Between a highway and hope: A woman struggles for housing

If you ignore the thousands of cars zooming past just yards away, Debra Griego has one of the best views in Albuquerque from her thin, shambly tent. The highway to one side and the sweeping mountains to the east, and sparkling city to the south, are much like her mind: divided between zooming thoughts and calm acceptance.

She and her little terrier Louie have spent the last year living atop a hill backing right up to Interstate 40. She likes her spot: it’s not far from the storage unit she rents. “It’s beautiful, huh?” she says.

Griego, 64, is plagued by health issues: she’s diagnosed bipolar with depression and mild dementia and wonders if she’s also schizophrenic. She’s incontinent and was diagnosed with cancer in March. The mother of three is running out of money and coming up on almost a year since being evicted from government-subsidized housing. Valley Apartments, the complex from which she was evicted, declined to comment.

Still, she believes she is not sick enough, old enough, poor enough or addicted enough to get assistance from the city. Griego is one of 5,000 residents that the city estimates doesn’t have shelter as housing costs locally and nationally soar and the availability of affordable housing is strained.

She’s making the best of her situation while waiting for assistance and helping those around her when she can. “Before I became homeless, I’d give them $2 here and there and I would bring them food,” Griego says as tears trickle down her cheeks, glowing in the sunset with the city’s stocky skyline as a backdrop. “I hurt for them. I cry because I want better for them.”

She doesn’t have much, but she uses what she does have to help those around her when possible and also to spoil 2-year-old Louie. All of her children are grown: her youngest son is in prison, her daughter is in Oklahoma, and she doesn’t say where her eldest son is. As she begins her nightly routine, Griego wheels Louie down the hill in a stroller: the best $15 she ever spent as it keeps goatheads off his paws.

Louie’s a good guard dog, considering his size — no more than 20 pounds and less than a foot tall — and he’s as loyal as can be, barking ferociously the moment someone is in the vicinity of his owner’s campsite. His fur is shaggy but not matted. He’s patient, too, a trait he likely learned from Griego.

Griego has been applying for housing vouchers, which the city provides to people through eight nonprofits: the Barrett Foundation, Catholic Charities, HopeWorks, Therapeutic Living Services, Serenity Mesa, Heading Home, New Day Youth and Family Services and Albuquerque Healthcare for the Homeless.

Griego is hoping to join the ranks of the 1,322 souls from 730 households that have received permanent housing in Albuquerque, according to Connor Woods, a spokesperson for the city’s Health, Housing and Homelessness department.

But to qualify for a permanent voucher, an individual has to meet criteria from the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). “Based on HUD’s definition, an individual must have a disability and have experienced homelessness for a year or more, or four episodes of homelessness in the past three years,” Woods says. He adds that the permanent vouchers are prioritized by acuity, and sharpness of thought is a struggle for Griego and many suffering from mental illness on the streets of Albuquerque.

The city confirmed Griego visited the Health, Housing and Homelessness office just a few weeks ago and said they connected her to services such as the Albuquerque Community Safety Department and Social Service Centers. She will hit an entire year without housing on Dec. 12.

The sun has set and Griego’s journey to a warm meal continues, now that she and Louie are down the hill, onto the frontage road, making a stop at her storage unit.

There, everything she owns — not in her tent — is packed: clean blankets, cash, dog beds, a coat for herself and some sweaters for Louie. She also has some rocks and pebbles there that she believes are gold “dust” that she’s collected from the area around her campsite. She’s worried because she can’t renew her lease there because she’s homeless and has been told to move all of her things out by Monday.

She fetches money for her meal, a coat and a couple of extra blankets for the cold night ahead. As she approaches a busy intersection under the highway, she visits with her friend Sarah Cordova.

Cordova has been living on the streets for seven years and knew Griego when she had an apartment where Cordova says she’d let her shower and would provide her with a warm meal. Griego’s empathy, Cordova says, hasn’t dissipated despite becoming homeless herself.

“She’s very kind,” Cordova says. “If she can help you, she will.”

Cordova is helping Griego this time, giving her a box of adult diapers she purchased for her. Griego thanks her as she continues to make her way down the frontage road.

Both on her way down the road and back to her campsite cars fly off the exit ramp, rarely slowing or watching for people crossing the streets: this is not meant to be a pedestrian zone. Albuquerque has one of the highest rates of pedestrian vehicular deaths in the country and had a record-setting 56 fatalities in 2023.

Griego makes her way safely to Dollar General to purchase ingredients for her meal: a challenge as the store is closing soon and their selection is increasingly Soviet. She takes her time selecting the items and even asks for Louie’s input on what kind of noodles to get, waving them in front of his face. His tail wags the most for spaghetti.

She’s thrilled with the bargain she gets: a flashlight, noodles, pasta sauce, beef and chips for just a little over $10. She makes her way back down the frontage road to Love’s Travel Stop, where the employees let her prepare her meals.

She uses hot water from the coffee maker while breaking the spaghetti into thirds into a bowl and putting it in the microwave. “You have to be creative, food’s expensive,” Griego says.

As she cooks, Louie lays at her feet waiting patiently.

She packs up the stroller, loading the warm bowls of food on the sides, setting down a blanket in front and putting Louie in the middle. She hopes it will keep him warm.

Around the corner, behind the gas station, is Adrian McKellar, who has lived without shelter in Albuquerque for the last eight years. McKellar and Griego met on the streets and became friends while his wife camped with her.

McKellar has spent over 20 years — most of his adult life — bouncing around Texas prisons. McKellar says he was told after his release by officials in Longview, Texas, to leave the town and that they paid for his Greyhound ticket to New Mexico.

Now, just like Griego, he just wants some stable housing and a second shot at life.

“I just really wish that somebody would see me as a human being again. I really wish I could be human again and just be treated that way,” McKellar says.

Griego gets back to her tent and she and Louie enjoy their meal before snuggling in for the night. Little did either realize this would be their last night in that tent: the next day someone stole it. That was her fourth tent of the year. If she actually were to get housing after her first full year on the streets, this wouldn’t be a problem, but no one, especially Griego, knows what will happen.

Editor’s note: As much as possible, the Journal will be following Griego in her quest to secure housing. This is intended as the first in a series of stories.

Correction: This story has been updated to reflect the correct number and names of nonprofits that provide Permanent Supportive Housing vouchers.