Mark’s Story

I’ve always tried to belong. To a country, a culture, a language, a role, a spiritual path. I don’t mind being alone, but being alone can at times be lonely. In my 65 years, I’ve taken on many roles, made many decisions and lived a rich and varied life. 

I’m twice married, twice divorced, [and] have four children, two with each marriage. My oldest two live in Annapolis, MD. My younger two in Freiburg, Germany. I love being a father, of all the roles I’ve played; this is by far my favorite. We still communicate frequently and they know how much I love them. My biggest regrets are not being closer to them.  

I’m well educated; I have a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration and a Master’s degree in Computer Systems Management. A big portion of my identity is based on my education. My father encouraged us to get college degrees, his motto being that no matter what happens in our lives, we could never lose our education. Those words were prophetic as I did lose everything and my education helped me transcend beyond my sense of shame and loneliness. 

I’ve led multinational systems implementations, managed IT and Operations departments and consulted organizations in quality control and change management. I’ve also worked as a carpenter, painter and General Contractor.  

I’ve been baptized in the Christian faith, practice Yoga and have an extensive meditative practice. I’ve owned and sold properties, lived in houses, trailers, cars, motels, retreat centers and a homeless shelter. I moved back to the US from Germany over 10 years ago.  Once back, I moved over 20 times within the first 5 years, working as a project manager, carpenter, and stable keeper.  

My father grew up in Argentina, where his father had been transferred to build a factory for Gillette. He later also worked for Gillette; however, with a degree in mechanical engineering, his career path was in management, which at the time meant frequent transfers. Roles were well-defined in the 60’s. My Dad’s career was our North Star. My mother dutifully followed him around the globe with her 4 children in tow.  My older brother was born in Boston, I was born in Columbia, my sister in Argentina, and my younger brother in Australia. Until I was 18, we moved from one country to another on average of every 2 years. Neither my siblings nor I knew any differently; we simply adjusted to new languages, schools, customs, and did our best to make new friends.  

Chile was my favorite country. We lived there for 5 consecutive years, the most time we had spent in one country. My Dad was somewhat of a legend being the only North American to actively promote and ride in the Chilean Rodeo. We travelled throughout most of Chile’s central and southern regions following the Rodeo circuit. It was in Chile where I was first exposed to the randomness of privilege and wealth. Expatriates from US corporations in Latin American countries lived in relative luxury complete with a maid, gardener and stable keeper, none of which had blond hair or blue eyes. 

I was accepted into the Armory in September of 2021. Being accepted into the Armory may not sound like much of a triumph, but at the time it was very welcome news! Having returned from my 6-month trip to Germany with very limited resources, I had to make some hard choices. 

A lifelong friend of mine from Massachusetts, along with his girlfriend, had been staying at the Armory for several months. Before my arrival, he explained the rules and gave me a clear sense of what to expect. 

The Armory is a large, concrete block building perched on a hill next to a golf course. Once a National Guard facility, it has since been repurposed into a central component of Santa Cruz’s homelessness response system. Today, it provides shelter and basic services for up to 135 people. Beyond the main building, the Armory campus has also served as a safe-parking site for RVs and vehicles, making it not just a single-use facility but a key hub in the city’s broader effort to address homelessness. 

I became a homeless person. I’m not homeless now, through a series of miracles, I found housing, a studio apartment in Santa Cruz. But the experience has affected me in ways that I have yet to understand. There is a scene in Papillon where Steve McQueen’s character first enters solitary confinement and is asked by a ruined inmate, “Do I look good?” the question captures something far deeper than physical suffering. The question is not vanity; it is a plea for recognition. It asks whether the man is still visible, still human, still connected to the person he once was. Years later, when Papillon himself appears in the same wasted condition, the earlier scene becomes prophetic. He has become the image he once witnessed. My experience at the Armory carried a similar psychological weight. It was not solitary confinement, and it was not prison, but it was a controlled world of fences, rules, monitors, lights-out silence, portable toilets, plastic cutlery, quarantine, and restricted movement. Everyone there had been reduced, in the eyes of the system, to a category: homeless. The hardest part was not only surviving the conditions. It was resisting the slow erosion of identity and dignity.

Residents are provided with three meals a day, access to showers, portable toilets, and transportation services. At the time of the Pandemic, we were forced to wear masks, keep a safe distance from one another observe a quarantine period before entering the main population. There were many rules designed to maintain control over a skeptical and unruly bunch. Strict silence had to be observed during lights out which lasted from 10 pm to 6 am. One or two monitors controlled the main building while others were responsible for maintaining order for the Overlook encampment and parking lot.  

The area was fenced off and any movement in or out of the facility was strictly enforced. Residents could sign up for a seat on a regularly scheduled shuttle service into drop off spots in Santa Cruz. If you had a vehicle, you could sign out and back in when you return.  

I had a truck, tools, experience and a willingness to find work. I was focused on trying to find purpose and dignity, a sense of belonging. The Armory harbored no age, sex, gender identification or race discrimination. We were all byproducts of our society. Multi-generational residents, older men and women, some in their late teens, some in wheelchairs, others in crutches, most rambling around aimlessly or sitting outside under the awning smoking cigs, none of us belonged beyond the barbed wire fence. 

I did what I could to maintain a sense of identity and dignity. I would leave early for work and return after dark. I brought my own food and ate with my own cutlery. I hosted barbecues at Harvey West and made sure that the monitors’ desk always had a fresh bouquet of flowers. I became a Court Appointed Special Advocate, CASA, a founding member of LEAB for ABODE and practiced yoga. Too embarrassed to share my experience with my children, I would video call from a park or from work. Communications with friends and family became less frequent. My image slowly started to fade, not through anyone’s deliberate design but through the slow erosion of my own self-esteem and loss of identity.  

I’ve always tried to belong. To a country, a culture, a language, a role, a spiritual path. I don’t mind being alone, but being alone can at times be lonely. In my 65 years, I’ve taken on many roles, made many decisions and lived a rich and varied life. I can now add the Armory and Homelessness to my list of adventures and labels.