The community basketball court on the north side of Eighth Street, fashioned from a discarded hoop and spray paint. Photo by Maria Toldi

Eighth and Harrison is more than an encampment, it is a community. This is their story.

Located between the Gilman Corridor and Codornices Creek in West Berkeley, among artisan beer and bagel shops, Whole Foods, and a Tesla Service Center, there’s a tight-knit community of unhoused residents who call the intersection of Eighth and Harrison streets their home—some of whom have been there for the better part of a decade. The number of residents changes, but there’s currently around two dozen people living within a one-block radius of the intersection, which spans from Seventh to Ninth streets and from Gilman Street to the entrance of University Village. Tents and RVs line the sidewalks in all directions. Shopping carts, beds, clothes, and bikes sit along the curbs next to boxes of trash and collected recycling. There are Black, Brown, and White residents, seniors and young adults, old heads and recent arrivals, and a number of beloved cats and dogs.

The encampment, which was established after the eviction of the Albany Bulb in 2014, has experienced a number of changes in the past few years. As new businesses have moved into industrial West Berkeley, many of them have advocated for the full closure of Eighth and Harrison, some even filing a lawsuit against the City of Berkeley in September 2024. In short, the new neighbors want the encampment gone, and have loudly pressured the city to sweep it once and for all. 

On January 7, the City of Berkeley posted official notice of its plan to close Eighth and Harrison, declaring the encampment a health hazard and public nuisance. According to the notice, as of February 10, the encampment will be “off-limits to public lodging…all personal property in the area will be subject to removal…[and] failure to comply may result in citations and/or arrest.”

For the residents of Eighth and Harrison, there isn’t much mourning about the final eviction. Many have endured evictions at a number of locations throughout Berkeley, and although the West Berkeley encampment has been a constant in many people’s lives for years, nobody believed its existence was permanent. Clarence Galtney, a long-time resident who has since relocated to transitional housing, put it simply before a major sweep of Eighth and Harrison in November 2023.

“If [the city] ain’t losing sleep, why should I?”

But over the years, as many of the larger encampments in Berkeley have been shut down, Eighth and Harrison has been a long-standing refuge when there’s nowhere else to go. Outside of eviction operations, police typically do not harass residents for setting up tents here. Food and supplies are frequently dropped off by Food Not Bombs, advocacy groups, and church organizations. Service providers can easily locate their unhoused clients to provide medical care and prepare paperwork for housing applications, and there’s a serviced porta-potty to ensure residents have a safe place to relieve themselves.

But most importantly, there’s people, there’s community—a crucial factor of survival for individuals experiencing homelessness in Berkeley. Everyone knows everybody, and they do their best to take care of each other. Each resident has their own story as to why they ended up in the encampment, but once there, most people stay a while. 

The purpose of this project is to share those stories, to offer readers the opportunity to learn more about the people who have made their home here. As student reporters, we have been going down to Eighth and Harrison for the past two years to pass out supplies, interview and photograph residents, and report on previous sweep operations. As February 10 fast approaches, we feel it is important that its memory is preserved beyond abatement reports, city council agenda packets, and news stories about the eviction’s aftermath. We want to contribute to the record the story of their community, not another summary of its undoing.

Over the past few months, we combed through hours of interviews and printed a number of photographs, then went back to Eighth and Harrison to share our work. We taped the photos inside notebooks and asked residents to write captions, notes, and memories next to them, which we’ve included over the next few pages. Alongside some of these photographs are profiles of residents gathered from our interviews, which offer a glimpse into their personal stories, struggles, and contributions to their community.

It should be noted that this is not a comprehensive history of the Eighth and Harrison community. Many people have come and gone over the years, some have since secured housing, and a number of people did not want to be included in this project. Regardless of their inclusion, we dedicate these pages to everyone who has called Eighth and Harrison home over the past decade.

This is a story of community, humanity, and memory. It remains unclear what the future holds for residents of Eighth and Harrison after February 10, but the legacy of this place, their “house in the middle of the street,” will remain long after the last dump truck pulls away.

A collection of photographs and handwritten notes from residents of the Eighth and Harrison community. Credit: Cole Haddock and Maria Toldi

Residents of Eighth and Harrison

Yesica

Yesica is the kindest, most decent person we’ve ever met. She’s also incredibly talented. An investigative journalist and photographer, Yesica moved to Berkeley to attend the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism. She moved into an RV when she was unable to pay rent as a student, unintentionally becoming a part of the large and close-knit unhoused community in Berkeley. 

Yesica’s RV is on the corner of Eighth and Harrison, filled with music, flowers, and a cat named Dog. Living in this community has since shaped her career, as she’s sought to dignify and support her community. As a neighbor, Yesica gives everyone the time of day, listening and talking to whoever stops by. She gives people rides to medical appointments, helps them clean their camps when they otherwise cannot, and advocates for their rights as an organizer with the Berkeley Homeless Union. As a reporter, she seeks to hold government organizations accountable and dignify the plight of her neighbors.

