ST. PETERSBURG — As the residents set out for the ballgame, LaShannon Burns watched her son, Jermaine, 5, skip ahead. He hadn’t seemed that happy in forever.
She shouldered her daughter, 5-month-old Da’maya — the first baby born at the housing experiment — and walked with the group toward Tropicana Field.
Tenants of Innovare apartments can see the stadium from their windows. Most had never been to a professional sporting event.
On that night in late August, the Tampa Bay Rays had donated 35 seats for a game against the Padres. It would be the residents’ first outing together.
LaShannon, 26, was grateful for the perk — and for the apartment.
She had shared a room with her son most of his life. By February, when the 50 new apartments opened, she had finally scraped together enough to rent one.
Without the housing experiment, LaShannon said, her daughter would never have been born.
Yet the place didn’t fully feel like hers, she said.
Half of the complex is subsidized for residents who used to be homeless, with extensive, free support. The other half — her half — is leased as affordable housing. She pays more, and gets less.
Residents, she said, are “Not separate, not equal.”
• • •
For the first few months, counselors had focused mostly on the formerly homeless tenants. Then staff noticed that people in the low-income units seemed to struggle more — especially the single moms.
Many of those residents also need counseling and other support, said Florida’s Volunteers of America CEO Janet Stringfellow, who spearheaded the project. But they don’t qualify for the same programs as their neighbors.
“They’re working so hard, but they have so many obstacles,” she said. “They’re only a few paychecks from homelessness, too.”
For staff of the housing experiment, the outset seemed surprisingly smooth. Tenants settled in, made budgets, learned each others’ names, even babysat neighbors’ children. Residents seemed unwilling to mess up a rare shot at starting over.
Then problems and resentments emerged.
In September, seven people at Innovare were behind a total of $7,000 in rent, mostly for low-income units. The property manager took a tenant to court for missed payments. Police came for a domestic battery. They came again to Baker Act someone and when a resident’s boyfriend punched a hole in the hall.
No one has been evicted — yet.
As rents rise around Tampa Bay, and a new Florida law makes it illegal for people to sleep outside, waiting lists at shelters are swelling. The homeless population has grown to one of the country’s largest. Last year, more than 16,000 people across the area didn’t have homes.
The housing experiment is the first of its kind, a model leaders hope will be replicated across the country, an $18 million partnership between nonprofits, local governments and federal funding. Its mission is to give people a home where they can live independently, plus the resources to succeed.
Janet and her nonprofit spent eight years developing plans and building the two six-story towers. They got grants, housing vouchers and loans, offered developers tax credits. Federal housing guidelines dictate rent.
Residents have to earn less than $37,000 — 60% of Tampa Bay’s median income — and pay 30% of whatever they earn, whether they have a job or are collecting disability. If they’re not bringing in money, they owe nothing.
So though they live next door in identical units, share elevators and the laundry room, residents’ rents vary wildly. While some of those who were once homeless pay nothing, most of their low-income neighbors who work full-time pay more than $1,000 a month.
They have to follow the same rules, open their homes to the same inspections. But because of funding and insurance regulations, they don’t get the same services.
For people who were homeless, the St. Petersburg Housing Authority provides vouchers funded by the federal government to cover some or all of their rent. The affordable units are underwritten by tax credits to developers such as Raymond James.
When the homeless people moved in, plaques by their doors listed donors who had supplied the furnishings: beds, blankets, couches, tables, towels, even pots and silverware.
The affordable units were empty.
Grants from area agencies fund on-site counselors to meet weekly with the people who were homeless, most of whom have mental health diagnoses. Renters can ask for help but don’t get regular sessions or case plans.
Everyone at Innovare is invited to monthly residents’ meetings, movie nights, resume workshops, cooking classes, holiday parties. Anyone can get food from the community kitchen, pick up shirts or earrings from the donation table. Fliers by the elevator offer free legal assistance and tutoring. Counselors have helped tenants of affordable units enroll their kids in school, get vaccines, even find free beds.
But a new van for the complex can’t be used by people in the low-income units. They can’t take advantage of rides to the food pantry, Walmart or doctors’ appointments.
“It’s awful. It makes us feel so bad,” said counselor Raina Wagman. “How do you tell someone, ‘I’m taking your neighbor. But I can’t take you.’?”
• • •
Janet hoped residents would sit together at the Rays game, get to know each other.
