I previously wrote for TheBody about processing my HIV diagnosis and getting over the scars that childhood homophobia inflicted on me. Therapy and sobriety have been crucial though humbling parts of that experience. And I think it’s important to share that I didn’t come to either overnight.
Step one for me was getting off the streets and into secure housing. Some people say that you can do anything if you can close the door on the world, and lock the noise out. After spending a night sleeping in the park, I have to say I think that saying is true. But at that point in my life, I didn't even have a door I could close. And getting access to a private space of my own meant entering New York City’s not-so-private single-room-occupancy (SRO) system and learning how to navigate my new life as a recently diagnosed person.
Entering the SRO System
New York's modern SRO system is part of the shelter system. It sprang out of the Callahan v. Carey New York State Supreme Court decision―delivered on Dec. 5, 1979―which eventually clarified that people without sustainable housing who live in New York City have a constitutional right to shelter. This decision cited Article XVII of the New York State Constitution, which was adopted in 1938. It states:
“The aid, care and support of the needy are public concerns and shall be provided by the state and by such of its subdivisions, and in such manner and by such means, as the legislature may from time to time determine.”
While that sounds great on paper―especially when included in a Supreme Court decision―people who lack housing rarely have any say in how their rights are to be guaranteed or how services meant to serve them are delivered. Entering the SRO system of 2018 started off pretty easily for me because―unlike people who’ve lost all of their belongings―I had access to personal documents such as my birth certificate, social security card, state identification card, and pay stubs from former jobs.
With those in hand, a social worker sped me through the process of applying for HIV/AIDS Services Administration (HASA)―which connects people living with HIV to a range of supportive services including health insurance, cash assistance, housing, mental health and substance use disorder treatment, and home care. In addition to having all of my requested documents on hand, I think that what made the process smoother than it would have been under stingier former New York City mayors like Giuliani and Bloomberg was that since Aug. 29, 2016, New York City residents living with HIV who meet financial need requirements are deemed eligible—it is no longer necessary to have an AIDS diagnosis.
In this case, I definitely met the financial needs. And because I didn’t have a permanent address, I was immediately placed in an SRO in Brooklyn. I wish I could say that it was smooth sailing from there, but that’s actually where my adventure began. I use the word “adventure” because it’s the only way I can describe what I went through without going insane.
Bouncing Between SROs and Never Finding Home
While staying in that first SRO, I had a brush with the kind of homophobia I’d experienced while growing up in Louisiana. Back home, it was my peers who tormented me. This time it came from the shelter’s case workers and security guards, who were supposed to protect everyone who lived in the shelter. Instead of support, we were constantly subjected to homophobic and cruel comments.
Once, a case worker told me, “Just as long as you don’t die, we are good. I don’t need to do all of that paperwork.” The shelter guards and case workers made sure that I knew that I was just a number in the system to them. Although I was still overwhelmed from having recently received my HIV diagnosis, I knew that if I was going to survive, I had to play the system’s game: keep my head down, avoid making trouble, and try to get out whenever things became too bad. Because of the gross power imbalance between shelter tenants and the guards, things were always bad. So I moved from one SRO to another, always hoping that the next one would be better.
Finding a good SRO is a hit-or-miss process. We don’t get to choose where we are placed. So we don’t have any idea of what we might be getting into until after we’ve arrived at a new location. Some of these facilities are safe and organized, with people who actually want to see you find a permanent home. Then there are shelters that are run by unhappy case workers who ignore unsafe living situations, even when they can lead to sickness, particularly for people with compromised immune systems. Some of those conditions include open drug use, infighting between tenants, unsanitary or mold-filled rooms, or decaying facilities in need of repair.
I was in recovery from drug use disorder during this time and found myself constantly fighting to stay sober. But when the system that is supposed to offer you stability is run by people who clearly communicate that they don’t care, sobriety can be difficult. Unsurprisingly, many of my fellow tenants ended up using drugs to cope with shelter-inflicted despair. While I understood their reasons why, I didn’t want to go out that way or relapse. But when I mentioned my concerns to one of the shelter’s case workers, I was told, “If you don’t like how things are run, then I suggest you go to HASA and have them move you somewhere else.”
