Adrift at a Tender Age

They are children seeking refuge from uncertain lives, fashioning shelters of imagination, homework and rebellion.

Margarita retreats to a playroom off skid row, where the 7-year-old wriggles into a Cinderella costume and rides to a make-believe castle. Brian, 14, shuts out the world as he battles algebraic equations by the fluorescent light of a Santa Monica laundry. Jason, 17, chain-smokes the day away with a band of teenagers who lounge at a public park.

Their relief is only temporary. They are children without homes.

On this November night, Margarita sleeps at a downtown shelter. Brian curls up in the back of a van parked at a Westside supermarket. Jason crawls into a tent a short walk from Pasadena’s Old Town.

In a painful contrast to a booming economy that has pushed income to all-time highs, the proportion of children among the nation’s homeless is growing, according to national surveys. Although no one knows the exact number, a U.S. Department of Education count of homeless students enrolled at public schools and national surveys of shelters estimate that 1 million children spend part of the year homeless.

A U.S. Conference of Mayors report released this week paints a similar picture: At the depths of the recession in 1991, children and teenagers accounted for 27% of the nation’s homeless population. Now they make up a third, according to the report, which tallied surveys from government and private agencies in 26 cities.

Advocates for the homeless say national prosperity is putting more children and their parents on the streets by driving up housing costs at the same time the government is cutting assistance.

“We have a bull market in homeless women and children,” said Michael Teague, of the Union Rescue Mission in downtown Los Angeles. One of the nation’s largest emergency shelters, the mission provided 104,000 nights of lodging to women and children in 1999, a more than fivefold increase over 1995.

Eighty percent of the parents and children in the mission’s transitional housing program blame poverty; eight years ago, most said drugs and alcohol.

“We can debate forever about the deserving and undeserving homeless,” said Rhonda Meister, executive director of St. Joseph Center in Venice, an agency for the homeless. “What isn’t debatable is that all children deserve to have a good beginning, a safe place to go to bed and enough to eat.”

The stress of poverty, poor health and missed schooling carve away at a child’s potential, said Dr. Ellen Bassuk of the Better Homes Fund, a national charity. “‘These kids have incredible challenges in front of them just to grow up and to grow up OK.”

‘At Least We Have a Car’

Brian stands out among the freshmen at Santa Monica High School. He is exceptionally intelligent, plays a mean game of chess and tackles second-year algebra with ease.

There’s another difference that sets him apart from classmates, one he takes pains to hide.

He lives with his mother, sister and three dogs in a van. Twice since Thanksgiving they have been forced to move from one parking lot to another.

Their life, said Brian’s 12-year-old sister, is embarrassing.

She has an academic scholarship to a private school attended by children of Hollywood stars and doesn’t want any of them to know how she lives. The family uses supermarket restrooms and public showers at the beach.

“It’s uncomfortable. It’s cold,” said Brian (his middle name).

He’s shy, and goes hours without speaking, even in the family’s small quarters. But at school, where Brian qualifies for free breakfast and lunch, “I feel like I’m someone else,” he said.

His family has been on the streets since August. It’s an odd predicament for two gifted children and an educated mother; she has a master’s degree in French, and spent a year at the Sorbonne.

A divorce, and her limited work experience, led the woman and her family to a life in their van. Her ex-husband no longer pays child support.

In 1996, the mother got a teaching job with the Compton school district, a position that lasted one year. She wants to teach full time but lacks the credentials. Twice, she paid to take the California Basic Educational Skills Test, but said she canceled because she couldn’t get a baby-sitter.

As the money dried up, the family moved to Lomita, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with a friend. The housemate moved in August, leaving them a $500-a-month apartment. The family’s monthly income is $454 in public assistance and $190 in food stamps.

So they moved into their van.

Brian graduated with honors from his Lomita middle school in June, earning an award from the California Junior Scholarship Federation, as well as medals in math and social studies.

He decided on Santa Monica High School because of its academic reputation. Brian registered at the school as homeless. Public schools must accept students if they live in the district, even if it is in a car.

He has a half-hour walk to campus, and plans to become a pediatrician or a veterinarian. The children do their homework inside the van until darkness forces Brian and his sister into the nearby laundry.

Dinner is usually canned corn, potato salad or some other cold food their mother buys with food stamps.

Last week, she met with social workers who hope to find the family housing. The lodging won’t be available before year’s end, at best.

“At least we have a car,” the mother said. “There are people who are worse off than me.”

Searching for a Way Out

Margarita is a vivacious second-grader who excelled at spelling until she was yanked from school last month. Her mother, Marisol Urena, brought her and three younger sisters on a bus from Yuma, Ariz.

Sitting on a patio at the Union Rescue Mission one recent morning, Urena said she is a former drug user and served time in prison for assault. She is now a born-again Christian, but is still having a hard time pulling her life together.