“So many of them haven’t even been to the movies in years. All their money has to be for food and rent,” she said. “Entertainment brings healing, too.”
But their seats were spread across center field.
Nine-year-old Jojo Stokes wriggled in beside Raina. His mom, whom he’d lived with in her car, had gotten a job at one of the concession stands and was working, so he clung to the counselor. He couldn’t wait to eat cotton candy. Donna Watson, 65, had spent months alone in a tent. She sat near the railing with her new boyfriend, who she met at Innovare.
LaShannon slid into a seat, jiggling her baby girl. Her son kept staring up at the tall dome, then down at the field. In the week since kindergarten had started, Jermaine had been called to the principal’s office six times.
“Becoming a big brother has been hard on him,” LaShannon said. “He’s used to being the baby.”
At the game, he couldn’t stop grinning.
LaShannon was 20, still living with her mom in Jordan Park, when her son was born. Her mom babysat for free. “But when I got pregnant again, Mom said, ‘You’re on your own.’”
She couldn’t bear the thought of raising two kids in her childhood room, with her brother and his friend and dogs crammed in the house. “I didn’t want to bring my baby into that world,” she said.
She started saving for an abortion. And praying.
Soon, someone told her about new low-income units that were about to open at Innovare — where she would have room for two kids.
“I was overly excited, so thankful,” LaShannon said. Where else could she find two bedrooms for $1,026 a month?
She didn’t know the buildings also included people who had been homeless. Or that those neighbors would get different treatment.
“I don’t judge. I’m glad they’re getting help,” she said. “But none of us regular people can get help because we didn’t come from the streets.”
After her baby was born, LaShannon got a job at a daycare because she couldn’t afford childcare. She works full time, makes $14 an hour, pays $20 to Uber there and back each day. At the end of each month, she can barely come up with her rent — much less $300 for the electric bill.
“I work for everything. Then I see some people sitting around smoking cigarettes all day,” she said, her voice rising. “I don’t get counseling. I don’t get rides to Walmart. I didn’t get furniture or utility vouchers.”
“Regulars,” as she calls low-income renters, have to follow the same rules as those who were homeless: No smoking inside. No guests for more than two weeks. Keep your apartment clean and the air conditioning at 75 degrees.
They’re subject to the same surveillance. “There are cameras everywhere,” LaShannon said. “Our apartments get inspected and they rate us.” If you pay rent anywhere else, she said, “they don’t keep coming in to make sure you’re keeping it clean.”
By the fifth inning, Jojo’s cotton candy had kicked in, and he was squealing for someone to throw him a ball. Donna’s boyfriend, who has PTSD, was overwhelmed by the lights and noise. They had to walk home.
LaShannon’s baby had fallen asleep. Jermaine was begging for a hot dog she couldn’t afford. Time to go.
She hadn’t met any of her neighbors. But with the free tickets, she finally had gotten to enjoy one of their benefits — and see her son smile.
• • •
In mid-September, a bus pulled up outside of Innovare. Florida’s Supportive Housing Coalition had gathered more than 220 people from across the state for a conference. The housing experiment was their first stop.
Three formerly homeless residents gave tours of their apartments.
“We came from the tent city. When it rained, we had to huddle in the middle, and we still got wet,” said Virginia Moral, 72, who lives with her 36-year-old daughter. “Everything is provided here. It just lifts your self-esteem so much.”
Suzanne Mailloux, who leads Jacksonville’s chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness, admired the granite countertops, the loveseat, and thought of her sister, who has schizophrenia. “She’s been homeless,” she said, tearing up. “This is an incredible opportunity for people like her to get to live on their own and have some stability.”
Counselors explained they don‘t charge late fees and schedule rent around when people get Social Security checks. “We’re a little more lenient than most landlords,” said Dennis McElhaney, 59, the new property manager. “Everyone here is coming from crisis.”
A formerly homeless woman didn’t want to shower because she was afraid she’d mess up the bathroom. Another wouldn’t use her stove because she wanted to keep it clean.
Two low-income tenants had moved out. One dropped off her key. No one knew where she went. The other had reunited with her sister, and they decided to move into a townhome together.
By the end of September, for the first time, two low-income units were available. More than 100 people on the waitlist had been hoping all year.
