I recall a Friday afternoon in early 1990. I had no more unemployment checks coming to me. I was living in a residential hotel on Ellis Street (I think--please don't rely on accuracy in the places I name) in downtown San Francisco. I could last in that hotel for only a few weeks before I would have no money. Unemployment told me to call the county welfare department. I did; and learned that I would not necessarily be out-on-the-street nor placed in jail for being penniless, a thought that crossed my mind since I had no knowledge of the workings of welfare in any county! They said to go in on Monday and make application for welfare. The office was on Fourth Street, and I was there the moment they unlocked the front gate to the place that wonderful Monday morning. I had to take off my belt at the front door before entering. There was a glimmer of hope that I could survive. Of course, I knew nothing about homeless shelters and nothing about welfare, either. All I knew is that maybe, just maybe I could somehow survive outside of incarceration, as a free man.
The rest of the transition into welfare is a blur. I was so grateful I wouldn't just be thrown out on the street with no money. I was able to immediately apply for Section 8 housing down the block from where I was living. They had vacancies, because the hotel with a glamorous name from years gone by, something like the "Palace," was now Section 8 housing. The room came furnished--no TV--but wall-to-wall carpeting, a desk and a chair; and a bathroom with a tub and a toilet and plenty of roaches. Because it was Section 8, the rent was determined by the money welfare was giving me per month--30% of which was to go for rent. I had a room on the second floor. I had gotten rid of my car in 1989, because I could no longer afford the driver license fee. So, I just moved in a few of my belongings from down the street, a block or so over.
I was on welfare in San Francisco from 1990 to 1995; then in Santa Barbara in 1995 (December) to 1996 (June). I went to the Palm Springs area for a very short time to October, when I left with just $9 in my pocket for Los Angeles. I stayed homeless in LA at a wonderful Baptist shelter downtown, which helped me land another Section 8 on Sixth Street, where I stayed for a few years. The problem I had with the furnished room I secured was with the linoleum flooring, on which I had one really bad fall that caused me to land against the small refrigerator door. I nearly lost an eye over the incident; and vowed I needed to leave before I fell again against whatever!
Welfare required I work at some job one day a week. In San Francisco, one job I had at San Francisco Hospital that I can recall is unpacking knotted sheets that came from the huge dryers after their being washed. This I lasted at as long as I could. I was suffering from the inability to concentrate for long periods of time, a condition for which I had sought medical remedy. It was not until about 1993, that a doctor came up with some treatment that worked. My concentration time was short and caused problems in my professional performance. At least I was able to concentrate long enough to show up, though I lost every job at the end there before going on welfare, because I was unable to know always when I was to go to work! Nevertheless, on welfare I did the best I could in silence with a list in my pocket to tell me when to go to the welfare office or the job place.
My case workers in the welfare office, whether in San Francisco, Santa Barbara or Los Angeles were wonderful and understanding. The monthly allotment was meager, but I survived, especially when I had Section 8 housing. There was little money through the Palm Springs welfare; and I was forced to leave fast. They discourage people living on welfare in that area.
Best was LA, despite the small pittance. I moved from this place to that, but always the housing was adequate. I had a TV in each place and generally ate at the soup kitchens in the neighborhood downtown. Went to the library, in addition; and toured on the local buses. Such was life on the monthly welfare check. Meantime, I attended to my health through the local medical clinics. Sundays, I went to church, usually picked up by a church bus, e.g., from the Assembly of God church, Dream International Church. Also, I went to local parks and finally, learned about the Senior Centers in the area.
Then, I learned that I could receive more money per month in Hawaii. I saved up and flew over to Honolulu. I stayed at the magnificent homeless shelter run by HMS in downtown near the K-Mart. Each time I returned to Oahu, I didn't last long, because the heat didn't agree with me and I would come down with island-fever after just a short time there. The island of Oahu was just too small and I hadn't the money to travel to other islands. I enjoyed Chinatown and found the Chinese merchants friendly to people on welfare. I always went to church--some evangelical church--that was welcoming to the poor. I met a lot of interesting people in that shelter and found the social services department in the shelter encouraging, though I was much too old to work there. By the time I went over I had recovered the ability to focus. I would sit in some favorite places on the beach and watch the bathers during the day, and watch TV after dinner in the shelter at night.
When I journeyed back to the mainland, LA or San Francisco, from an unrewarding trip to Honolulu--and they were always frustrating, I would stay at a homeless shelter, such as the great Mission Rock shelter in San Francisco. But then I'd try again for Hawaii, if I could!
In sum, being on welfare was for me a boring experience; yet nonetheless I was busy all the time doing something to occupy mind and body. And I was on welfare from 1990 to when I turned 62 in San Francisco in 1937+62= 1999. Then I re-tried Section 8 housing in San Francisco and couldn't stand the poor quality of the housing units, so ventured forth into some different living situation that I'll explain in the next blog item in My Memoirs.
Really, being on welfare is just like being homeless but you have a place to go to each night. It's a holding social position with nothing extraordinary that could happen to you and you had better medical facilities and a routine life to look forward to not available to the homeless. Nothing out-of-the ordinary could happen, because the routine was so well-established, there being countless others on welfare doing exactly what you're doing. And though I'd drink occasionally, I wouldn't say I was a drunkard; in fact, I wouldn't say I did anything out-of-the ordinary, the lifestyle of being on welfare was so ingrained in my everyday activities.
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