On a cold night, looking for New Bedford’s unhoused

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January 29, 8:09 p.m.

Chris Bell drives his Jeep through parking lots and behind strip malls, barely touching public roads. The vast asphalt provides a kind of cover for a lone camper van and a snoozing long-haul truck driver. This is the Nomadland that reveals itself when lights flicker out and daytime shoppers ebb away — but it is always here.

Behind the buildings, only an expert eye can see the traces of an even more hidden society. Chris parks the Jeep next to a dumpster behind a half-empty mall. The thicket of undergrowth along the property seems impenetrable, but at one end it fails to reach the fence. A person can just fit between the brambles and that fence. This is the way in.

Chris exits the car for only the second stop of this year’s Point-In-Time census in New Bedford. At this moment, people like Chris are fanning out in cities and towns across America. The goal is to create a statistical and descriptive picture of who’s out here and what they need to survive. In New Bedford, Chris’ Jeep and another SUV behind this mostly-deserted retail mall make up the team. Many miles and hours yet lay ahead, and it’s impossible to know all that they’ll find tonight. 

Foam meal trays and backpacks in hand, Chris walks single file into the thicket along the fence with Matt Brown and Anthony Miranda, fellow homeless coordinators. After a minute in the darkness, they stop precisely in front of a natural archway where the thicket gives way. Through that void they come upon a field of debris. Tents look like they have been slashed open. Toppled chairs, mattresses, and children’s toys still inside plastic wrapping form a central pile.

Anthony says, “Man, what is the point of this? It looks worse like this than it did before. Like what the f—.” It looks like another police raid, Anthony says. In the wintertime, without leaves on the trees, it’s easier to spot these tarps and tents, and when people alert the police, they lead the city’s effort to break up these camps and send people off. Tonight, these tents and blankets will not warm anyone.

Danielle Brown, the program director of Steppingstone Inc. (and their boss), who stayed back with the cars, calls out: “Heyyy!” Matt jogs back to the cars. Chris and Anthony go deeper into the woods, looking for another encampment. 

A man is leaning into the passenger window of Danielle’s car. He is wearing a balaclava, a baseball hat, and a sweatshirt, and he is telling Danielle what he needs:

“Honestly, like sweatshirts and sweatpants, like as many as you can.”

“What size are you?”

“I don’t know, I went from a large to a small real quick. Maybe just a medium. Can you do a medium?”

“Yeah. What kind of stuff do you have now?”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I had to burn some of my sweatshirts and sweatpants. I was, like, running out of stuff to burn, and it was f—ing cold, so yeah I burned some of them.”

“How about food — what do you like to eat?”

“I don’t know, could you do cereal? Not gonna lie, I’m a kid at heart and I love cereal. And the milk stays cold so it’s all good.”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“Ah, I like my Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Pebbles, you know? Like I said, I’m still a kid at heart.”

“What else do you need? I could bring you one of those firestarter logs?”

“Of course.”

Matt chimes in, “Do you need a coat?”

“Of course.”

They set up a time for Danielle to deliver these items. Anthony and Chris walk out of the underbrush, and when Anthony sees this man, he runs over: “Yo, Z—! What the f— is up, Z—? How are you, man? Are you good?”

“Yeah, dude, I’m good, it’s f—ing cold, how you been?”

“Come to the warming center, man, come on.”

“Nah, I’m good. I like it better out here. I got my own warming center back there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah bro, in that place people are farting and whatever… It’s better for me out here. Yeah bro, I’m sure.”

Anthony talks with Z— a little bit more, and Z— starts telling jokes. When it’s time for the crew to move on, Z— bids everyone good night: “Hey, you all be sure to stay cold out there, all right?” The joke kills.

January 16, 10:12 a.m.

Two weeks before the census begins, at least 60 people pile into a meeting room in New Bedford to plan all the Point-In-Time censuses for cities and towns throughout Bristol County. 

A newly-expanded organization, the Bristol County Continuum of Care used to be known as the Homeless Service Provider’s Network, a place where more than 30 local organizations came together. Now, the executive committee, seated around a table, has representatives from Dartmouth, Taunton, and Attleboro. The back of the room is standing room only.

Jen Clarke, deputy director of New Bedford’s housing department, begins the meeting with some data: 564 children were identified as homeless last year, which accounts for more than a third of the county’s total unhoused population.

More people are experiencing homelessness for the first time in their lives, Clarke continues. A 12% increase in the county’s homeless population over the last year includes more families than ever before — rather than the single adults that used to be the norm. It is beyond the control of people in this room, Clarke says, but new faces become homeless every day. Yet in just one year, the organizations here have reduced the average duration of homelessness in the area by almost 60 days — a huge success.

