Success goes beyond statistics at St. Petersburg’s housing experiment

The Tampa Bay Times has been covering the housing experiment since residents moved in on Valentine’s Day 2024. This is the eighth and final chapter.

One year in

ST. PETERSBURG — Janet Stringfellow knows who leaves early for work, who gets Domino’s delivered, who calls Ubers — and how often. She notices new boyfriends. Who walks their kids to school. Who doesn’t.

From her second-story office, she can see the doors to both apartment buildings of the housing experiment — and can watch residents navigate their new lives.

“I wish we had taken a photo of them when they moved in,” Janet told a colleague one January afternoon, gazing over the parking lot. “They all look so different. Some you can barely recognize.”

It’s been a year since tenants arrived at Innovare’s brand-new apartments, carrying garbage bags of their belongings. A former nurse, a cook, a medical receptionist, disabled, retired, many with mental challenges. They had lived in cars, tents and shelters, some for years. Others had been forced into the streets because of untenable rents.

Counselors had chosen them from thousands of homeless people across Tampa Bay because they seemed able to live on their own, with a little help.

They got keys to 25 furnished apartments downtown, near Bayfront Hospital. Staff helped them get jobs and Medicaid, make life plans, apply for vouchers to cover their reduced rent.

Another 25 units were leased as affordable housing, for residents earning less than $37,000 a year. Rent is 30% of their income, as little as $1,000 a month.

The project, sponsored by Florida’s Volunteers of America, is the first of its kind, said Janet, who oversees the nonprofit: a place where homeless people live side by-side with low-income renters, where support services are just downstairs.

“We were so worried,” Janet said. “So many people said this would never work.”

She and her staff had expected vandalism, fights, revolving doors of residents. When you take people living on the streets and make them follow rules, tolerate inspections and meet expectations, there will be conflict, she said. “We thought people would trash the buildings.”

Instead, staff had to convince some tenants it was OK to shower and use their stoves; everything was so nice, they worried they’d mess them up.

Most residents keep their units immaculate. They are proud to have a place of their own.

The project has been so successful, sponsors hope it will be replicated. In March, leaders of 29 state chapters of Volunteers of America are coming to tour Innovare. “It is absolutely a model for other communities we want to build,” said Mike King, CEO of the national nonprofit.

Since the apartments opened, only two low-income residents had moved out. Two more had moved in, after months on the waitlist.

And no one had been kicked out.

“Until two days ago,” Janet said just before the one-year mark. “We had to call the cops after that couple started fighting about shrimp.”

• • •

Janet and her chief financial officer were supposed to be discussing data in her office that afternoon, compiling metrics to share with investors at Innovare’s anniversary celebration.

But she kept getting distracted by people crossing the parking lot, remarking on their evolution. Sure, some were still struggling with trauma. Five still didn’t have jobs — or any income. But everyone was progressing, if only with small steps.

There went the former cook, Walter Sloan, 54, zipping by on his electric scooter. When he’d arrived from the tent city, his knee was so messed up he could barely walk.

And that was Virginia Moral, 72, and her daughter, Amanda, 36, heading to the community room to use the computer. Virginia was skeletal when they arrived. Now, her face has filled in and she glows with pride for Amanda, who is working on an online associate’s degree.

Even LaShannon Burns, 26, seemed to be settling in. In April, she gave birth to the first baby at Innovare. Now, the little girl is toddling around, with a circle of other moms making sure she doesn’t fall.

“I hoped they would all begin to heal,” Janet said. “But I never thought they’d come together so much as a community.”

When a neighbor Kwanisha Palmer barely knew went into labor, Kwanisha, 38, went with her to the hospital, cut the umbilical cord — then took care of the woman’s toddlers for days. Another single mom made meals. LaShannon gave her baby clothes.

The retired nurse watches a single mom’s son. A young man carries groceries for his elderly neighbors. Women do each other’s hair.

Janet wasn’t sure how to record those milestones on a spreadsheet. You can track whether people are employed, paying their utilities, meeting goals.

But success, she had learned, can’t always be measured in statistics.

How do you calculate the value of a place you can finally bring your teenage son home to? Or where you can invite your dad? Or sleep swaddled in silence? How can you measure the joy of a community room and people to celebrate with on Thanksgiving? Of finding family among strangers who had suffered similar journeys? Of no longer feeling judged?

Of having a home?