Erin

When asked how he’s doing, Erin always replies “well enough under the day.” He talks like that, kinda funny, with the brain of a former Marine who learned to read before he could walk. Erin grew up in East Texas, son of a Mormon veteran in a community of football players and baseball card collectors. As a kid, he read the Bible, the Lord of the Rings series, and the U.S. Marine Guidebook cover to cover. But Texas wasn’t home, where he fit in. He left for California as an adult, but his vocabulary and moral code has stayed with him.

On the north side of Harrison between Seventh and Eighth streets, Erin built and designed his communal home, “the Hovel,” which is intended to “catch runaways.” The Hovel takes up more than half the block—a sprawl of city fences, plywood, tarps, and blankets—and is meant to be a place where anyone from anywhere can exist without harassment. Erin invites anyone to stay there, regardless of disability, age, gender, or race, as long as they clean up after themselves. The Hovel is made up of veterans, single men, people living with disabilities, and individuals who have been on the streets for a long time—all demographic groups that usually stay on housing lists for years and subsequently experience mounting social stigma associated with chronic homelessness. The Hovel, in turn, serves as a space for radical acceptance, where nobody is turned away or left alone. 

Erin is somewhat famous these days. Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor mentioned his name in the Grants Pass vs. Johnson case, and he’s been interviewed by a number of journalists, including writers for The Guardian and New York Times. Other unhoused people have dubbed him “Homeless Christ,” and often refer to Erin’s work at the Hovel as a public service.

Part of Erin’s fame stems from the fact that what he’s doing makes some people deeply uncomfortable. But for Erin, everyone has the freedom to exist, even if that existence is outside societal expectations or norms. Erin acts on the principle that everyone is valuable, deserves dignity, and reserves the right to both community and sanctuary, whether housed or unhoused. Community is at the root of Erin’s efforts to create space for the “runaways,” which he feels is easily lost when members of their community accept shelter offers, such as transitional hotel properties that often have stringent rules and no-visitor policies.

“The social aspect of our existence is so key,” Erin said. “Put somebody in a box alone by themselves and they’ll die, straight up.” 

Popcorn

A hundred years ago, Popcorn would’ve been a hobo. A proper hobo, one who rides the rails, follows the hobo code, and gives you a smoke if he has one. Popcorn told us that everyone has a place in the world, and his place is to be a scavenger, a fixer, and a traveler. He has thick glasses, sagging pants, and a beard that could stand to be trimmed. His puppy’s name is Sylvia, an overly energetic gray and white pitbull who curls into his arms when she’s able to stand still. 

Popcorn has stayed in Berkeley for a long time, longer than he intended to. He’s traveled all around California, having a baby in San Diego and watching the bodybuilders at Venice Beach before making his way up to Berkeley. It was inevitable that he ended up at the Hovel, where he was quickly absorbed into the community. 

He’s quiet, steady, and likes to read. Popcorn can appear fairly solemn, but he seems to enjoy the community he’s fostered at Eighth and Harrison. He told us he stays at the Hovel because when he sets up camp on his own, nobody goes to visit him. The last time we saw Popcorn, he was inside the Hovel reading a novel with his arm slung easily over a female resident. He seems content to stay with his new community a while longer.

Tom

Tom is a quiet guy, someone we’ve seen a dozen times before exchanging more than a couple words. Originally from Kansas City, Tom left on a cross-country motorcycle ride and eventually landed in California. He loves motorcycles and oversized necklace chains. He’s been on the streets for 34 years and lives by himself on Harrison Street, stopping by other tents frequently to hang out. 

Tom secured permanent housing in 2023, but never really moved in, keeping a tent and a stack of belongings at Eighth and Harrison. After so many years on the street, he said the quiet freaked him out too much. 

“Whenever I stopped by that apartment, I almost felt, like, a lonesome feeling. Out here, it’s the opposite. There’s always someone around, always someone talking. Out here, you always have people around you.” 

Tom eventually lost the apartment due to his vacancy, but now that he’s older, he’s hoping to move inside again soon. He has Alzheimer’s, and people take advantage of that, sometimes stealing his bikes and then selling them back to him. He knows he can’t stay out on the streets much longer. 

“Getting older, I need to be indoors. There’s gonna be a point my immune system is gonna get weaker. I’ll be out here in the cold, and the thought of getting pneumonia bothers me.”

Alice

When we interviewed Alice, she came out of her tent in a dress and laid a rug down on the curb. She took the microphone like she knew what she was doing and introduced herself with the type of grin that would make you either fall in love or vote for her. Alice was the second person we ever interviewed at 8th and Harrison, and we were nervous. She was clearly not. 

Alice lives in an apartment now, but still comes around to check on her people. For the year she lived there, Alice’s spot was a landmark on Eighth Street, with a nice tent and a koi fish flag that flew when she was home. Alice’s favorite song is “Fever” by Peggy Lee and she plans to open a karaoke bar one day. Her dog, a brindle pitbull, was, “sweet if she loves you, loud if she doesn’t.” She’s a painter, and she’d never be caught without an outfit. 

