Hope, Then Silence: A System That Betrays Those Who Try.

I believed in the system. I worked to save myself. I was left with nothing but silence.

In the spring of 2024, I was clinging to hope by my fingertips.
Despite being homeless, I found work — full-time — at Connections for the Homeless in Evanston, an organization whose mission I truly believed in. I was determined to fight my way back to stability, to rebuild my life with dignity. I believed, like so many do, that if you work hard enough, someone will meet you halfway.

I showed up every day. On time and appropriately bathed and dressed. I served meals to participants. I cleaned. I answered questions, handed out toiletries, and tried to make life a little easier for those at the Margarita Inn — people I understood better than most because I was one of them.
Connections knew I was homeless. They knew I was doing everything I could to survive and rise above my situation. But despite their mission to help, no real support was offered to me.
Instead, I found myself isolated, harassed, and ultimately treated as a problem to be managed — not a person to be supported.

I endured daily verbal abuse and racial hostility from untreated mentally ill participants who were extremely toxic and created unsafe and dangerous working conditions for me. Medical Staff even confirmed with me that this participants attacks were very pointed and targeted to me and were forms of both racial and sexual orientation harassment. I filed incident reports, asked for help, followed procedure — all to no avail. Management did nothing and turned a blind eye because removing them from their program would not yield the success rate they are required to have or that is requested by donors and government funding.

Management stood by, silent. Period.
Still, I kept working. Still, I believed. I was believing what they fein to be.
Until the day I defended myself — verbally, nothing more — against the toxic and unpredictable participant whose aggression toward me had been documented again and again.
And for that, I was fired. No hearing. No asking my side of events. No protection. No compassion. Nothing. I was sick to my stomach. Rightfully so.

At the same time, I had been accepted into the McGaw YMCA Men's Residence transitional housing program by the program manger. I had completed the intake, the interviews, the paperwork, everything. I had been told that a room would soon be available for me. For the first time in months, I dared to believe I might finally have a real second chance at some semblance of a life outside of fear, extreme poverty, hunger and exploitation. But after my termination from Connections — an organization very closely partnered with McGaw YMCA — all communication ceased. My calls and emails were never returned. I was never provided the room to rent, despite having saved the money each paycheck to carry me over for a couple months until I could make something work.

The door that had been opened was quietly, cruelly slammed shut.
No job. No shelter. No support. Only silence and cruelty.

Left to sleep outside in the rain and cold, left to wonder how so many who spoke of compassion could turn away so easily when I needed them most. Wolves in Sheep's clothing. I was forced to return to the very danger and despair I had fought so hard to escape over many years.
This is not just my story. It is the story of a system that too often punishes those who try, while rewarding those who turn a blind eye.
It is a story of good intentions that crumble when tested, and of vulnerable lives sacrificed at the altar of appearances and convenience.
I share my experience not out of bitterness, but because I still believe Evanston can be better than this.

I am someone who believed in the power of community, in the promise that no one should be left behind. I worked hard, even while homeless, trusting that the systems we build to protect the vulnerable would honor that effort. Instead, I faced abandonment and silence. I share my story not to cast blame, but to bring light and to ask a question that should matter to all of us: If we allow the most vulnerable among us to fall, who are we as a community? I believe Evanston can — and must — do better.

I still believe in the ideals we so often speak of — dignity, justice, community.
But we must be willing to face the uncomfortable truths hidden beneath good press and polished missions. I was cast out and aside, and likely it’s too late for me. But it is not too late for the next man.