Some thrive, some struggle as formerly homeless residents adapt to St. Pete apartments

The Tampa Bay Times has been following this housing experiment since residents moved in, checking in months later when the project debuted to local dignitaries and in May as residents adjusted to their new normal. We will follow tenants and staff throughout the year.

Five months in

ST. PETERSBURG – Residents were in the apartment lobby, waiting for a ride to the food bank, when a boy bounded in calling, “Hey! Hi!”

He wrapped his arms around counselor Raina Wagman’s waist and grinned up at her.

“Where’s your mom?” asked Raina, 25, stroking his curly hair.

“Coming!” smiled Jojo, 8.

Then he darted off to hug another neighbor.

Most of the tenants moved into the complex on Valentine’s Day. Twenty-five units house low-income residents, like Raina. The other half are for people who had been homeless, like Jojo and his mom. Some have mental health issues or struggle with addiction. None can afford the rising rents around Tampa Bay.

By June, some people are starting to settle into routines, like the Thursday trip to St. Petersburg Free Clinic’s fresh pantry. Some are building new lives — knowing they have a sanctuary of their own allows them to shed their shame and start to hope.

Others are grappling with past traumas as they navigate new rules and expectations. When you’ve been living on the edge for years, it’s tough to dive back into the mainstream.

As the residents headed out, Jojo’s mom, Kalin Stokes, 40, shuffled in. She had braided ribbons into her long hair and was shouldering a crumpled backpack. She looked exhausted.

She had just sold the car they once lived in to pay the power bill.

***

The housing experiment was going better than anyone expected. Of course, staff said, no one really knew what to expect. The model was so novel that people are still figuring out processes and punishments.

“No one has left or been kicked out. Yet,” said Janet Stringfellow, chief executive officer of the Volunteers of America of Florida, which sponsors the project. “I worried about fights, people getting paranoid. I thought someone would go crazy or leave by now.”

The only person who was gone was property manager Jason “Fozzie” Nelson. The jolly, mustachioed man had wanted to help others, having been on the verge of homelessness himself. But he hated having to hound residents about rent. He also had a weak heart that didn’t need more stress, so he packed up his office at Innovare.

The apartments are in two, six-story buildings near Bayfront Hospital. The concept seemed simple: Give people a safe home, new furniture, counselors on-site. Charge minimal rent, based on income from Social Security or disability.

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Across the country, homelessness soared by 12% last year, with more than 650,000 people in shelters and on the streets. That’s the most ever reported.

Starting in October, a Florida law requires counties to ban homeless people from sleeping in public spaces. Pinellas County deputies have started tracking people staying outdoors to tell them about the new law.

Instead of cycling people through shelters or relegating them to tent cities, the $18 million endeavor — a patchwork of grant and government funding — aims to give residents what they need to get back on their feet.

If the experiment works, the Volunteers of America hope it will become a nationwide model.

Innovare passed its first inspection this spring, earning health care accreditation. Janet has taken more than 50 people on tours, from politicians to locals who want to help. Some have offered to buy air fryers or lead yoga classes.

Staff are still trying to help residents figure out next steps. Now that they’re housed, what else do they need? Doctors and driver’s licenses, jobs, therapy, child care?

“We’re trying to understand everyone’s individual struggle,” said Raina, who is in recovery herself. “We need to help people set priorities. And boundaries.”

Initially, staff were letting residents drop by their office anytime. But when people came at all hours to complain or ask for help, Raina asked tenants to make appointments. “I live here, too,” she said.

Some people were still smoking inside. When Janet knocked on one man’s door, he was burning 20 incense sticks to mask the smell. The fire alarm has gone off a couple of times, forcing evacuations. There still isn’t a smoking area set up outside — just two ashtray buckets.

“We are not enablers. We’re landlords,” Janet said. “But for some people, smoking is the safest drug.”

Cops have been called a dozen times: for lost property, a suspicious person, car repossession, domestic battery and someone threatening bodily harm. Those cases remain open, according to St. Petersburg police.