Her children, ages 3 months to 7 years, could have stayed with their grandmother or aunts, but Urena, 26, said she was not welcome. Urena moved to Los Angeles because she heard the city treats its homeless well. That’s a lie, she has since decided.

Margarita, however, likes recounting her journey.

There were so many buildings to see. Tall ones, mirrored ones, lighted ones, beautiful ones with palm trees. She’s fascinated by buildings, with the exception of the shelter. “There is no privacy in here,” she said, referring to the open showers and toilets.

Margarita has thick, curly, brown hair with matching lashes draped over hazel eyes, a smiling child.

At the mission, she gobbled down a breakfast of cereal, scrambled eggs and toast. The mission workers hurried the diners along. Keeping to the schedule is important there, even though the women have nowhere to go. At 9:30 a.m., they were ushered into a room next door, where they plopped down into plastic chairs lined up for a church service.

The days are monotonous, broken only by meals, twice-daily sermons and Pokemon videos in the afternoon. Some knit. Few venture outside to the street, where abusive boyfriends or husbands, drug dealers and other dangers lurk.

Margarita often grows bored. “Ask me questions,” she urged a visitor. She talked about wanting to be a doctor. She yearns for her old room at her grandmother’s house, the one with posters of Mickey Mouse. She misses school.

Margarita tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Can we go to the ‘Mommy and Me’ room?” she pleaded again and again. Urena finally agreed.

The playroom is a child’s paradise, lined with toy-packed shelves. Marisola, 2, found a doll-sized stroller. Her older sisters, Margarita and Mara, 6, rushed to a box of costumes.

Margarita became Cinderella, a favorite new game. Too soon, it was time for lunch. “Can we come back?” she asked. Her mother didn’t answer.

Afterward, they gathered for the day’s final sermon. Step up and pray with us, the preacher intoned. Margarita went forward. There are two things she asks of the almighty. “Presents at Christmas,” she said. “To go home.”

Margarita’s grandmother came to Los Angeles the day before Thanksgiving, taking her, Mara and Marisola back to Yuma. They were fortunate: Two weeks on the streets is a short time for the average homeless child.

Their 3-month-old sister and mother left the shelter Monday.

Finding Companionship

What Jason Smith and his street family lack in possessions they make up for in companionship.

Together they ask passersby in Old Town for spare change--they call it spanging--and on a good night they can each earn $20 or more. They share joints and cigarettes. Some, including Jason, have a camp near a freeway ramp.

Jason is one of the younger members of a 15-member clique, a thin rail of a kid who looks like the boy next door. He stands just over 6 feet, with short, neatly combed hair, a clean T-shirt and baggy jeans.

Like most homeless teenagers, he guards his privacy. Whether they’ve run away or are forced out of their homes because of abuse or conflict, street kids are reluctant to seek help for fear of being caught by authorities.

Many of Jason’s group are homeless part-time; they live with family or friends for a while, then “squat” again.

Hollywood has traditionally been one of the more popular destinations. But these days, more street teenagers are turning up in Santa Monica and Pasadena, where they say they feel safer.

Dan Roten, director of Jacob House, said he served twice as many young people this year as last year, providing food, showers and washing machines. Many of the youths, he said, believe life on the street is better than in their homes.

Jason speaks bitterly about his former life at home in Pomona. He doesn’t get along with his parents. His mother, in turn, complains he’s irresponsible. It’s his choice to live on the streets, she said.

Since summer, Jason has lived in a pup tent. Shogun, a street veteran, sleeps in a tent nearby. Nick, 19, and his current girlfriend also share the clearing.

Jason hides his tent beneath a camouflage-design blanket, a precaution against police who made the group leave a former campsite.

During the day, Jason hangs out with friends. They talk about new love and broken hearts while lighting up one Marlboro after another. On a recent afternoon, Jason picked up a friend’s guitar and strummed. He kissed his newest flame, a 15-year-old girl who lives at home.

Often, he said, life is boring. But a sense of pride and family keeps him on the streets. His friends look to each other for what children seek at home. There are hugs hello, hugs goodbye, hugs when they are happy or sad. “We’re all good friends and take care of each other,” said Linda, 17.

Still, Jason wants out.

He talks about taking the California high school proficiency examination in April. He longs to study the piano and guitar so he can teach children. “He’s got a lot of potential,” said Shogun, who at 25 is the oldest of the group.

One afternoon, a pickup truck stopped by the park. It was Jason’s uncle, he said. When he returned, Jason had good news. Business had picked up and Jason was offered a job and a week’s stay at a motel.

“I’m going to get my own apartment,” he boasted. “I’ll make a thousand a week, or every other week.”

He asked Linda to bleach his hair blond, which she did, using the park’s water fountain as a sink. Then he waited for his uncle, who Jason said would arrive at 6 p.m. to take him to his new home.

At 7 p.m., Jason was still waiting. “He’s not coming,” he said finally, and ambled over to Old Town.