• • •

For eight years, Janet had dreamed of this project: A place where people can have stable housing and support to reclaim their lives. Somewhere safe and permanent, where they can stay as long as they like. A small dent in Tampa Bay’s housing crisis.

After cobbling together $18 million in public and private grants and loans, her nonprofit constructed two six-story towers right off the highway. Two counselors live in the apartments; one is always on call.

The Volunteers of America relocated its Florida headquarters into the first floor, so staff could be closer to the people they serve.

Counselors host a weekly AA meeting, Bible study, Bingo, movie nights. They held a vaccination clinic and recently added music therapy.

And since staff put picnic tables with umbrellas behind the dumpsters, people are sneaking fewer cigarettes inside.

When community organizations read about the experiment, volunteers set up a food pantry, added a clothes closet, donated books. Lawyers took on a dozen residents’ cases pro bono. Regions Bank helped people set up accounts. A garden club is coming to plant vegetables.

Most complaints haven’t been about residents, but about visitors: people letting homeless friends stay over, propping open doors to let them sleep in the lobby. A tenant’s boyfriend punched a hole in the wall outside Janet’s office. “But no one damaged the laundry or the furniture,” she said.

No one has spent a night in jail, or a psychiatric ward, or a hospital. “Except when four babies were born.” Think of all the money that saved taxpayers, Janet said. “We can house people for about one-third the price of what it takes to support them on the streets.”

Counselors don’t know of any residents in recovery who’ve relapsed.

But Janet said the man they had to evict was drunk when he and his girlfriend started arguing.

The couple had met at Pinellas Hope shelter, where they lived in nearby tents. At Innovare, they moved into separate apartments but often cooked together. That night, while they were screaming about shrimp, Janet said, “She texted a counselor that he was attacking her.”

When police arrived, the woman’s face was bruised, her lip swollen. The man grabbed the woman “by the neck with his left hand,” the officers’ report said, “and with his right hand punched the victim several times in the face and upper body.”

Police charged the man with domestic battery. He spent 30 days in rehab and is banned from the apartments.

But a new grant allows staff to reach out to homeless people in the community. The counselor who called the cops on that man is trying to help him find somewhere to live. “He was one of ours,” Janet said. “Now he has to start all over again.”

“You know what they say,” she said: “When the Lord closes a door, he opens a window.”

For the first time since the housing experiment debuted, an apartment for someone who is homeless became available.

• • •

Glittery cloths, dotted with hearts, blanketed the tables. Hydrating masks and facial creams flanked each chair.

The day before the anniversary celebration, staff turned the community room into a Valentine’s spa.

“So what’ll it be?” counselor Raina Wagman, 26, asked a resident at her makeshift manicure stand. “Pick whatever you like.”

Working with residents for the last year had changed Raina — and her understanding of recovery. She had been so focused on following the 12 steps herself, she hadn’t considered other paths. Everyone makes progress at their own pace, she came to understand. You can’t scold or shame. You have to meet people where they are, build self-esteem and confidence.

And she had to learn to set boundaries, especially after she got married. When her husband moved into Innovare with her in October, she had to remind residents she wasn’t working on weekends. They had to call the other counselor.

“It’s hard not to get frustrated,” Raina said. “You have to learn to celebrate incremental achievements. … We’re just getting started.”

While Raina painted nails, counselor Christy Smith poured mocktails into plastic flutes. They wanted the residents to feel special, pampered. To celebrate their year together.

“You all have been working so hard,” Christy said. “Look how far you’ve come.”

Kalin Stokes, 41, struggled to unwrap a cupcake with her new, inch-long press-ons. Of all the residents, Janet worried most about her.

A year ago, Kalin and her son, Jojo, had been living in their car. Now he had his own bedroom, a remote-control truck and a little dog, Chichi. Jojo had turned 9 at Innovare; a Tampa Bay Times reader had bought him a blue bike.

His teachers kept calling. He can’t sit still.

Kalin suffers from anxiety, PTSD. When school started, she couldn’t walk Jojo to third grade because the crowds of parents overwhelmed her. Counselor Christy walked with them every morning, every afternoon.

For a few months, Kalin had a job at Tropicana Field, but that ended with the hurricanes. She sold their car to pay the light bill.

She got a $2,000 income tax refund in January, enough to buy matching Michael Jordan letterman jackets for her and her son — and a laptop so she could log onto Indeed and upload the resume Raina had helped her make.

