The largest homeless shelter in downtown Minneapolis is the Salvation Army's Harbor Lights at 1010 Currie Av. N. It's designed to provide a warm place to sleep for 350 adults. One very cold night last week, it accommodated 550 people in almost impossibly crowded conditions.
Women slept in a hallway in which lights had to be on all night to comply with fire safety regulations. "We couldn't even offer them darkness," lamented Monica Nilsson, director of community services for St. Stephen's Human Services, which provides shelter and services for the homeless.
That same night, Jan. 7-8, YouthLink's nearby temporary emergency shelter for homeless youths was filled to its meager capacity, 25 beds. It ceased operation the next night, even though the temperature at 1 a.m. on Jan. 9 was 9 below zero.
Minnesotans can add those numbers and the misery they represent to the accumulating evidence that homelessness is a growing problem in this state, one that deserves priority attention by the 2014 Legislature. The recent easing of the financial squeeze that gripped state government for 10 years, and the prospect of a large bonding bill this session, afford an opportunity for lawmakers to finally do something about a long-festering problem.
Stories related to an inadequate supply of affordable, stable housing for people with low incomes and/or mental or physical disabilities have appeared frequently on this newspaper's pages in recent weeks. For example:
• About one in four inmates at the Hennepin County jail on any given night are people with severe psychiatric disorders, the Star Tribune's Paul McEnroe and Glenn Howatt reported in September. The inmates remain there, on average, for three months before getting proper psychiatric care.
Many of those inmates were homeless at the time of their arrest, or will be upon release, cast into situations that exacerbate mental illnesses rather than aid recovery, noted Sue Abderholden of the National Alliance on Mental Illness.
• Detox services for chronically chemically dependent Minnesotans are in short supply, "leaving wide swaths of the state with limited or no treatment options for people suffering from potentially life-threatening symptoms," reporter Chris Serres told readers last month. Chronic inebriates are often "caught in a revolving door between the street and the ER," his story noted.