The average duration of homelessness in Bristol County is now 561 days.

A woman in the back corner of the room raises her hand to speak. It’s Danielle Brown, the program director at Steppingstone. She says some new arrivals at her shelter are senior citizens, including a woman who just turned 70. This person was partially paralyzed by a medical condition and is recently dependent on an oxygen tank. When it gets cold enough to open the overflow shelters, Danielle has to make sure this person receives priority in the waiting line. “We are becoming medical providers,” she says.

Other people raise their hand to give updates about trends they are noticing, the newly homeless people they have met, and the strategies they’re taking. Someone says that the police department in Dartmouth will be using a drone with thermal imaging to scan the woods for homeless encampments. Others bring up the nation’s political environment.

“No matter which side you stand on, a community-wide crisis is coming to this area,” says Rev. David Lima. “Even if you think family separation is a good thing, we’ll soon have kids here who need changes of guardianship.” Lima says that President Donald Trump’s proposed deportations would mean that homelessness will get worse before it gets better. “There are going to be people who are afraid to even come out for discussions about this topic.”

When the meeting ends, the plans for the Point-In-Time census are set. The people in this room represent one of the more than 400 teams across the country that will hit the streets on the same night later this month.

In January 2024, there were 364 unhoused people in New Bedford during the census. Most were in shelters, but 110 — the hardest to find — were outside.

January 29, 8:30 p.m.

After driving through more acres of empty parking lots, Chris and Danielle and their team park alongside another dumpster, near a fast-food restaurant still serving a crowd through the drive-thru. 

With the wind chill, it feels like 17 degrees. Sharp gusts make shopping carts into runaways across the blacktop, and it’s impossible to light a cigarette.

It’s not clear why the crew stopped here until Chris and Anthony walk over to a parked truck near the dumpster. Barely visible through its passenger window are the corners of a pillow. A man sits up.

After about two minutes talking to the man, Anthony returns to the car and yanks at the trunk, but it doesn’t open. He yanks harder and yells, “Can you open it!? Can you open it!?” Danielle unlocks it, calls back, “What’s going on?” Anthony retrieves a backpack, and when he closes the trunk his cheeks glisten with tears in the pale light of the drive-thru. 

Something is happening, so Danielle gets out of the car to go talk with the man in the truck. She recognizes him, and starts talking like she’s at a Memorial Day barbeque. “Hey R—! How you been? How’s your daughter doing? Yeah? That’s great.”

Chris and Matt take Anthony over to the side. After a minute, Chris explains that the man in the truck, R—, was in a permanent supportive housing shelter. He has a bad history with alcohol and marijuana. Recently he got bedbugs. Apparently, the permanent shelter just kicked him out. Tonight, his plan is to keep the truck on and the heat running until he runs low on gas. After that, he’ll shut the engine off and do his best to bear the cold until morning.

R— is elderly, and everyone here knows him: he’s been in and out of several shelters over several years. Until this moment, they hadn’t realized that R— lost his bed at the permanent shelter and is back on the street. Anthony is either feeling this sting more acutely, or he is learning that the permanent shelter kicks people out.

“That’s f—ed up,” he tells Chris and Matt.

January 29, 11:50 a.m.

Mayor Jon Mitchell arrives at the annual State of the City luncheon. He will deliver his annual address from a temporary stage in the high school gymnasium before an audience of city councilors, heads of city departments, state representatives, and a coterie of nonprofits, socialites, and political observers. It is about five hours before the Point-In-Time census begins. 

Many people in the audience have spent some combination of time, energy, and political capital addressing or avoiding New Bedford’s housing crisis. In June, the city councilors considered a proposal to consolidate the more than 36 known homeless encampments scattered throughout every ward of New Bedford into one centralized, city-authorized encampment. However, “With varying degrees of emphasis, all councilors say they do not like the idea,” the Light reported at the time, and added that “action of any kind seemed unlikely.” 

News from Washington is stirring the room. Apparently, all federal grants will stop immediately, but ramifications aren’t clear and update by the minute. (Later, judges will block the freeze.) The Trump administration has acknowledged the rising cost of housing as one of the many economic failures that led to the president’s reelection. To correct this failure, the stated plan is deportations. The idea is that when millions of people are removed from the country, housing options will become plentiful. 

