The turning point in the campaign came in 1998, as residents and their allies looked for ways to escalate the fight. Some advocated for a non-violent blockade of one of San Francisco’s fabled cable cars, which ironically ended its route in a plaza that cut through the development. As resident Patsy Brown recalled, “When the City decided to extend the cable car stop down a few blocks in the middle of the development, I had a feeling we would have to go sooner or later.” The idea was eventually voted down in favor of a tenant speak-out because of concerns that tenant arrests might lead to evictions, and arrests of allies would signal that resistance to HOPE VI was only the work of outside agitators.
Together, the group came up with another option: they would go ahead and organize a rally but encourage residents to pledge not to move until a list of ten relocation and re-occupancy demands were met. Households displayed trilingual “Sign-the-Contract” window signs. Their ability to hold up the relocation process was the only leverage the tenants had. Federal requirements mandated strict timetables, which meant that a coordinated refusal to move would jeopardize the funds needed to initiate the demolition. Activists knew it was a bluff and that the actual capacity to defend such an action was questionable. “We were brave, but we were often really scared. Housing [the SFHA] was always looking for ways to get us out. The slightest little mistake they would use against you—your kids being too loud, bad housekeeping, whatever. At the same time, we knew that we weren’t going to get anywhere by doing nothing,” remarked North Beach tenant activist Benita Grayson.
Racial tensions also flared up as the campaign went on. Nearly identical rumors about tenant leaders on the take or secretly signing off on each other’s ouster abounded, initially splitting the Asian and African-American tenants. The source of these rumors was revealed to be Housing Authority staff themselves when one was caught spreading falsehoods—in Cantonese—to a Chinese tenant. This staff member was unaware that an African-American neighbor understood basic Cantonese. Armed with this information, the EDN convinced the different factions to sit down with each other, with adequate translation, to dispel any misconceptions the rumors had created. This led to over 60 percent of the tenants signing a pledge to not move until the exit contract was delivered with real guarantees. By and large, residents stood firm, refusing relocation at a time when the SFHA needed to begin the process to comply with HUD mandates. Fearing that a protracted battle could cause it to lose $23 million in HOPE VI money, the SFHA finally relented.15
The Housing Authority capitulated to some important demands. An “Exit Contract” contained legally binding guarantees, most significant among them one-for-one replacement of all demolished low-income units and a limited number of reasons that could disqualify one from re-occupancy. The SFHA executive director presented the signed contract on September 22, 1999, in front of the City Board of Supervisors’ Finance and Labor Committee during a hearing around the Public Housing Tenant Protection Act (PHTPA).16
The HOPE VI program became part and parcel of the overall push toward privatizing resources once held for the public good. Far from bringing in needed resources, the trend has been to remove tenant protections and clear the way for more developer profit. For example, North Beach’s new, private, for-profit management company tried to stipulate that it could convert vacated low-income units to market rate, even though all low-income units would be initially rebuilt. Remarkably, with the help of Housing Is a Human Right, another small organizing group, residents who by this time were relocated across the Bay Area returned to protest. This conversion plan was scrapped.
The partnership of tenants and outside organizers was especially strong in this campaign. The tenants brought to the table the dedication of people fighting for their future. The EDN brought with it a willingness to organize alongside tenant leaders, instead of usurping their power.
This Town is Headed for a Ghost Town?
Back at 45 Westpoint, Ted Gullicksen, a co-founder of Homes Not Jails, takes the bullhorn. Speaking from the broken window, he invites the press and anyone else to check out the apartment. “It won’t take thousands of dollars to fix it up.”
Gullicksen, a working-class Bostonian, co-founded Homes Not Jails to add a direct action component to the San Francisco Tenants Union, which he directs. The group has several “survival squats,” shorthand for covert squats meant to house people for as long as possible. In contrast, 45 Westpoint is a short-term “political squat” used to protest the housing crisis, popularize demands, and generally raise a ruckus. At a political squat, the occupiers don’t expect to be staying for long. In fact, they may spend more time in county jail than in a reclaimed building.17
This ruckus is usually raised on major holidays, especially the very cold ones. San Francisco’s press is usually quick to broadcast sensationalistic stories about homeless people using drugs or having mental health breakdowns in public places. Such “journalism” has played a major role in mustering public support for punitive anti-homeless legislation.18 On takeover days, the camera is forced to observe pictures of homeless people at their most powerful, instead of their most vulnerable. Images of poor people and their allies repairing broken apartments replace myopic images of addiction. Homes Not Jails specializes in the strategic use of a slow news day. As Coalition On Homelessness co-founder Paul Boden remarked, “Homeless people have to be militant to even get a chance of being portrayed as human beings who are capable of organizing themselves, making decisions, and setting agendas. Even when we take bold actions like housing takeovers, the media is likely to portray us as people who are begging for a handout.”19
What about the former residents of 45 Westpoint? What happened to them and who were they? The house holds a few clues. Stickers on the upstairs bedroom door read “Audrina loves Biz.” Judging from the artifacts of the development, they were likely Black or Samoan. Large plastic “Little Tykes” toys left behind suggest a child, probably two. The only other evidence is a sewing machine, a conch shell, and a broken entertainment center.
What caused their exit? Did the family leave in response to the gang turf wars that periodically erupt on the hill? Were they recipients of a “One Strike” eviction?
Bianca Henry surveys the Thanksgiving rebellion with pride, a grin playing on her lips. For someone who was raised in the projects and knows firsthand the over-reaching arm of the law, the fact that she is purposely risking arrest for the cause is a small but dramatic personal revolution.
Henry’s pride in her work is evident. Together with other parents, she has done one of the hardest things a community organizer can do: inspire poor people to move beyond “Case Management” and “Services” and take things to the next level: collective action. The action is separated into two zones: the Arrest Zone (inside the house) and the Safe Zone (on the grass outside). It assumes a social contract with the police to respect Arrest and Safe zones. Henry knows first-hand that even minor brushes with the law can bring the wrath of the CPS, INS, POs, PDs, and various other Big Brother–like institutions adept at tearing families apart.
Henry believes that if you want to get anything done, you can’t just wait for the next election, though she can effortlessly rattle off obscure public-policy points and arcane aspects of the Code of Federal Regulations as they pertain to housing poor people. Starr Smith is Bianca’s co-organizer. A white single mom who came to work with Family Rights when she was still homeless, she’s on the outside fielding questions and dealing with the dozens of unforeseen snafus cropping up minute by minute. They make an interesting team. Henry grew up in the thick of gangs, and her neighborhood was devastated by the crack cocaine industry. She exemplifies the Tupac generation of young people who grew up in the era where every reform won during previous upheavals was being stripped away.20 Smith came of age following the Grateful Dead in the final days of Jerry Garcia. In many ways the eclectic crowd is a reflection of this partnership.
Later in the afternoon, one neighbor the group forgot to outreach to is steaming pissed—the president of the tenant association. She confers with Jim Williams, head of security of the SFHA, and insists that he call the police. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem too worried. Sarcastically he asks Jennifer Friedenbach of the Coalition on Homelessness to please call the agency when the protest is over.
“We’re not leaving; we’re moving more people in,”