With no other option, I followed that “advice.” I packed up my belongings and traveled from Brooklyn to the Bronx for my next SRO stay.
I tried to stay as positive as I could during this period. But there were nights when I felt like a complete failure. I’d tell myself, “Here you are in New York City, living homeless and with HIV! Why did this happen?” The answers I came up with were never kind or constructive. My feelings got so bad that I started to tell myself, “Maybe the religious people were right; maybe being gay is a sin and the reason my life is the way it is is because I haven’t changed my lifestyle.”
Deep down inside, I knew that wasn’t the case. I understood that unfortunate things can happen to anyone and that what matters most is how we process adversity. Thankfully, I was in therapy throughout this ordeal and came to understand that it was only a temporary situation.
Enduring Housing Discrimination and Finding Freedom
After nine months and four SROs, I found an apartment in Brooklyn that accepted my HASA voucher. HASA vouchers are guaranteed money paid by the government to landlords. Because of that guarantee, I had thought that landing a permanent house would be easy. However, many landlords discriminate against or outright reject people with the vouchers.
A HASA housing voucher is basically Section 8 assistance for people living with HIV. In addition to pervasive and inaccurate tropes about people who use Section 8 benefits, the fact that HASA is earmarked for people living with HIV means that some landlords subject us to AIDSphobia or treat us like people in the grip of drug use and out-of-control mental health issues who will not respect their property.
Things would always start out all right when I’d visit a prospective apartment. But once I mentioned my HASA voucher, I’d suddenly be treated like someone with glaring red flags and turned away. After being repeatedly rejected, I started to lose hope. Every phone call with a landlord or broker seemed to start off like a pleasant joke―“Yes, we have an available apartment and would love to see you”―but instead of a happy laugh, the punchline would leave me bruised and broken: “Sorry, we don’t take that voucher,” without giving an explanation why. Or worse, asking, “What’s your credit score?” while knowing full well that the majority of people on these programs have zero or bad credit.
When all was said and done, I spoke with nearly 100 landlords and brokers who found any legal way to discriminate against me and my HASA voucher. If this was my experience, I can’t imagine what it’s like for people with criminal convictions or who have children to take care of. Without the assistance of housing organizations that serve people living with HIV, like CAMBA and Housing Works, I believe that I wouldn’t have my current apartment.
I found out about these services after speaking with a case worker about my struggles. I’m grateful that she pointed me in the right direction. It can feel almost impossible to find a secure apartment to rent in New York City even if you have a high-paying job, good credit, and everything else in the world going for you. So if you’re processing trauma from HIV or homophobia and dealing with people who discriminate against your situation, it can feel absolutely impossible. But having gone through it, I want you to know that if you don’t give up, you can find a livable place. It helps if you have resources or a supportive team behind you.
Though the area where I ended up is far away and looks a little worn down, I was eventually able to escape the shelter system and move into an apartment of my own―one where I could close the door, lock out the craziness of the day, and focus on my healing.
My healing has been about staying sober, which I’m proud to say I’ve maintained for over five years. I’ve also remained in therapy, which has helped me process what I went through back in Louisiana and during my stay in the shelter. It has also allowed me to let go of my frustrations about being a Black gay man living with HIV. I love being Black, but I can’t deny that it means that certain people will discriminate against me. Add being gay and living with HIV to that mix, and the discrimination goes off the scale. Having someone listen to me as I processed my feelings about the cruel unfairness of it all has helped me realize a few things: I am not my circumstances. I don’t owe anyone anything. And I deserve peace.
Now that I am in a stable place, I want to use my story to help others learn that even though receiving an HIV diagnosis may feel like the end, you can always start over. Or maybe the better way of saying that is, “You can start living the life you were meant to enjoy.” For me, that began with finding a secure environment where I could thrive.