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News article from The (Portland) Oregonian
Long before the building opens, a crowd begins to gather. Many are
wrapped in the weary uniform of Portland's homeless: matted beard,
weather-worn skin, blackened clothing, their possessions rolled into
sleeping mats, stuffed into garbage bags and stacked in shopping carts.
One man clutches a cup of coffee and shifts his weight from foot to foot
in the summer morning chill. A battered green duffle at his feet holds
his portable life. As the doors swing open, he mutters to a companion:
"This is my sanctuary."
With this procession, another day starts at the city's biggest daytime
shelter for homeless people, drug addicts and the mentally ill: the
Multnomah County Central Library.
The century-old building -- a lavish downtown landmark with black
granite staircases and arched ceilings supported by columns -- houses a
well-used collection of 790,000 books, CDs and DVDs and draws 2,700
visitors a day from throughout the metro area, making it one of the
nation's busiest libraries.
The historic library is also a refuge for the down and out, offering
shelter from the rain, one of the few public toilets in downtown and
respite from the boredom endemic to street life. Many of the library's
most loyal users come here because, in a era of sharp cuts to social
services, they have no other option.
"I love the library," says Nicole Kilmon, 25, homeless since arriving in
Portland six months ago. She sleeps under an awning across the street.
"I come here to look for jobs, to try to find a place to live, I made my
resume here; they helped me get into programs for homeless youth. If I
didn't have a place like this, I wouldn't know where to go."
But many of them also bring serious behavior problems into the library.
A review by The Oregonian of security reports shows the problems persist
in the face of increased efforts by the library system to address them.
Homeless people frequently use the main branch restrooms to bathe
(stripping down and using wads of wet toilet paper) or to get their
latest drug fix. Occasionally, the bathroom ceiling is speckled with the
blood of a careless heroin user who struck a vein.
Those worn out from street life try to sneak naps in the quiet corners.
Inebriated patrons occasionally make dramatic outbursts or pass out, wet
their pants and get hauled to the city drunk tank.
Mentally ill people exhibit a range of unsettling behavior from the
apocalyptic murmuring of a man who calls himself Absolom the Prophet to
the more benign meandering of a woman who circles the stacks with her
fully loaded shopping cart.
Library managers hope for some relief with a city initiative that
includes plans to add more public restrooms downtown and to build a
downtown service center where homeless people can go during the day when
most shelters close.
In the meantime, a law that prohibits people from sitting or lying on
the sidewalk may push more troubled patrons through the library doors.
So for the foreseeable future, the library staff will continue to serve
as caretakers of a good share of Portland's homeless population and
security guards will continue to kick out the quarrelers, thieves, drug
users and others who disturb the peace.
"It's one of the few places where you can just walk in, get service and
just hang out, no matter what your background, no matter what your
experience, if you abide by a few basic rules you're welcome," says
Central Library Director Vailey Oehlke.
"In an ideal world, these folks would be getting the help they need and
wouldn't be haunting the library. But this isn't an ideal world."
Tyson Rigby, 22, tattooed and pierced with sharp eyes and a wary smile,
leans on a railing outside the library on a day last month. During eight
years on the street, Rigby saw the main branch as one of his few
escapes.
Now, after getting a job, kicking his drug habit and moving in with his
parents on the Oregon coast, he decided to make a short trip to Portland
to see his old compatriots.
Soon enough his friends start arriving at the library, mostly members of
younger groups that gather on the stone benches outside, usually without
incident but occasionally intimidating patrons, fighting each other and
using the corner as a base for drug operations.
Old Man Paul, balding with bright red cheeks and a soft manner, gives
Rigby a warm hug. He would love to talk, but he's hustling to get a
badly needed fix. "I'm a heroin addict," he says.
He's also a regular library user, coming to the building he calls the
most beautiful in Portland several times a day. Has he ever shot up in
the library bathroom "Oh no, I would never risk it," he says. "I don't
want to lose my library privileges."
As Old Man Paul hurries to find a dealer, Rigby explains that local
homeless people try to treat the library with respect, but often can't
overcome their addictions. They head into the library while drunk or to
do drugs: "All my friends did it, well, a lot of them," he says. "Some
addicts don't have any self-restraint."
This week, Rigby returned to the library, eyes glazed. He's back on
drugs and back on the street, he says.
