When prospective buyers tried to devalue my home because of nearby homeless individuals, I was outraged.
As a sociologist and money psychologist, I reject the notion that the presence of marginalized people lowers property value. My neighborhood, which I proudly call "Non-Profit Row," is filled with organizations supporting those in need. From helping clean neglected areas to connecting with the homeless, I believe in building a community based on compassion. My own experiences with poverty and homelessness taught me the value of empathy and human connection. I won't let anyone reduce these individuals to mere bargaining chips.
"Your Home is Worth Less Because of the Homeless": The Buyer’s Bargaining Chip That Shocked Me
When prospective buyers of my home argued that the existence of homeless people just blocks away from my property lowered its value, I was left in utter disbelief. Their claim hit me like a punch to the gut—not just because it was a financial slight, but because it offended my conscience deeply. As a sociologist and money psychologist who has spent my entire adult life studying the intersections of money and human behavior, I was appalled to think that the presence of poor, sick, and marginalized people was being weaponized to coerce me into offering a so-called “deal.” This experience left me sleepless, grappling with the troubling reality that society often reduces human suffering to mere dollars and cents.
A "Bad" Neighborhood? Not on My Watch
I refuse to accept that my neighborhood is "bad." In fact, I affectionately call it "Non-Profit Row." Our street, Vale Terrace, is home to a cluster of nonprofits dedicated to serving the marginalized and underrepresented. Among them is MAAC (Metropolitan Area Advisory Committee on Anti-Poverty of San Diego County, Inc.), which has been empowering individuals and families to achieve economic mobility and self-sufficiency since 1965. Also nearby is Community Interface Services, which provides person-centered services for people with developmental disabilities. Then there’s Operation HOPE Shelter, a sanctuary for families with children and single women experiencing homelessness, and Vista Community Clinic, a nonprofit offering low-cost and sliding-scale medical care.
Yes, of course there will be homeless people here. This community is built to support the “least among us.” And I am damn proud of it.
From Neglect to Activism: Transforming the Vista Conservancy Trail
When I first bought the house, the nearby walking trail was neglected by both the city and the nonprofit tasked with its upkeep. Homeless encampments, public disturbances, and even suicides were not uncommon sights. But instead of turning a blind eye, we decided to take action. We partnered with Mike, the President of the Vista Conservancy, allowing them to store their equipment at our home and use our property as a base for clean-up events. My neighbors contributed money and time, and we approached City Hall to push for investment in the area, even suggesting a dog park to create a shared community space.
But beyond institutional efforts, we took the human approach: We got to know the homeless individuals in our area. I instructed my husband, Franck, to look them in the eye, learn their names, and greet them warmly. I knew this was important because of my own life experiences.
From Childhood Trauma to Compassionate Action
My empathy for the homeless is rooted in my personal history. My mother was forced into sex work as a child to support her family. My father described her living conditions as unfit for even an animal. We were homeless for a time ourselves, until a Habitat for Humanity home changed our lives. That kindness from strangers, those investments in our lives, are what paved the way for my success.
I also remember volunteering as a child with my mother, serving food and offering clothes in the most destitute areas of Jacksonville, Florida. Those experiences left an indelible mark on my soul. It taught me that no one is beyond hope or humanity, no matter how dire their circumstances. In the 90s, we served Springfield, a neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida, was a place where despair seemed to hang in the air like a suffocating fog. Young black children roamed the streets aimlessly, their eyes vacant, as if the world had already stolen their dreams. Their fathers were often locked away in prison, and their mothers, trapped in the relentless cycle of survival, resorted to selling their bodies. Crumbling buildings housed shadowy drug dens, and the streets echoed with the cries of the mentally ill, their voices a heartbreaking symphony of agony and confusion. People moved through the neighborhood like ghosts, their bodies ravaged by addiction, their eyes glazed and distant, stumbling like zombies through the ruins of their lives.