One resident still can’t sleep in her bed and has been using an air mattress, like the one from her tent. Another is hoarding, piling up cat tchotchkes and takeout containers. When you’ve gone so long without owning anything, Janet said, it’s hard to throw things away.

***

Inside the food pantry, the walls are rimmed with boxes: fruit, vegetables, beans.

Kalin collected pasta, tomatoes, walnuts and potatoes. Jojo tossed in a bag of raisins. Then another. “It says we can take two!”

While living in their car, they had been unable to cook for a year, relying on handouts. Now Kalin loved whipping up “real dinners” every night. Her favorite: neck bones with cabbage and rice.

Soon, Kalin’s basket was full. While she reached for bread, Jojo rammed the cart into a table, then a box. “Enough!” Kalin scolded. “Stop it. Now!”

Staff and some residents had been worrying about Jojo. He seemed to miss second grade a lot and often wandered into the community room alone to play the donated piano.

When Kalin told a counselor she has post-traumatic stress disorder and doesn’t do well in crowds — like elementary school drop-offs — the counselor started walking to school with them.

Now that it was summer, Jojo was always around.

Kalin had been doing nails and braiding hair for money. She applied for more than 50 jobs, from housekeeper to construction. “I just need a paycheck,” she said. “I’m so grateful for everything I got here but so scared I’m going to lose it.”

If she gets work, she said, she doesn’t know what she’ll do with Jojo. At her last job two years ago, cooking at a Holiday Inn in Tampa, she kept him with her in the kitchen.

In her apartment, on a table filled with candles and Tarot cards, Kalin keeps a shrine to her other sons: a teenager who lives in Tampa with his dad and a smiling 6-year-old, whom she put up for adoption.

“I’ve been on my own since I was 14, since my dad died,” Kalin said. “Jojo’s all I got left. I want to be everything to him that my mom wasn’t to me.”

Now that he has his own room, he’s stopped sleeping next to her. He paints pictures to brighten the walls. Walks around on all fours, making animal sounds. “He’s always trying to make me laugh,” Kalin said.

She has been trying to be more positive. She started avoiding scary movies and stopped listening to rap. “I was a little thug,” she said. “But it started not being fun anymore, all the negativity, people dying.” Instead, she blasts salsa. “It makes me want to cook, clean my house and dance.”

As a girl, Kalin took tap and jazz lessons at the rec center, but she never got to perform in a recital. “My dad could never afford the costumes.”

She hopes to take dance classes again.

She wants to quit isolating herself in her apartment, take Jojo to a park or beach. “He’s my light,” Kalin said.

In August, he will turn 9. He wants a blue bike he saw at Walmart. “It looks like a motorcycle with training wheels,” Kalin said. “He doesn’t ask for much. But I don’t know how to do that for him without a job.”

When residents got back from the food pantry, and everyone was unloading groceries in the parking lot, Jojo disappeared.

Kalin didn’t notice at first as she sorted through boxes.

When she realized, she threw up both hands. “I can’t find my son! I don’t know where he is. Jojo!” she cried, to no one in particular. “I don’t know what to do. I’m all discombobulated. Jojo! Jo!”

Other residents set out to search. But Kalin was sure they were judging her. “People here be bugging!” she sobbed. “They don’t think I can take care of my kid.”

She ran into the community room, calling his name, then into the elevator, frantically pushing buttons. When the elevator opened onto their hall, Jojo, laughing, ambushed her with a hug.

***

Raina couldn’t wait to close her door.

After counseling residents all morning and driving them to the food pantry, she put her groceries on the kitchen counter and took a deep breath.

At 25, she is one of the youngest tenants, but she seems to take care of everyone at Innovare. She sponsors three people in 12-step programs and leads a weekly meeting in the community room.

All the responsibility sometimes overwhelms her. She is still figuring herself out. She has never had her own place, never been able to escape — or invite anyone over.

The housing experiment gave her a home, a job, a purpose. “It’s helped me develop a sense of community as well as independence,” she said.

The oldest of 10 siblings, Raina grew up in the role of caretaker. She had wanted to be a dog trainer, but addiction took her down a different path.