“I got a bus pass. I made a friend in my building. I’m growing oregano,” Kalin told Christy.

Recently, she had started seeing a therapist virtually. For the last month, she had taken Jojo to school alone. A triumph.

“Are you coming to the ceremony tomorrow?” Christy asked.

Kalin hung her head. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Kwanisha had signed up for the last manicure of the day. She had quit her job cleaning motel rooms because her back hurt and had been living rent-free since fall. Her daughter, Kemaria, who graduated from Gibbs High in May, had planned to join the military but wasn’t ready to leave home. Kemaria, 19, was looking for work at the hospital, sitting with patients or cleaning rooms. Kwanisha’s teenage sons had missed school for months but finally had re-enrolled after a reader sent money for uniforms.

She hoped her oldest, Jakari, would graduate in May. He had moved a mattress into Kwanisha’s closet to have his own space in their two-bedroom apartment. Her youngest son, Ja’Den, was still sleeping on the sofa. None of her children had ever had a job.

“At least we’re all finally together,” said Kwanisha, whose older kids had couch-surfed while she and her youngest were in shelters. “We’re stable now. And for the first time, we don’t have to live with anyone else.”

Kwanisha still can’t believe the apartment is all theirs. She walks around talking to her house, greeting it like a friend. “Hey, living room! What’s up, bedroom? I’m home!”

• • •

On Valentine’s Day, more than 100 people packed the parking lot to celebrate Innovare’s first birthday.

Behind the orange towers, luxury condos were rising. Beside them, a vacant lot hosted a homeless camp rimmed by milk carton stools.

Just before 10 a.m., Janet greeted sponsors from Raymond James, PNC Bank, United Healthcare, First Florida Insurance Brokers, Catholic Charities, from churches, local governments and the chamber of commerce.

When she saw residents hovering near the back of the crowd, all dressed up, she broke down.

Walt had pressed his pink checkered shirt and white pants, laced salmon shoes and donned a matching tam cap. Donna Watson, 65, had lost 25 pounds and zipped on a navy crepe dress she had gotten from the clothes closet. Kwanisha was wearing a new mustard jumpsuit. Even Kalin had shown up, sweating in her Jordan jacket.

“It has been a journey,” Janet said, wiping her eyes. “Look at you all.”

She told the crowd how residents had helped each other and learned to ask for help. She said they had surprised her and made her proud. She read a report card: Four babies born, another on the way; one graduation, another planned for May; 35 cooking classes, 52 trips to a food pantry, 600 hours of case management.

“We need to do part two of this — another project,” Janet said. “There are so many more people out there who need this.”

She asked residents to come up front for photos. And hugs.

“Thank you,” whispered Nicole “Nic” Lines, 40. “This is the first time I’ve had stable housing since I was a kid.”

Innovare already has inspired other projects: In March, the Volunteers of America will open 35 units for homeless and low-income residents in Marianna, near the Alabama state line. In May, the nonprofit plans to lease 31 similar apartments on the Space Coast. And in Washington, DC, the group is building 110 units for seniors and veterans — and relocating its headquarters there, so staff can be closer to the people they help.

Counselors at the housing experiment still want to add wellness screenings for residents and dental care. Janet hopes to buy another van, hire a driver to take people to doctors’ appointments and job interviews. She wants to add a third counselor, expand services to the low-income residents, help the hundreds of people on Innovare’s waiting list.

“So many people didn’t believe in this,” Janet told the crowd. “But we always did.”

• • •

After the speeches, a white-haired man slipped past the cameras and rode the elevator to the second floor.

Joseph Drago, 70, had moved into his apartment two days earlier with bulging trash bags and baggies of ketchup and mustard packets.

He had bounced between shelters, slept in vacant lots and under the interstate and landed in the Salvation Army, where he met Christy. He had been on Innovare’s waiting list for almost a year. And he was the first homeless person to move in since the complex opened.

The first thing he did was laundry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had clean clothes. Then he took a hot shower, a long one. No one was waiting in line.

“What a blessing. I haven’t had a home since 1990,” said Joseph, who ran a tree company before succumbing to crack. “It feels really nice to be here, to know I can stay.”

He planned to unpack after the celebration, listen to a Bible podcast, hang out alone.

But after a few minutes, he headed downstairs to the common room. Not for the free coffee and cupcakes. He wanted to meet his neighbors.