Alice first came to the Eighth and Harrison encampment as a survivor of domestic abuse. She credited the community for saving her life. 

“We’re a great support group out here. We build each other up. Even if it isn’t exactly home, it still gives you a sense of it.” 

Brenda

Brenda is a true matriarch—a wife, mother, grandmother, and pitbull mom. She and her partner Hector came to Eighth and Harrison from Richmond with their dog Boo Boo, but family is always around.

Brenda’s the type of person who instinctively speaks in we’s, who considers her family a unit. “We love you, we’ll miss you. We’ve been trying to get housing for ages. We’re thinking about moving towns.”

Alone, though, Brenda is a force of nature. She grew up on a farm in Klamath Falls, Oregon, where she learned to ride a horse bareback and “how to fight to win,” but moved a lot for her father’s trucking job. For years, she worked at Great America in the mornings and Levi’s Stadium at night. She smiles warmly, but has no patience for disrespect. She treats everyone with dignity and expects the same.

“We’re all brothers and sisters out here,” she told us, “whether we’re pushing a shopping cart, sleeping in a tent, or have nowhere to go. Respect others.”

Her dream is a five-bedroom home for her whole family (with a nice jacuzzi), so she can watch over all of them. “I’m tired of being out here, dealing with all this shit. I want to be in a house. I want to be home, where I can have my friends and my family, my daughter and my grandbaby.”

Dulley 

When we first met Dulley, he was sitting inside his tent and using the string of his hoodie to entertain a kitten he was babysitting for his friend. We’d noticed Dulley long before we began talking, you can’t miss him—always blasting music from his speaker or practicing with his fire sticks, filling the street with movement and sound. 

Dulley grew up in Richmond. As a kid, sports kept him grounded. “I was playing football and baseball,” he said, but was removed from the teams for disciplinary reasons. Six months later, he was in juvenile hall. Since then, life has been a series of cycles—incarceration, parole, homelessness.

Dulley has been on the streets since 2003, the year he was released from San Quentin after serving eight years. He spent the next seven on parole—more than the standard five—due to a clerical misunderstanding he couldn’t fight. He says the system, which had already taken years from him, refused to give anything back. 

“I’ve been homeless out here since 2003. Trying to get housing, trying to get something going on for myself,” he told us. “I’ve been severely looked over and passed upon. I thought I was practicing patience, but now…it’s been double-digit years.”

He’s still fighting for housing, navigating a system he feels has failed him at every turn. He’s been shuffled between shelters, jails, and programs that offer temporary fixes but never lasting solutions.

“The whole process frustrates me to the point where my anxiety kicks in,” he said. “It’s a big waste of time.” 

RJ

RJ has been living on the corner of Eighth and Harrison for years. Originally from New Orleans, he spent most of his childhood in and out of foster care before leaving for California to find work. He is missing an eye and a finger, and suffers from serious medical issues, which got worse after getting hit by a car in 2023. It is extremely difficult for RJ to get out of his tent, but he makes an effort to use his wheelchair to run errands for himself when possible. 

Various outreach workers and residents bring RJ food and medicine, and occasionally new tents. Asking a Berkeley outreach worker why he wasn’t housed yet, she said he needed a nurse and assistance, and there aren’t the resources to provide him with proper accommodation. So he stays on the street. RJ says the pavement was hard on his back, and every time we speak, he has a new plan to get an RV or an apartment. 

Cars drive past RJ’s tent constantly, sometimes screeching just inches from his wheelchair. During our interview with RJ, one car slowed down to yell at him through the window. “Hey! You could get hit!” they said, before veering off down Harrison Street. RJ shook this head. “They don’t realize how much a neighbor makes a difference. I’m your neighbor and you’re mine.”

Sharif

Sharif was born and raised in Berkeley—an “old head.” He’s a veteran of the Marine Corps and a scholar of Octavia Butler, an education that is immediately evident when you speak with him. He vividly remembers a time when the thick bay fog used to smother the streets of the East Bay, when the redwood trees in People’s Park were still considered sacred. Sharif speaks eloquently and beautifully, describing the world as he experiences it as both poetry and prophecy—the true warrior-priest of Eighth and Harrison.

Elf

Elf lives at Eighth and Harrison with his dog Bella, who is much sweeter than photos may show. An animal lover and advocate, Elf used to live in Oregon where he worked as a documentary filmmaker and printmaker. He’s also a poet! Here’s a poem he published with Street Spirit in 2018:

Each day / Begins / The same—we / Open our eyes / and / begin / to / see / anew.

Mike

Mike’s a scoundrel, and a long-time resident of the Eighth and Harrison community. His best friend is Boy, a large black pitbull with white boots and an eyepatch. They can be seen walking and biking together all over Berkeley, sharing popsicles any chance they get. If you’re lucky, Mike will rap for you, spitting bars and wearing a thick gold chain.

Cole Haddock and Maria Toldi are contributing writers and filmmakers to the San Quentin News, and students at UC Berkeley. Through slow and patient journalism, they seek to capture the beauty of community resilience.