Why Prop 1 Won’t Save Us

A visionary fiction piece by Shaya French
March 2024

CW: abuse, police harassment and violence, substance use

Jo’s life had never been easy. The abusive father trying to beat her into being more masculine, less trans. Being one of the few white kids tracked into the lower level classes in public school that barely prepared you for community college. Jobs waitressing and getting harassed by customers. She was miserable a lot of the time. And then the eviction notice came. They were turning the building into condos. And she just couldn’t find an apartment she could afford. She slept on some friends’ couches, she slept on the street. She’d used weed and sometimes coke before, mostly at parties. But she started using more, just to cope with all the pain and despair. And it made her feel okay again, sometimes even good. It was the only thing making things feel good, other than an occasional visit with a friend.

Version 1 — What if we really invested in permanent housing and community based mental health care:

Every few days, she’d have a rush of energy to try and fix things to get back to the familiar precarity of her life, barely paying rent, waiting tables. Away from this new terrifying precarity. She made an appointment at a nonprofit, apprehensive. When she got there, the waiting room was mostly posters of affordable housing buildings but in the corner there was a picture of two trans girls hugging in front of a new building. She met with Sage, a caseworker. Sage was warm and got her pronouns right. They asked her a bunch of questions, apologizing over the more invasive ones. Jo shared that she needed an apartment without too many stairs. And then Sage pulled out a binder of affordable housing units and showed her two buildings with openings for first floor rooms. Jo asked, “when could I move in?” Sage said, “as soon as we can come up with a bank statement and a piece of identification. I can go with you to the bank or DMV or whatever, if that helps. Both of these units are open and available now. They’d be yours for as long as you’re still making under $60,000.”

Jo moved in on a Friday. She closed the door and locked it and felt safe for the first time in a very long time. Sage helped her find a job and they did some mock interviews together. It was a boring reception desk job, but it was fine. It had real health benefits and she was able to get a doctor to look at her leg pain that had been keeping her up and to renew her HRT prescription. She still used with friends, but a little less. Sage had given her a brochure for a trans mental health clinic, saying they could help with everything from stress, to feeling down to if she ever decided she wanted to get sober. Jo didn’t love the pull she felt towards using, didn’t love how it used up so much cash. The clinic had more queer flags up than Jo had ever seen. The therapist, Rina, was kind and wanted to know what was bothering Jo. They talked about Jo feeling anxious and bored and the therapist asked questions about her past. On the third visit, Jo slipped in a comment about using on the weekends. On the fifth visit, the therapist wondered aloud if Jo might feel less anxious if she wasn’t using. On the seventh visit, Jo asked if maybe she did want to use less, how did people do that. And the therapist shared about medication options and SMART recovery and the queer NA meeting they held, describing in a lot of detail what each one would be like. It took another month for Jo to work up the courage to check out the SMART recovery meeting, but when she did the people were sufficiently kind and she decided she could give this whole recovery thing a try. 

Version 2 — What if we passed Prop 1: 

She was getting high one evening and kind of out of it when the cops showed up. “Are you trespassing?” She blinked at them and looked around. She had climbed inside of the fence of an apartment building to stay safe. The officer hauled on her arm. “Ouch, that hurts.” He didn’t seem to care and kept yanking her to standing. He gestured at some of her supplies on the ground, “We have to take you in, new program.” The male cop who strip searched her had too-long fingernails. The cell was cold and uncomfortable and she was terrified. In the morning, they brought her to a court room where white people in suits made decisions. A doctor prescribed a medication routine. She started to ask a question because she’d gotten dizzy off a different medication and maybe they were related, but decided not to, she didn’t want to make things worse. They assigned her to a residential treatment center ten miles from public transit. In the back of the van she cried. When they got inside the treatment center she could hear the door lock behind her. Inside, the staff were expressionless as they searched her for sharp objects and took the shoelaces from her shoes. Every day a staff member would come in and suggest she go to the NA meeting. She went and mumbled the words and tried not to listen. Everyone was always talking about God. Jo didn’t believe in God. Her abusive father had used God to hurt her. God wasn’t an option. Depression hit as she spent most of her time staring at the off white wall. After several months she got pulled back to court. They asked if she was using. No. Was she following her treatment plan? Yes. The judge conferred with the doctor and said she was no longer mandated to attend the program and could go back to her life. She learned later they’d run out of beds for new people they wanted to get off the street. They took her to a nonprofit that helped people get housing and she asked the case manager when they thought they could get her housing. “Some people wait seven years, some people wait only a year or two.” Jo signed all the paperwork to get on the waiting list and walked out the door, wishing they hadn’t taken away her tent. She didn’t really make a decision to start using again, it just sort of happened. Just until I get housing, she thought, just to take away the cold and depression.