind in November as the White House planned a two-day, five-city presidential visit throughout the state the week before Thanksgiving. Conventional wisdom has it that Kennedy wanted the trip to mend political fences. As civil rights had come to the fore, heavily Democratic Texas had experienced a split in the party ranks, with Texas governor John Connally heading up the conservative wing and the liberal faction led up by Senator Ralph Yarborough. Though Yarborough's progressivism was closely aligned with Johnson's, they, too, had a fractious relationship due to the vice president's association with Connally, a close friend and former aide. The story goes that Kennedy had hoped to use the trip to bring the two sides together in the interest of party harmony. Both Johnson and Connally would later dispute that notion. "Hell," Johnson said, "if he wanted to bring us together, he could have done that in Washington." In fact, the trip was mostly about money. As he geared up for 1964, Kennedy saw an opportunity to lean on Johnson and Connally to put the arm on wealthy Texas Democrats, many of whom opposed Kennedy, to support an Austin fundraiser that would add a million dollars to the campaign war chest—a huge sum at the time—and would jump-start the reelection effort. Getting Texans to step up would also be a loyalty test for Johnson, especially as rumors that he would be dropped from the ticket hung in the air. Connally opposed the trip due to the president's declining popularity in the state, which had seen a drop in Kennedy's approval rating from 76 percent to 50 since the beginning of the year due largely to Kennedy's stand on civil rights. Instead, Connally recommended that the president come in the beginning of the next calendar year in order to let things settle a bit. But when the Kennedy camp pushed for the trip in the fall of 1963, Connally pressed them to make it not just the fundraiser in Austin, but a two-day swing through the biggest cities in the state, which the Kennedy-Johnson ticket had won in 1960 by a scant two percentage points. Kennedy got his fundraiser, Connally got the president's commitment to a visit that would include stops in Houston and San Antonio on one day and Fort Worth, Dallas, and Austin the next. On the morning of Friday, November 22, John Kennedy was awakened in suite 850 of the Texas Hotel in Fort Worth with a gentle rap on the door from George Thomas, who had traveled to Texas with him and the first lady. Thomas informed him that it was raining outside, but as Kennedy made his way to the window, he would find that it hadn't discouraged locals from turning out to greet him. The trip to Texas marked the first public outing for Jackie with her husband since losing Patrick three and a half months earlier. As ever, she proved to be a big draw, though she declined to participate in the first event of the day, a hastily arranged speech in the parking lot outside the hotel. Originally slated for 8:45 am, the event was rescheduled to mid-morning, then pulled back to 8:45 again due to the president's concerns that those in the audience would be late to work. 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It was to be a busy day for the Kennedys, as well as for Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson and Connally and his wife, Nellie, who acted as hosts, accompanying the first couple throughout their trip. After breakfast they would take a short hop to Dallas, where the Kennedys would travel by motorcade to the Trade Mart for a luncheon. Then it would be on to Austin for a major fundraising dinner arranged by Governor Connally before spending the night at the vice president's LBJ Ranch seventy miles away in the heart of Texas Hill Country. There was some trepidation about the first stop. Dallas was not known for its civility—at least to those considered liberals by local fringe Republicans. A month before Kennedy's visit, Adlai Stevenson had given an address at Dallas' Memorial Auditorium Theater and was accosted afterward by jeering anti-U.N. extremists. A woman hit him over the head with a placard that read "Down with the U.N." and a young man spat on him as he walked to his car—then, for good measure, spat on the cop who moved in to arrest him. "Dallas has been disgraced," the Dallas Morning News wrote in a page one editorial the following day. "There is no other way to view the storm-trooper actions of last night's frightening attack on Adlai Stevenson." Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson were met by similar invective three years earlier. Just prior to the election in 1960, they were besieged outside the Adolphus Hotel by protesters carrying signs that read "Lyndon Go Home," and "Let's Ground Lady Bird." As they crossed the street, they, too, were spat upon. On the day of his visit, the John Birch Society welcomed Kennedy with an ad in the Dallas Morning News accusing him and Bobby of being "soft on Communists, fellow-travelers and ultra-leftists." Kennedy ran across it as he examined the newspapers that morning. "We're heading into nut country today," he told his wife as they prepared for the day. "But, Jackie, if somebody wants to shoot me from a window with a rifle, nobody can stop it, so why worry about it?" But the visit to Dallas looked promising before it even started; autumn rain clouds turned to boundless blue sky during the Kennedys' thirteen-minute flight to Love Field, where Air Force One touched down at 11:38 am. As they disembarked, Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson awaited them along with a few thousand well-wishers pressed along the fence line beyond the tarmac. The Kennedys spent a few minutes greeting some of them, one of whom presented Jackie a bouquet of a dozen red roses, before they slipped into the plush back seat of the presidential limousine—a 1961 Lincoln Continental, midnight blue gleaming in the North Texas sunshine—that would carry them and John and Nellie Connally to the Trade Mart. The fortuitous change in weather prompted Kennedy to order that the limousine's clear plastic bubble top be removed and its bulletproof windows rolled down. A hundred and fifty thousand people lined up along the ten-mile motorcade route, swelling to as much as twenty or thirty deep, as the car neared downtown, "absorbed," as one Texas reporter wrote, "in the power and glory of the moment; in this their touch with the fabulous." The first couple glided before them, smiling and waving as they passed, enjoying it all. The crowd was a snapshot of America in its time, mostly white with pockets of black and brown; housewives and young working women in office garb; men in business suits, others in open collars and hard hats; handfuls of students; small children on the shoulders of their fathers, or holding the hands of their mothers with one hand as they held tiny American flags in the other. As the car approached, cheers rose and patches of confetti rained from buildings. "You can't say that Dallas isn't friendly to you today," Nellie Connally said to the president at 12:30 p.m. as the car rounded the curve of Main Street to move toward the highway overpass. Then came the crackle of gunfire. Three shots in quick succession echoed from the dull red-brick Texas School Book Depository Building across Dealey Plaza. The president was propelled forward by a bullet that hit above his right shoulder, passing through his lower neck, his balled-up fists rushing reflexively toward the wound. He sprung back upright before he was thrust forward again by another shot to the back of his head, which fell to Jackie Kennedy's lap as his body collapsed. "Jack!" the first lady cried out, "Oh, no! No!" Fear and disorder reigned in an instant. Horrified onlookers watched the car race off to Parkland Hospital, just over three miles away. It arrived at 12:35. Kennedy was stripped of his jacket, shirt and t-shirt and rushed into Trauma Room One. Malcolm Perry, the 34-year-old doctor on duty, was summoned from lunch in the hospital's main dining room with an emergency page, arriving in short order. Kennedy wasn't breathing. Blood from the gunshot wounds on the back of his head and neck fell to the floor. Perry ordered a nurse to get three of the other Parkland doctors right away. He gave Kennedy a tracheotomy, then a blood transfusion. Doctors and nurses burst in and out of the small, gray tile room. The hospital's chief neurosurgeon in residency, William Kemp Clark, entered. Before aiding the other doctors, he approached the first lady, who stood silently to the side, her husband's blood caked on her pink skirt. "Would you like to leave, ma'am?" he asked her gently. "We can make you more comfortable outside." "No," she said. Motionless, she remained by his side to the last, her eyes never leaving his. She didn't cry as the doctors fought to save his life, forcefully pumping his chest to bring breath back into his limp body. She didn't cry as they stopped after ten minutes and pulled a white sheet over his head at 1:00 p.m. Central Standard Time, half an hour after the shots were fired, nor when a 70-year-old priest was brought in to give the patient his last rites, rubbing holy oil in the shape of a cross on his forehead. She held her emotions at bay as she stood placidly before him for the last time and took his wedding ring from his finger, replacing it with hers and whispering into his ear words long left to eternity. Reports soon went out on the news wires: John Fitzgerald Kennedy was dead. Left unsaid were the words the thirty-fifth president had planned to use to conclude the speech he was to give in Austin that same evening: Let us stand together with renewed confidence in our cause—unified in our heritage of the past and our hopes for the future—and determined that this land we love shall lead all mankind into new frontiers of peace and abundance. From "Incomparable Grace." Reprinted by arrangement with Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, a Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © Mark K. Updegrove, 2022. Get the book here: "Incomparable Grace: JFK in the Presidency" by Mark K. Updegrove Buy locally from For more info:

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