I’m an outsider in the town I frequently report on, a transplant from what feels like the unreal world of the exploding Denver-Boulder corridor. When I lived there for many years, I only knew Pueblo as a pit stop off of I-25 on my way down to Santa Fe or Taos. But over five years later, this feels like the real world to me, living not on Denver’s South Pearl St. with it’s boutiques, sushi bars, and coffee shops, but in a mashup of working-class and urban pioneer that’s my neighborhood behind Pueblo’s main library and down the street from its low-income high-rise for seniors.
In those five years, one of the stories that I’ve written about is the response of the city and the non-profits to the problem of homelessness, which is of course not unique to Pueblo. Nor is the entrenched poverty here, what sociologists and policymakers call generational poverty, which was here long before out of staters arrived in droves across the state, in part for Medicaid expansion and for the legalization of pot.
I don’t doubt that non-Puebloans came here for new opportunities or searching for a better life, as the local weekly has said, but as rents and home prices here haven’t had anywhere near the explosive growth that anywhere from Colorado Springs north to practically the Wyoming border, and out west to Grand Junction has, I wonder where all of these seekers are. The answer is that many of them are homeless or are working poor, and need services from non-profits like Posada, whose mission when it started many years ago was to “bring Pueblo home,” to provide both emergency and stable housing for Pueblo families, who were in need long before newcomers arrived.
With limited government funding and donations, Posada and its small staff—-paid and volunteer—along with other nonprofits whose budgets were already stretched by a historically poor city, were responsible for finding shelter for anyone who needed it, with a focus on those with children. So if you came to Pueblo with your two children with hopes of working to cultivate cannabis or work as a budtender to support your family, the jobs weren’t unlimited, and they weren’t high-paying. If you happened to find housing but couldn’t afford to keep paying rent or to afford utilities, you came to Posada. The wait for government-subsidized housing is a year or more, but maybe you get a motel room for a while or a bus ticket for your family to return home, where you might have had a Section 8 voucher.
Or maybe you live on the banks of Fountain Creek or in a busted-open tree trunk in the slag dumped by the CF&I. It’s summer and nearly one hundred degrees, but you don’t have the money for a motel or rent. You like “the freedom from not being bothered,” as one group of people living in the slag told me two summers in a row as case workers from Posada and the VA, a former Vietnam medic who tended to wounds and ailments of the group, and a former Iraq army captain delivered water and told the group as he did weekly, that food and help were available.
Not everyone who comes to Pueblo lives in slag or on the banks of Fountain Creek among human feces. But some do. Pueblo is not the only city in the state or the country where the homeless and needy appear out of nowhere in the grocery store parking lot as you get in your car at night, begging for money. Many suffer in our country, and nonprofits, especially in towns with so few resources, can’t help everyone, especially if their mission is to help the people who were in that town first. It should be on the shoulders of new industries whose billboards promise that their product—pot—will take away your aches and pains, make you forget about life for a while, whose ads with twenty percent off coupons support the local weekly and even seem to determine the paper’s editorial policy, who should be pitching in to address the collective pain of a city in need.
Non-profits like Posada certainly are not working for fame or fortune, or it goes without saying, profit.