Nearly 1,500 homeless people live on Multnomah County's streets and
another 1,500 in temporary shelters, according to a recent population
count. More than two-thirds of them struggle with addiction or mental
illness, often both, city estimates indicate.
People with mental illness are a visible, at times unnerving, presence
at the library: the man who makes loud grunts and snorts while talking
to himself, a woman who sits and compulsively combs a towering wig of
matted blonde hair, a woman known as the Lone Re-Arranger for re-sorting
library stacks in a system of her own design.
Of more concern are people whose behavior is more aggressive, such as
the longtime regular who has scared a number of women by ogling them and
following them through the building.
"So many of our folks now are in libraries," says Kathleen Roy, a
clinical director with Cascadia Behavioral Healthcare, the county's
largest provider of mental health and drug and alcohol treatment.
"Librarians have no social service background whatsoever. They're
trained to help people get books."
Roy has worked with many of the 164 library staffers on how best to deal
with mentally ill patrons. But library workers have mixed reactions to
the constant vigilance that many of the homeless people require.
Periodicals librarian Judy Anderson considers herself lucky to have
security guards posted, but says she doesn't mind helping the hard-knock
people.
"Librarians, for the most part, are do-gooders," she says. "We do tend
to embrace the notions that we are here to help people and here to help
anyone."
Arden Shelton, a librarian in humanities, has watched with dismay as her
job description has changed to now include amateur psychologist. "We
went to library school to become librarians, but we've become social
workers," she says.
The Central Library sees the bulk of the library system's homeless
traffic, largely because of its downtown location near many of the
services that homeless people rely on to survive.
Although there are plenty of places where they can get a meal, clothing
or treatment, there are few places where they can simply pass a full day
indoors -- the largest such shelter is the Julia West House, which only
recently extended its hours and fits just 70 people. In the winter,
access to the library probably saves lives, homeless experts say.
Big city libraries across the country have long wrestled with how to
deal with homeless patrons or those with mental illness or addictions.
Like Portland, many have gotten creative in handling the volume: The
Philadelphia library system has hired homeless people to monitor
restrooms. Seattle Public Library officials say the city's expanded
hygiene centers have cut down on odor problems at their branches and the
use of bathrooms for washing.
In Portland, administrators have focused on cleaning up the library's
gritty image since 1999, when the city threatened to deem the building a
chronic nuisance because of its high crime rate.
Security cameras keep watch throughout the library. The old upholstered
chairs that encouraged napping have been replaced by durable hardwood
options. The building's perimeter is lined with spiky foliage to
discourage people from setting up camp in the bushes.
Complaints from the city and the Portland Business Alliance prompted the
library to bolster its security force, have guards patrol the sidewalks
around the building and ban smoking on all library property.
Library staff rarely call police to help them, instead relying on an
exclusion process to maintain control. The policy, crafted with help
from the district attorney's office, bans people for varying periods for
bad behavior. For example, using the bathroom to shave or brush your
teeth will get you kicked out for a day; fighting or theft can merit a
three-year exclusion, the longest the library gives.
The number of people receiving at least a three-month exclusion has
risen from nine in 1999 -- the year before the process was formalized --
to about 500 a year now, says library operations manager John Cabrera,
who oversees security.
Oehlke, the Central Library director, acknowledges that the library
environment may scare off some patrons, but says the system must protect
public access for all. Still, people should feel safe, she says.
"I feel pretty confident in the systems we have in place," she says.
"There's always room for improvement, but we're really trying."
The library's three full-time guards provide the front-line defense.
During his morning rounds, guard Terry Jacobsen checks in with the
regulars and introduces himself to newcomers. He makes a point to linger
with the younger homeless groups to watch for trouble.
Jacobsen next walks inside the library, where he loops through the rooms
and ducks into the bathrooms to check for new graffiti, needles hidden
behind the toilet or drug users who sometimes pass out on the floor.
"Being visible eliminates a lot of the bad behavior instead of us
waiting for it to happen and responding to it," Jacobsen says.
He doesn't carry a gun and has only pulled his pepper spray once,
building a reputation for talking down problems before they blow up. He
monitors behavior not people, he says.
It's an approach that has earned him respect in the homeless community,
so much so that people often swing by to tell him when they've gotten
their lives together.
When he sees a struggling patron, he often hands out a library pamphlet
listing available social services called "Moving On."
Some people are grateful, Jacobsen says. Most, however, choose to stay
put.
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