Beacon Hill recently charted its path according to similar political headwinds. Earlier in January, Gov. Maura Healey announced that Massachusetts will “require all family members to show they are U.S. citizens or lawfully present in the U.S.” before they can access emergency shelters, meaning that one person without the right paperwork could deny a whole family. To ensure undocumented immigrants do not receive these beds, all Massachusetts residents will be “required to verify their identity, residency, and status prior to placement,” under this new proposal. No longer will anyone enjoy a “presumption of eligibility,” which means that care and shelter are conditional upon showing the appropriate documentation.

Mitchell begins his address after servers bring around trays of chicken and vegetables. His remarks pay ample attention to the housing crisis, such as applauding the housing projects recently completed or underway and encouraging the state to mandate further local zoning changes. Mitchell says he intends to propose more of his own zoning improvements by spring. At the end of the speech, the room gives a standing ovation for the many successes of the past year and the commitments made for the future. People in the audience shake hands and many head home.

Housing advocates, including those here in attendance, agree that zoning changes are necessary and overdue in New Bedford and across Massachusetts. But no one will sleep inside because of these proposals tonight.

January 29, 10:15 p.m.

Chris, Matt, and Danielle were sitting on the floor of a downtown parking garage with three people as they ate from the foam containers, listening to stories and gathering information. 

Then a car pulled up outside, a crying woman was thrown out, and the car sped away. No one got a good look at exactly how it happened.

The woman, J—, has nothing with her. Not even shoes on her feet. Her auburn hair is messy, she wears a thin zip-up hoodie and sweatpants, and only mismatched socks protect her feet from the icy pavement. For a while she cries and is hard to understand. She accepts a meal and a backpack of supplies. The Steppingstone office is close enough that Chris decides to walk there to look for shoes. There isn’t anything in J—’s size, so he brings back a pair of slippers with a rubber sole.

J— cries for a while before the crew can get a story out of her. Eventually, she says that she had recently spent a weekend in jail. When she got out, she returned to the boarding house in the North End where she had been staying, but she was no longer welcome there. It’s true that she was late on rent, J— said, but the landlord mainly wanted to cut any connection to the guy she had been with. That same guy had taken her debit card and locked her out of the account, she said. He also had lost the only form of picture ID she possessed, and for the moment she only had a photocopy he had given her. This seemed to be the same person who threw her out of the car.

Some more gentle questions eventually revealed that J— had a sister in the city. J— felt that she would be welcome there tonight, so after things calmed down, Matt said he would call an Uber for her. Danielle took down all the information she could, and secured a promise from J— that they’d connect tomorrow to come up with a plan. A short time later, the Uber pulls up and J— gets inside.

They stand outside in the whipping wind as the Uber drives away, and it feels especially gut-wrenching to watch someone become newly homeless after all the hours of work today. Chris and Matt have been awake since six this morning and working since seven. The temperature now feels like 12 degrees. 

January 29, 4:57 p.m. 

Hours earlier, the official census effort was beginning as the last bit of sunlight hung in the sky, pink and yellow. About 60 people are arriving at the United Church of Christ for the Wednesday night soup kitchen — Mercy, Meals and More — which tonight serves as the unofficial launch of the Point-In-Time census.

Parishioners serve food — Domino’s pizza, homemade ziti, a big salad — to anyone who needs a meal. A young couple are the room’s celebrities — or rather, their 8-month-old baby is. He squirms and kicks his legs so much that the baby-carrier rocks back and forth and everyone applauds. His mother smiles and dotes, but it’s clear she’s strapped him down for a brief respite from holding him.

Another woman walks around looking unsure of herself, but she smiles warmly whenever anyone makes eye contact. Toddye is her name, she says, and she’s new to the area. Just arrived two weeks ago. She wears a silk scarf over her hair and has bright earrings. Her voice is warm, and the sugary sweet tone hides the seriousness of what she has to say.

“I can’t articulate the level of gratitude I have,” she says about the local shelters and meal kitchens. “When I say that it’s been life-saving, I mean it. I do not know what we would have done, and it has saved our lives.” Trailing behind her is a clean-cut young man who looks like he should be on the cover of a college yearbook. Toddye continues: “I’m disabled and can’t work right now. But I had a family member who needed to come stay with me, and I took that person in. Because of that family member staying with me, we ended up needing somewhere to stay.”

The young man helpfully clarifies some details. Elijah, 20, grew up in the Brockton area, and he is the “family member” from Toddye’s story. He was recently living with his sister and her boyfriend on Nantucket, but the situation turned violent. Now his sister’s in a domestic violence shelter. He had nowhere to go, so reached out to his aunt, Toddye. But an extra person staying in her apartment got them kicked out. That’s why they’re here.

