Enumerate Them (Purnhagen)

 

I was in the woods searching for strangers. 

Unfamiliar forests were not where I usually spent my Wednesday evenings, but at 11 pm, it was where my temporary job had sent me. I was working for the 2020 Census as part of the official TNSOL operation.

TNSOL (pronounced “tinsel”) stands for Targeted Non-Sheltered Outdoor Locations. Originally scheduled to take place in April, the operation was delayed due to Covid-19. Across the entire country, it is the one night in which the Census counts those experiencing homelessness outside. (Two days are also spent sending teams to shelters and soup kitchens during the afternoons.)

I was on a team with four other people, and we received almost no information until the day before, when we were given a list of six locations. We would meet at 9 pm to begin our evening and were told to complete work by 7 am. Our case list included two wooded areas, two Wal-Mart parking lots, and two vague locations that were “known areas for those experiencing homelessness to sleep.” One of those places was described as a gazebo near a city square, but no specific address was provided.

An hour before my team was scheduled to meet, everything changed: Of the twelve people who had volunteered for TNSOL, only eight remained. That meant two teams instead of three would be covering cases in Lake and Geauga counties. Our case load increased, but our time to complete the work had not. Because TNSOL is a one-night event, there is no second chance to return to an area and count people.

We met in the parking lot of a local police station, where I had received permission to park our cars for the evening. Despite Covid concerns, we were required to carpool. An officer met us there and asked us what we were going to be doing. When we explained our purpose, he seemed surprised. “I didn’t know the Census counted the homeless,” he said. He then told us about a bridge less than a mile away. “There’s several living over there,” he said. “I know because we get complaints and I have to shoo them away.”

I thought this information would be useful, but my supervisor said that we couldn’t use it. We were required to complete the case list and could not add any new locations. According to the Census itself, locations had been scouted ahead of time, confirmed by a second source, and followed a “carefully researched” grid. Our instructions were to locate individuals sleeping outside or in their cars and “enumerate” (count) them. We would be filling out paper forms instead of typing the information into our Census-issued smart phones. The reason given was that the Census did not want anything of value out in the field that could be stolen; in fact, we were specifically told not to bring any phones—personal or government— along with us.

Our first location of the evening was a park near some railroad tracks. A covered picnic area held tables and grills. There were drinking fountains and a bathroom. Our case notes indicated that an encampment was located through some woods and near a river. Dressed in neon orange vests, donning masks and sweeping our flashlights across the ground, the five of us trekked through the woods, searching not just for people, but signs of people. We called out so as not to startle anyone and made a complete circle of the area, taking time to stop and listen. All we heard was running water and a passing train.

The second location was an abandoned Wal-Mart near an equally abandoned strip mall. Here, we did find signs that people had once established some sort of camp. In one covered area, we discovered two old sofas, food wrappers, empty water bottles, and plates. A second area, tucked behind a damaged fence, revealed a circle of chairs, glass bottles and a small fire pit. But no one was there at 11 pm. If they were planning on returning, we would not be here: once we left an area, we weren’t allowed to go back.

It was the same situation at our third location: signs of life but no actual people. At midnight, we decided to take a bathroom break and stopped at a local gas station. The owner was sitting behind a plastic partition and balked when he saw us. “You guys construction workers?” he asked. I explained what we were doing and he asked where we were headed next. When I told him, he nodded. “Oh, you’ll find lots of homeless there,” he said. “There’s a whole camp.”  I thought that we had actually received a real case.  Finally, we could put our eight hours of additional training and boxes of supplies to good use. Then the owner added that the camp had been moved a few miles down the road months earlier. I had a sinking feeling that the address we had been given was outdated.

I was right.

The frustration in knowing that there was a camp nearby but we weren’t allowed to approach it because of rules and procedure was maddening. It was another case closed with no one counted. Our fifth location was a hospital parking lot. We met a nurse leaving her late shift. She told us that a group of girls had been living out of their cars for a while, but she hadn’t seen them in months.

When Covid first shut everything down in March, we found ways to keep going. My kids went to school online. My husband attended virtual meetings from the kitchen table. People everywhere worked in different ways and at a different pace. I’m not sure what was happening behind the scenes at the Census Bureau. Operations ceased in March and resumed in August. During that time, the current administration ordered that the Census conclude its count a month early; instead of October 30, it would end on September 30. No reason was given. So instead of the usual six months of active operation, we were down to about six weeks. TNSOL locations had been researched in March in preparation for an April count. But in the shutdown that followed, things changed. Known camps were either pushed out by authorities or people chose to relocate. And despite assurances that sites had been “carefully researched” it appears as if no one had updated anything in six months.

My team’s experience was not unusual. In an online group I belong to, census workers across the country reported the exact same scenarios that I saw first-hand. Teams that had been told to prepare to interview hundreds of people found instead abandoned camps and empty lots.

We returned to the police parking lot feeling defeated. The back of my car held a massive box of supplies I had been given to complete my work. Inside there were enough forms, envelopes, and brochures to enumerate 150 people. (There was also a one-pound bag of rubber bands, five boxes of binder clips, copies of all the forms in Spanish, a clip board, my vest, and a flashlight.) When I asked how I should return the materials, I was told there was no point. “Just throw it all away,” my supervisor said. “None of it can be used again.”

The casual waste was striking. Not simply of the box of supplies, but of the time and training that ultimately led to nothing. The local sources that could have helped direct us that were never asked, the knowledge of a nearby camp that was left unchecked.  

We were sent into the woods to find people who lived there six months ago and found only the remnants of what they had left behind.  There are people in our community who deserve the dignity of being counted as citizens. They weren’t. And the final data from the 2020 Census will erroneously depict a decreased homeless population, a shadow of the facts, a mere hint of what truly exists.

Mara Purnhagen is the author of four young adult novels: Tagged, Past Midnight, One Hundred Candles, and Beyond the Grave, as well as two novellas and numerous short stories. She lives in Chagrin Falls with her husband, their four sons, and two cats.