City gives neighbors a say in helping the homeless

Carole Dennison didn’t know what to do. It was nighttime, and she had just got back to Greenville, S.C., from a lawyers conference in Seattle to find a huddle of men in sleeping bags blocking the entrance to her law office.

Dennison, 65 at the time, had been an attorney in Greenville for 30 years. She had a heart for representing the outcast and the underdog, specializing in workers’ compensation and Social Security disability cases. But this night in 2016, she called the police for help.

“Well, you know those guys have just gotten settled in,” the dispatcher said, seeming reluctant to send out officers. Dennison didn’t push back. As she tiptoed around the figures on the ground, she was beginning to think that for a property owner in the locally nicknamed “Homeless Triangle,” softheartedness was a liability. Her building’s lawn, doorways, and border of shrubs had all become popular sleeping spots. She picked up lots of litter—once, a syringe. Worse, a panhandler assaulted one of her elderly clients.

When Dennison tried to protect her property from bad actors, they set up camp on the neighboring Salvation Army thrift store’s property, she said. And while Dennison worried for her business and property, she felt that her neighbors didn’t seem to care.

“It got rough between our two buildings. Really rough,” she said. “I was frustrated.”

Greenville, population 72,000, is one of many rapidly growing cities struggling to care for an expanding homeless population while mediating between frustrated residents and business owners and the ministries on the front lines of providing shelter.

In 2014, a homeless encampment under Greenville’s Pete Hollis Bridge started attracting attention. Well-meaning locals had donated truckloads of clothes and firewood to the roughly 30 homeless people living in what had come to be called “Tent City.” But the donations attracted dozens more homeless campers, and within months, Tent City’s population swelled to more than 100. A 2015 white paper commissioned by the city government documented “violence, crime, health hazards, mounds of trash, and increasing human waste.”

In September 2014, Greenville demolished Tent City, but that didn’t solve the problem. With their old encampment gone, the homeless campers moved onto the streets.

When service providers tried to help, local residents—memories of Tent City still fresh in their mind—fought back. The Salvation Army’s request to rezone half an acre of their property for a homeless shelter renovation was met with public outcry. Neighbors complained about finding crack pipes and bottles around their houses and said they felt unsafe.

Similar conflicts about homelessness affect many other U.S. cities. In Castle Rock, Colo., a church is suing the town for using zoning laws to block it from housing people in an RV and camping trailer on church property. At a June 2024 public hearing in Alton, Ill., the majority of attendees opposed The Salvation Army’s plans to build a new shelter. In 2023, a homeless ministry in Newfield, N.Y., returned a $500,000 grant for expanding its men’s housing program, citing community pushback. In 2022, plans to erect a low-barrier shelter in Chattanooga, Tenn., sparked opposition.

Susan McLarty, who has lived in the city since 1992, first became aware of the city’s housing problem when her church began inviting homeless families to stay there. With guidance from Family Promise, a nationwide ministry, McLarty worked with other churches to host families on a rotating basis.

Amid rising frustration about city homelessness, in 2016, Greenville officials asked McLarty to join a new affordable housing steering committee.

“The city of Greenville is really good at creating a table and bringing different voices around it so that hopefully they get a better view of the true community voice,” McLarty said. “I knew we were doing good where our church was involved, but I learned about things on a much bigger scale.”

The committee decided to spend the next two years working to resolve local conflicts about homelessness. McLarty began to facilitate meetings for neighbors, local law enforcement, homeless service providers, and businesses to air their concerns.

What began as a city steering committee gradually turned into the Greenville Homeless Alliance (GHA). McLarty became its first director in 2018.

Dennison, the local attorney, was one of the alliance’s faithful stakeholders. Through the meetings, Dennison learned her permissiveness was a form of toxic charity. So, she began to stand up for herself. She filed a no-trespass order, trimmed her hedges for increased visibility, and handed out social services information cards to homeless individuals in her neighborhood. As a result of the changes, Dennison began working late nights without fear.

The alliance mediated between Dennison and the neighboring thrift store. The Salvation Army agreed to establish a no-trespass order on its property, which helped protect her building from further damage.

“They were just down the street, but I don’t think they really knew what I was going through 300 yards down,” said Dennison, who sold her building in 2022. “It really worked much better when we were working together.”

Homelessness is still a problem in Greenville. McLarty said the biggest challenge is developing housing solutions for the elderly and disabled. Rents are rising, and as the city grows, owners of cheap housing options such as trailer parks are selling to upscale developers. Individuals on a fixed income can’t afford their housing payments.

Longtime Greenville resident Stephen Mayes, a 68-year-old man with a sunburned face and a tobacco-stained goatee, spends his afternoons sitting on a walker in the doorway of a church, trying to catch a break from the hot July sun. He has been homeless for eight months.

Mayes worked at the local Waffle House until, at age 55, he experienced congestive heart failure and went on disability checks. At first, he had enough to pay $750 a month for a one-bedroom apartment. But when he underwent double bypass surgery, hospital bills drained his funds.

With no family to help him financially, Mayes lost his apartment. He found himself on the street and had trouble finding a safe place to sleep.

He witnessed one homeless man chase another with a knife. “I stand up for myself,” he said. “Can’t run, it’s obvious,” he said, motioning towards his walker, “but I can usually talk people down.”

Mayes said he is working with local ministries to escape the streets. But he is frustrated by the lack of opportunities for people who are disabled.

Despite their initial division, residents decided to continue Greenville Homeless Alliance’s meetings when they reached their original endpoint in 2019. McLarty credits the success of the alliance to “the basics of being valued and heard.” With a foundation of cooperation, she believes Greenville can move forward.

“We all have a piece of the full picture,” McLarty said. “But until I hear your piece, I might not even be aware of it.”