California has spent a record $24 billion fighting homelessness over the past five years, according to a state audit published last month. In other words, the homeless population and homelessness spending have grown in tandem. How is this even possible?
“Don’t California my Arizona”—these words can be found on everything from T-shirts to tire covers. The slogan speaks to the fear that the Californians fleeing to Arizona will bring with them the very policies that propelled their exodus. California’s housing shortage tops the list of troubles that Arizonans wish to avoid. The cost of a home in Phoenix is still modest compared to, say, San Francisco or Los Angeles, but the lack of affordable housing is nonetheless a growing crisis in Arizona’s capital. If legislators are hoping to save Arizona from California’s failures, why are they trying to replicate its policies?
At 5 a.m. on April 18, 1906, San Franciscans were jolted out of their beds by the first tremors of an earthquake whose vibrations would be felt as far away as England. The massive quake brought down lampposts and split gas lines, causing several small fires that quickly converged into one giant conflagration that burned for three days. The fire destroyed more than 28,000 buildings and left a quarter-million residents homeless.
“Florida will not allow homeless encampments to intrude on its citizens or undermine their quality of life like we see in states like New York and California,” Gov. Ron DeSantis declared when signing the bill to prohibit homeless Floridians from sleeping in public spaces, which takes effect Oct. 1.
In March, San Franciscans will vote on Proposition D, an anticorruption ballot measure to tighten city rules regarding gifts to public employees. The proposed law follows a massive scandal in which private contractors and real-estate developers bribed government officials to obtain contracts and construction permits.
On March 5 San Francisco voters will decide whether their city should issue $300 million in bonds to subsidize the construction of affordable housing. The matter is likely to be approved, given the voters’ track record on similar measures. In 2015 they authorized $310 million in general obligation bonds to subsidize affordable housing. In 2016 they added an additional $250.7 million. And in 2019 they approved a record $600–million bond measure. So what does the city have to show for it all?
In March 2021, San Francisco’s Mission Hotel held a joint funeral service for seven residents. The hotel is one of the sites leased by the city to house the unsheltered population, and resident deaths have become so frequent in these facilities that joint memorials have become the norm. Although the causes of the deaths vary, drug overdose has been responsible for 40 percent of those memorialized at these services.
Sacramento recently took a major step toward fixing its housing crisis by adopting the “Missing Middle Housing Plan,” which will allow apartments to be built in single-family neighborhoods. In urban-planning lingo, this is “upzoning,” which raises the density limits in designated areas. Low density limits are among the largest contributors to housing shortages nationwide, so Sacramento’s reform is sure to encourage construction.
San Francisco Mayor London Breed has been facing controversy since she endorsed making sobriety a requirement for receiving public assistance. City Supervisor Dean Preston, for one, was appalled by the proposal, condemning it for being an idea one would find in Republican states such as Texas, which is one of a handful of states that impose mandatory drug screening for welfare recipients.
Most policy discussions about homelessness invariably focus on how to address the “root cause.” This is reasonable enough. If we attack the root of a problem, we expect the branches to wither and die. Presumably, then, we need only to identify the root cause of homelessness to design an effective policy solution. But is there a root cause?