After high school, Raina got married — then divorced “because of my drinking.” She worked at a bar in North Carolina, where she spent more on drugs than she earned.

“I’d start with Milwaukee’s Best Ice in the morning, be drunk by 11 a.m.,” she said. “Coke to get me back up. Weed, benzos, Xanax to bring me down. A handle of whiskey at night.”

Two years ago, she had been bingeing all day, then passed out in the woods off an interstate with a guy she barely knew. He got so worried he went through her backpack, found her phone and called the contact labeled Dad. “The guy told my dad if I didn’t get clean I was going to die.”

She hadn’t talked to her dad in a year, ashamed. But he sent an Amtrak ticket to Tampa and found her a spot in the Salvation Army’s rehab. “I used on the train coming down here,” she said. “I was a hot mess.”

Raina lived for a year in a dorm at the Salvation Army where she worked in the warehouse, sorting donations. She took a course to become a peer specialist.

She had been sober for a year and nine months when Volunteers of America hired her to become a counselor at the housing experiment and leased her an apartment for $870 a month.

Unlike the formerly homeless residents, who got new furniture, Raina’s unit was bare. Between Facebook giveaways and marketplace finds, trips to thrift stores and Five Below, she furnished it for $130.

“I finally had friends over for the first time. We played games and just laughed,” she said. “I’m a lot funnier when I’m sober.”

She shares her sunny living room with a gecko and a tarantula. An array of plants, nurtured from cuttings she took on walks, fills the wide windows. The only one she bought, on her coffee table, is her favorite. It’s called Mother of Thousands.

On her fridge, she hung a photo: She’s at the zoo with a rhinoceros and a tall, bearded man. She met Marc DeJute last summer while she was teaching at the Salvation Army. He’s 33, works in auto insurance and has been sober 8 years. In March, he surprised her with a hot-air balloon ride and a ring.

They’re getting married in October. But she worries that might mean she has to move. If his income gets combined with hers, they’ll make too much to live in her affordable unit.

***

The community room tables were stacked with gifts for guys: dress shirts, baseball hats, towers of new Bombas socks. Chicken wings, pizzas and potato salad filled the counter.

“We’re so glad you’re all here to celebrate Father’s Day,” program manager Kelly Garrett said that Friday. “You might have a difficult relationship with your own father, or your own kids. You might not have kids, or have seen them. If you feel lost and alone, we’ll come find you.”

Just then, Jojo raced in, brandishing a cardboard dragon, tailed by his mom’s friend, Mark Burgman, 44, who had come for the party. “I’m trying to give his mom a breather,” he said. “She’s been struggling so hard trying to get a job. I’ve never seen her this down.”

Mark helped Jojo fill his plate, got him a pencil to play the dad-themed games. “Let’s see what you got.”

A staffer walked around with a jar of jelly beans. Guess the closest number, get a $10 Publix gift card. As the betting was winding up, Dustin Wirth arrived, fresh off his shift at Walmart.

“What do you think?” he asked Jojo, leaning in to borrow his pencil. When his guess was closest, he gave Jojo the candy.

Dustin, 39, had a dark bun and salt-and-pepper beard. He had lost his job during the pandemic, moved in with his dad. After they had a fight, his dad moved out — and Dustin could no longer afford the $1,500 rent. He lived in his car until it broke down. Then moved to a motel, a tent and, ultimately, a shelter.

Since he had gotten his own apartment, he had been able to have his 14-year-old son sleep over.

“OK, some Father’s Day trivia!” Kelly said, passing out sheets. Jojo studied Dustin’s answers.

What year was Father’s Day first celebrated? 1910, Dustin guessed.

What’s the most popular Father’s Day gift? A tie, he said.

What honey-loving cartoon bear was invented by a father for his son? “Winnie the Pooh,” Dustin told Jojo. “I’m sure of that one.”

When Kelly tallied the responses, Dustin won another $10 Publix card. He’d save them for when he saw his son again.

“What are you doing for Father’s Day?” someone asked.

Smiling slightly, Dustin said, “I guess I’ll call my dad.”

To help, contact Volunteers of America of Florida at 727-369-8500.

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