“I’m kinda new to all of it,” Toddye said of life in New Bedford’s shelters. She’s learning the intricacies of when they open and the best time to get in line. “It’s hard for me to stand in line,” she said.

Little conversations like these transformed the room from an unremarkable church gathering into an assembly of heartbreak and heroic achievement.

A woman who goes by Sue talks about the horses she used to care for on a nearby farm. She no longer works there. She says she had to quit her job once she started having seizures. That was about 20 years ago. Then her marriage ended — that was 18 years ago. She spends most of her time these days going between doctor’s appointments. Because she can no longer drive, it takes hours on the local buses. Her specialists are trying to perfect the dosage of medicine to control her seizures. Throughout her treatment she has fallen into bouts of addiction.

Sue heard about a bed in a permanent shelter in Attleboro, or something like that. But her grandchildren live here. She calls them her last remaining family, and she couldn’t imagine trying to navigate the buses to see them or get to her appointments from so far away. So she shifts between this shelter and that, packing her entire life onto her back each day.

The celebrity baby is named J.J. His mother, Jeanette, 37, says they are here to support people in the community. It’s important, she says, because they have been through times of homelessness, too. In a way, they’re experiencing homelessness now. It’s not that they’re out on the street, but they don’t really have a place that’s their own. So her young family squeezes each night into the one-bedroom apartment of a friend — the baby’s godfather. He’s right over there, Jeanette points out.

Andrew, the wiry man in his late 40s whom Jeanette pointed out, explained: “I would not let my godchild go somewhere that wasn’t safe. We were building the bassinette together, and I looked at them and said, ‘You’re not staying here for two weeks, ya know. You’re staying here as long as it takes.’”

Andrew didn’t want to talk too much more. It was a miracle their situation had worked for the last eight months, he said. “We can’t take many more chances.” The landlord has so far been unaware of Jeannette and her family, and one complaint from a neighbor and they might be out on the street.

January 29, 10:15 p.m.

As Chris and Matt stand outside in the whipping wind to watch an Uber drive off, Danielle makes sure that the others sleeping inside the parking garage have everything they need for the next few hours.

“I’ll see you in the morning, big momma,” one woman says to Danielle.

This is the last stop of the census tonight. The Steppingstone crew has now surveyed all the spots that were important to visit under the cover of darkness — the wooded encampments and urban nooks where people sleep. When daylight comes, people in these spots vanish back into the world. For many, their survival depends on protecting these spots, so they move on during the day to avoid drawing attention. For many others, the daytime also brings the normal obligations of school or work.

Knowing where to look and when will allow the team a few hours to sleep. Chris says there’s a good chance the people in the garage will be somewhere else in the morning. This is a well-known spot, and the police often chase people away — usually at around 2 a.m. If that happens, their to-do list gets longer, because one of the women sleeping here needs medication delivered.

Why do they do this, one might ask. 

Matt answers. He says he’s been homeless before. He went to prison before his 18th  birthday. Drugs. When he got out years later, he had less than when he went in: no family, nowhere to go. Now, at 48, he’s working on an accounting degree. It’ll be his third degree, he says, but he still finds himself hungry for learning.

A thin pair of reading glasses sits over Matt’s thinning hair. The way he speaks lets you know you can trust him — like a therapist or kindergarten teacher. And when he starts to cry, it’s disarming. You’re not supposed to see your therapist or kindergarten teacher cry. But Matt remembers when, not far from this very spot, he says, they found someone who died on the street. When they discovered the body, a small dog that was the man’s companion was jumping on his chest. Matt said it looked like the dog was trying to give CPR.

“People walk by like they’re trash,” Matt says. “I know what it’s like when everyone shuts that door on you. And what it’s like for one person to reach out.”

Danielle has come outside and is part of the circle now. In her life she has dealt with addiction and been unhoused, too. Now she is one of the city’s most well-respected nonprofit directors. Those life experiences, she said, makes you see humanity where other people turn away. 

She tells a story about visiting a Disney theme park with her children. Hundreds of people were walking past a person slumped over in the corner. She could not walk past. Her kids gave her a hard time at first, but Danielle ended up calling an ambulance for the person. She couldn’t believe how the world was just walking by.

So how do they do this? “Sometimes at night I just lie under the covers until the chill comes out of my bones and I cry,” Danielle says. “We call each other late at night because we have to talk about it. And we talk and we cry. Doing this affects your body, and you have to shed tears to release it.”

Email Colin Hogan at chogan@newbedfordlight.org

Editor’s note: This story was modified on Wednesday, Feb. 5, 2025. A previous version of this story said that the cold overflow shelters did not open on Jan. 29. Those shelters were open

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