In the midst of this turmoil, we brought something different. We arrived with songs of hope, our voices lifted in hymns that soared above the desolation. We served hamburgers and hotdogs, simple gestures of nourishment that felt like feasts in a place where hunger was an everyday companion. We prayed with them, our hands clasped in theirs, offering up words of solace and faith. We listened, truly listened, as they shared their stories—the pain, the loss, the fleeting moments of joy—and we told them, over and over again, that God loved them, no matter what. We gave them clothes, clean and folded, tangible symbols of dignity and care.
As a child, standing in the middle of such brokenness, I felt the profound weight of those moments. The experience of reaching out with compassion, of seeing humanity in the midst of what felt like a forsaken land, has never left me. It’s impossible to forget the way it felt to be a small light in a place where darkness seemed to reign. It’s a feeling that shapes you, one that ensures you never lose sight of your own humanity, no matter where life takes you.
Creating Community, Not Divisions
When we see problematic behavior in our neighborhood, we address it directly. We ask people to move along if they’re causing a disturbance. But we also offer them hot tea on cold mornings, save recyclables for them to cash in, and provide opportunities to charge their phones. I even give out copies of my books when they ask. We’ve assembled care packages, and yes, sometimes we just sit and listen.
These small acts of kindness build trust. One day, a group of homeless individuals was loitering outside, making a mess. A man we had come to know intervened. “I know them,” he said, referring to us, “they’re cool.” He told the group to clean up and behave. That moment, more than any other, affirmed the power of human connection. We have not been robbed, assaulted, insulted, or hurt by homeless.
Uncle Pat: Understanding the Faces Behind the Label
My empathy also comes from a personal connection to homelessness. My Uncle Pat, whom my father referred to as a "bum," was a drug addict who drifted across the country. The drugs ravaged his brain and aged him beyond his years. I remember the last time I saw him; he wrote me a $20 check for my birthday. I never cashed it because I wanted to keep a tangible reminder of his love for me. He died a few years ago - it took years for our family to discover this fact because his own parents had abandoned him. His story, like so many others, is a reminder that behind every “homeless person” is a complex, often heartbreaking narrative that society has failed to address.
After his passing, I created a memorial meditation garden in his memory. He lived what so many would call a wasted life, but my memories of him have always been of a smile and kindness. Those moments were not wasted and gave me strength during lonely times.
Homelessness Is Not a Toxic Waste Dump
The people living on the margins are not negative externalities, like a nearby power plant or waste dump that devalues property. They are human beings. They suffer—often due to their own choices, but more often because of a broken system and families that fails to understand them. It is not acceptable to use their existence as a bargaining chip in real estate negotiations. The fact that anyone would even attempt this is shocking and sad.
Where Some See a Problem, I See God
This experience has revealed to me how some people fail to see God in the homeless. As Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). To me, it’s clear: those who seek to profit off the suffering of others “just don’t get it.”
For Those Who "Don't Get It," There's a Gated Community
In my favorite movie, Auntie Mame, the titular character says, “Patrick won’t allow you to settle him down in some dry-veined, restricted community, make him an Aryan from Darien and marry him off to a girl with braces on her brains.”
My sentiment exactly. If you want to live free of homeless people, then maybe you should restrict yourself to a gated community. Because out here in the real world, we coexist. We live with one another, imperfect as we all are. At least most of us around here are doing something to help these individuals.
My Neighbors, My Friends
These individuals are not just homeless people to me; they are my neighbors and, in some ways, my friends. They may not be my business advisors or babysitters, but they have a place in my world. And I believe that, for every one person who tries to use their existence to devalue my home, there are many more who “get it” and see the beauty in a community that stands together, supporting all its members.
Can I find a buyer who “gets it”? Time will tell.
But one thing is for certain: I won’t sell out my values for a lower asking price.
How do you believe communities can support both residents and the homeless without devaluing human dignity?
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