During the years Yarisbeth Levya lived in a Ford Explorer with her husband and son, she hid from anyone who was out counting the local homeless population.
The whole thing seemed fishy. Who were these people handing out 7-Eleven gift cards and asking personal questions? “I thought it was a government experiment,” the 35-year-old said.
Levya has since changed her mind. Not only is she now under a roof — the family moved into an affordable housing complex in San Marcos three months ago — Levya was one of scores of volunteers countywide who awoke before sunrise Thursday to tally every homeless man, woman and child they could find, part of an annual census that’s used by both the federal government to dole out aid and local leaders creating homelessness policies.
This point-in-time count comes at a particularly unstable moment for the thousands of people living on sidewalks and in shelters. Cities around the region have recently passed camping bans that boosted penalties for sleeping outside while elected leaders up and down California are facing budget deficits that threaten many existing programs. Just this week, President Donald Trump, who previously voiced a desire to crack down on encampments, issued a vague order freezing a significant amount of federal funding, leaving local shelters wondering if they were affected.
Trump’s directive was soon pulled back. But service providers are still reeling.
“These programs serve people in red and blue states alike,” Ann Oliva, CEO of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, said in a statement, “and the potential impact to individuals assisted by these programs would have been catastrophic.”
‘Notice to vacate’
There are signs that homelessness in San Diego County may be starting to contract. The riverbed, however, has been a different story.
The San Diego River Park Foundation reported growing numbers of people in waterways after the city of San Diego passed its camping ban, and on Thursday a team had no trouble finding rows upon rows of tents in the bushes near Fashion Valley. One volunteer who first joined the count a decade ago said she’d never found so many individuals so easily.
A middle-aged woman shuffled by with a black eye. A girl carrying a Baby Yoda tote looked young enough to be in high school.
Jennifer Capps, 48, stood near a red shopping cart filled with backpacks. Capps said she began sleeping outside years ago after leaving an abusive relationship, and the riverbed offered more privacy from police than, say, downtown. Yet a piece of paper taped to a nearby wall (“Notice to vacate campsite”) reminded everyone that cleanups were always a possibility. Another woman in her 40s, Joy Dauda, said she once ran down a city truck that was driving off with her suitcase, climbed aboard and began flinging belongings to the ground.
The riverbed’s dry foliage has been getting drier and outreach workers have been warning people against building fires for cooking. Nobody wants a blaze to accidentally spread. But everywhere volunteers turned there were signs of fire, from blackened concrete to ash-filled holes. One man in a shack made of wood and tarp reclined next to a roaring bonfire with flames several feet high.
Officials are using a state grant to shrink this population. The Encampment Resolution Funding Program, which pays for extensive outreach, medical care and mental health support, has already contributed to drops in riverbed camps around Santee and near SeaWorld, and a similar effort in Mission Valley began in December.
Preliminary results from Thursday’s count do show overall numbers for area waterways going down.
‘I didn’t know that was you’
In Oceanside, near the Buena Vista Creek, police Lt. Nate Brazelton approached a nylon tent.
“Who is that?” a voice called out.
“We’re not here for enforcement,” Brazelton responded. Officers were only supporting the census. A thin man in jeans soon appeared and volunteers handed over clean socks.
The team continued on. One man sleeping in a Mercedes was interested in shelter. A guy on a sidewalk outside Chick-fil-A said he was “home-free, not homeless.” Three women living in a 20-year-old Toyota Camry revealed that they represented multiple generations of the same family: Daughter, mother and grandmother. The trio was accompanied by a pet rooster that crowed throughout the conversation.
Service providers have said they’re seeing more parents and kids in the wake of the pandemic. More than 500 homeless families were found in last year’s count, although that was actually an improvement over 2023.
At one point, as the group was wrapping up an encampment, a volunteer mentioned the name of a woman who’d just been interviewed. Assistant Police Chief John McKean immediately turned back.
“Hey, Flaco!” the chief called out. “I didn’t know that was you, come out here and say hi.”
A woman stepped outside. It turned out that McKean had known her since she was a child. The two spoke for a few moments. The chief said help was still available and that he hadn’t forgotten her. Then the woman went back in the tent.
‘I’ll never forget that day’
Some sites were surprisingly bare. A reporter didn’t spot any tents in Escondido, which has taken a harder line against sleeping outside and cleared one large riverbed encampment late last year. In National City, an outreach worker similarly found parts of Sweetwater River that were once packed with tents to be empty.
“You can’t just go anywhere anymore,” Jeff Clemente, a homeless man, said in reference to National City’s camping ban. Some people had traded city property for state land, including freeway on- and off-ramps overseen by the California Department of Transportation, although that agency also clears out tents.
“When Caltrans does the sweeps, everyone moves,” Clemente added. “I don’t know where they go.”
Volunteers kept looking. Carla Vanegas, the Rescue Mission’s director of outreach, spotted some bedding along an embankment. She trekked over. Nobody was around. Vanegas nonetheless set down a gray blanket, some clothes and a paperback copy of “Living Through Personal Crisis.”
Complicating all outreach work is the fact that shelters are often full.
“In years past when I’ve done this count, I’ve been able to say, ‘Hey, we have a 49-bed shelter, you should come on over and talk to us,’” said Greg Anglea, CEO of Interfaith Community Services in North County. “Now our shelter beds are far fewer, so I have to preface it by saying, ‘We may not have a place for you right now, but come on over and talk to us and let’s see what resources we can provide.’”
Final results from the count take months to calculate and are expected to be released over the summer. More than 10,600 people were found last year, an almost certain undercount. The total has steadily risen since 2020.
Levya, the formerly homeless woman who was once suspicious of the census, spent about two years sleeping in her SUV. Sometimes, she, her husband and son, who is now 8, would park in Escondido. Other times, they’d try Chula Vista.
The family’s first break came when they were able to move their vehicle to a safe parking lot run by Jewish Family Service. Then a spot opened at Interfaith’s family shelter. “I’ll never forget that day,” Levya said. “It was our time to heal.” After six months at the shelter and two at a hotel, their current apartment was ready.
Levya made a point this week of bringing up her experience with people on the street. She’d watch as their eyes lit up, as if to say, “you understand.”
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