As a young unhoused person, I received no government help. My church turned its back, as did my biological family.

My mother had reported me to the college I was attending when she discovered I was Queer. They revoked my athletic scholarship and told me to be out in 24 hours. I lost everything overnight.

Know who showed up? A Black transgender woman, a sex worker. She gave me and my partner money to stay in a pay-by-the-hour hotel. I can still feel the hot tears of gratitude and shame as she gently lifted my face, looked into my eyes, and said, “That’s what family does, baby. We help.” As she instructed, I continue to pay it forward.

Today, around 40% of Queer incarcerated youth in California — who are more likely than their straight, gender conforming peers to experience family rejection — have experienced homelessness after either being kicked out of their family home or running away. Ninety percent of these Queer kids are also global majority people of color — people of Indigenous, African, Asian or Latin American ancestry. And around 50% of girls locked up (mostly for survival crimes) in juvenile halls are Queer.

In other words, we are willing to provide them with housing — in a cell. That costs $89 per person per day, money that could be used to house them for real.

I am one of the lucky ones. It could have gone very differently for me, without that woman who had so little but chose to help others.

When people say that unhoused people want to be out there on the streets and in the elements, they are shocked when I tell them my experience. The conversation about unhoused and poor people must change. When we know the facts, we can help shift that conversation and find solutions that offer a person a first step towards dignity.

Queer kids already face high rates of neglect, abuse and rejection from family members. A California survey found that 35% of Queer kids who are incarcerated had been removed from their home because someone was hurting them. Those youth are more than twice as likely to have been removed from their home and almost four times as likely to have been placed in a group or foster home because someone was hurting them.

Their safety is even more in question now. The Trevor Project, a nonprofit that provides crisis support for LGBTQ+ youth, saw a 700% increase in overall calls, texts and and chats after the election. I feel a lot of fear for them.

I recently visited two Vashon community organizations that work with our local kids, including Queer kids and families, offering emotional support and physical sustenance. The people doing that important work deserve our gratitude, not criticism.

After that beautiful transgender woman gave us a start, we were able to get into an apartment that we shared with three other couples. Then I was able to buy my first home, a trailer.

Another friend let me build credit as a cosigner on her credit card. She took a big risk. I drove a cab to pay the bills after being injured on another job and denied treatment for my back injury. Driving cab taught me a great deal, but it made my back injury worse.

Another woman gave me a good, safe job as a prep cook. I worked my way up onto the floor and finally to manager. There, I found a new family. I was able to get my college degree after an instructor helped me obtain a Pell grant. That was a fight, as my parents continued to claim me as a dependent on their taxes.

The road to dignity was long and hard. Helping others find their dignity means showing up. It means educating ourselves about what we can do. It means lending a hand, however we can.

I wish I could thank that Black transgender woman today and pay her back. I can’t imagine that she survived, because she helped me at the height of the AIDS crisis, and her work put her in danger every day. I survived because of her kindness. Her words echo in my heart: “That’s what family does, baby. We help.”

Thank you, Vashon Youth and Family Services, DOVE, Women Hold the Key, Journeymen, O Space, Vashon Food Bank, Meals on Wheels, Interfaith Council to Prevent Homelessness, and all the humans who show up to help.

As Mr. Rogers’ mother said, “Look for the helpers.”

Be a helper.

Jamie Wolf is the CEO of two training businesses focused on DEIA, leadership, nonviolent communication, trauma informed care and ethical decision making. He also enjoys boating, beekeeping, hanging out with his Icelandic Sheepdogs and spending time with his beloved community on Vashon Island.