• • •
“You made it!” staffer Marie Morey cheered on Oct. 1, when Laquida Carter walked into Innovare. “This will be really quick. Just a few things to sign. Did you bring bank statements? Proof of income? ID?”
Pulling papers from her purse, Laquida nodded. “I got money orders from Publix.”
Laquida, 35, was the first person to move into the housing experiment since February. Nine months after signing up for the “affordable” apartment, she had finally gotten the call. She squealed when she heard the voicemail, then played it for her roommates.
After all these years, she would finally have a place of her own.
Now, she just had to figure out how to save $1,000 a month for rent.
“It’ll be tough,” she said. “But I’ll try. I’m looking forward to taking control of my life again.”
At 29, Laquida spent a year in jail, then followed a boyfriend to Texas, where she managed a motel. The next year, she started taking calls at the National Domestic Violence Hotline. During the pandemic, she and her boyfriend moved to Florida.
He cheated. They broke up. “He tried to kill me,” she said, describing him smashing windows, breaking furniture, hitting her with his car.
She fled to a shelter, where she kept working the hotline.
When she lost that job, she lived in her Jetta and got a membership to a 24-hour gym so she could shower. Later, she got work at a Medicare call center and started crashing with friends, paying whatever rent she could, saving and searching for her own place.
A woman at the St. Pete Housing Authority had given her an application for the housing experiment in January. By September, she had almost given up hope.
As Marie went over the 16-page lease, Laquida beamed. Water, sewer and wifi are included. “No crazy parties,” Marie said. “Be respectful of your neighbors.”
She handed Laquida keys, then rode the elevator with her to her new home.
“Thank you,” Laquida said. “Oh, thank you.”
The windows were wide, the walls taupe, the floors faux wood. She opened the refrigerator, the microwave and dishwasher, marveled at the cabinet space.
“Reach out if you need anything,” Marie said. “You just have to ask.”
• • •
During the hurricanes, the housing experiment became a sanctuary — for the staff, too.
The units have stormproof windows. No one had to evacuate. Few had anywhere else to go.
Staffers passed out water and batteries, canned goods. A counselor and her nephew hunkered down in a vacant apartment. Two Volunteers of America workers bunked with their families in their offices.
And resident Dawn Scherer evacuated her 90-year-old dad to her apartment. “He’s done so much for me,” she said. “I was so happy I could have him come here.”
Dawn, 65, lives at Innovare with her gray cat, Lily. She was a surgical nurse for decades but had to stop working in 2002 because she couldn’t stop crying. She has been taking medication, trying to manage the depression.
“I was never able to afford a place for myself,” Dawn said. “I like it by myself. I finally feel safe.”
For years, she and her best friend leased a house in Clearwater, splitting the rent. Since the friend died a decade ago, Dawn has had seven strangers as roommates. Some scared her, keeping her cowering in her room. Then the landlord said he would raise the $650 rent. She didn’t know how she’d manage on her fixed income from Social Security and disability.
Dawn’s dad goes to church with Janet, who told him about the housing experiment. Dawn was one of the first low-income renters to move in.
She pays $864 a month, a bit more than for the shared house. But her dad helps when she struggles. And this place is all hers: the worn recliner, shelf of paperbacks, the tiny end table where she eats from an office chair. The cat welcome mat and framed photo of her dad.
“I can’t afford to do anything anymore, even meet friends for lunch,” Dawn said. “But I’m so grateful to live here.”
Some of her neighbors, she knows, pay less than her — or nothing at all. She knows they get services she doesn’t qualify for, rides to doctors’ appointments.
“It doesn’t thrill me,” she said. “OK, it bothers me a bit. No, it irritates me. I don’t like all these inspections. I don’t need someone watching over me.”
But she was enjoying Bingo at the monthly meetings, playing cards with a neighbor who had been homeless. She was looking forward to seeing kids in the building dressed for Halloween. And she could finally give something back to her dad.
• • •
Hurricane Helene sent water into a couple of units at the housing experiment.
Two weeks later, Milton drove horizontal rain into more. Electricity went out in both buildings.
In the dark, residents watched through their windows as wind bit into Tropicana Field, shearing the domed roof into white ribbons that danced, then flew away.
“No more baseball?” asked Jojo, 9.
His mom, Kalin Stokes, 40, had just started working at the stadium — her first job since moving out of her car.
“No more baseball for now,” she told her son.
How could she tell him the storm also stole their income?
