US cities use shipping containers to house homeless people

The gated micro-community known as “The Melody” no longer feels like a parking lot. Artificial grass is spread on the asphalt. Potted plants and red Adirondack chairs abound. There’s even a dog park.

The shipping containers were divided into 40 isolated studios including a single bed, HVAC unit, desk, microwave, small refrigerator, TV, sink and bathroom. On a recent afternoon, a half-dozen residents were chatting around a table in the Melody’s smoking area.

“I’m so grateful,” said Cynthia Diamond, a 61-year-old former cook who uses a wheelchair and was chronically homeless. “I have my own door key. I don’t have to worry about anyone knocking on my door to tell me when to eat or sleep or do anything. I’m going to stay here as long as the Lord allows me to stay here.

Faced with years of rising homelessness rates and failing solutions, city officials across the United States have embraced rapid housing options with a focus on three factors: small, fast and cheap. Officials believe that microcommunities, unlike shelters, provide stability that, combined with comprehensive services, can more effectively put residents on the path to secure housing.

Denver opened three micro-communities and converted five other hotels for formerly homeless people. In Austin, Texas, there are three “tiny house” villages. In Los Angeles, a 232-unit complex includes two three-story buildings made of stacked shipping containers.

“Housing is a ladder. You start at the very first rung. People who are literally sleeping on the floor aren’t even on the first rung,” said Denver Mayor Mike Johnston, sitting in one of the city’s new micro-communities that offers tiny halfway houses for that first rung. .

More than 1,500 people have been relocated through the program, and more than 80% of them were still in their homes as of last month, according to city data. Cheap housing is particularly a boon for cities with high housing costs, where it would not be financially feasible to move as many people directly into apartments.

Both the Atlanta and Denver programs act as a springboard in their effort to create jobs and more permanent housing, with Denver aiming to move people within six months.

That includes Eric Martinez, 28, who has lived in limbo between the streets and the bottom of the ladder for most of his life. At birth, Martinez was thrown into the revolving door of foster care, and he struggled with substance use while couch surfing and pitching tents.

“It’s a little humiliating, it makes me feel less human,” Martinez said, his eyes downcast. “At that point, I had to snap out of it and watch out for myself: It’s fight or flight, and I flew.”

Martinez’s tent encampment in Denver was swept away and he and the others were directed to micro-communities of small cabin-like structures with a twin bed, desk and closet. The city built three of those communities with nearly 160 units total in about six months, at about $25,000 per unit, Johnston said. The 1,000 converted hotel units cost about $100,000 each.

On-site in the microcommunity are bathrooms, showers, washing machines, small dog parks and kitchens, although the Salvation Army delivers meals.

The program represents a turnaround from policies that for years focused on short-term group shelters and the constant movement of encampments from one block to the next. This system made it difficult to keep people scattered across the city connected to services and on the path to permanent housing.

These services in the microcommunities of Denver and Atlanta are largely centralized. They provide residents with case management, counseling, mental health and substance abuse therapy, housing counseling, and assistance in obtaining everything from job training to a new pair of prosthetics.

“We are able to address all levels of the hierarchy of needs – from safety and shelter to personal fulfillment and a sense of community,” said Peter Cumiskey, clinician at the Atlanta site.

The Melody and similar projects represent a “very promising, feasible and cost-effective way” to combat homelessness, said Michael Rich, a political science professor at Emory University who studies housing policy. Rich emphasized that transitional housing is still only the first step toward permanent housing.

The Denver and Atlanta programs, modeled after similar programs in cities like Columbia, South Carolina, and Savannah, Georgia, offer a level of privacy and security not found in shelters or collective camps.

Giving each resident their own bathroom and kitchen is a crucial feature that helps set The Melody apart, said Cathryn Vassell, whose nonprofit, Partners For Home, oversees the micro-community. Besides banning overnight guests, staff emphasize that tenants are treated as independent residents.

Vassell acknowledged that it’s unclear how long the containers will last — she’s hoping for 20 years. But, she said, they were the right choice for The Melody because they were relatively inexpensive and already had handicapped accessible bathrooms since many were being used by Georgia hospitals during the COVID-19 pandemic .

The project, which took only about four months, cost about $125,000 per unit — which is not “extremely cheap,” Vassell said, but less than traditional construction and much quicker. Staffing and security operations cost about $900,000 a year.

The Melody is the first part of Atlanta Mayor Andre Dickens’ goal to provide 500 units of rapid housing on city-owned land by December 2025. A 2023 “point-in-time” count found that there were 738 homeless people in Atlanta, far fewer. than many cities, but it’s still an increase from the previous year.

“We need more tunes as quickly as possible,” said Courtney English, the mayor’s policy manager.

Few people opposed The Melody’s announcement last year, but as city officials seek to expand the rapid housing footprint, they know local resistance is likely. This is what Denver faced.

Mayor Johnston said he attended at least 60 town hall meetings in six months as Denver tried to identify locations for new communities and faced pushback from local residents worried about trash and safety.

“What worries them is their current experience of homelessness without shelter,” Johnston said. “We had to make them see not the world as it existed before, but the world as it could exist, and now we have proof of what that could be.” »

The scars of life on the streets still remain etched into Martinez’s skin. All his belongings are prepared for moving at any time, although he feels safe in his little house alongside his cat, Appa.

The community has been “very uplifting and supportive,” he said, pausing. “You don’t get many.”

On his wall is a calendar with career guidance written in pencil. The next step is to work with staff to obtain a housing voucher for an apartment.

“I always look down on myself for some reason,” he said. But “I feel like I did a really good job.” Everyone is quite proud of me.