The last resort for those without a place to sleep in Atlanta used to be the Peachtree-Pine homeless shelter. You could go there if other places wouldn’t take you, for whatever reason. People have strong opinions about what worked and what didn’t work there and in the surrounding blocks, which were affected by it. Many people are happy it was closed by the City of Atlanta recently.
All I know, from traveling at the speed of bike, is that the block it occupied is empty now, except for a sign that says Jesus in the window. It’s cold out in Atlanta now, and I pass more and more folks without homes living and sleeping on the street. The MARTA train I ride is now filled with people lugging their often-overstuffed backpacks and little plastic bags of whatnots in search of warmth and safety and a place to rest their heads.
They are also trying to ride the Atlanta Streetcar again, yet are shooed off for not having a ticket (although I’ve never once been asked for my ticket). They are toe-to-toe, edge-to-edge, in a park named Hurt where it has been deemed illegal to feed them, as if they were pigeons. (Read more about A Park Named Hurt in my book.)
All I know is that something’s not right.