A Migrant Family Sprints for Housing As Shelter Clock Ticks

Eight months into their stay at a Stoughton shelter, Frantz and Heroína Edouard were scrambling to find an apartment.

They’d been eager to leave their cramped hotel room and establish roots in Massachusetts. But their search for housing was becoming desperate. The state was clamping down on shelter costs, putting migrants like them on a fast-approaching deadline. Without an apartment, the family could soon be on the street.

"We had to look for our own place," Heroína said. "We really wanted to leave the shelter. But we have children, and we couldn't just go to any place."

The Edouards and their two daughters are a Haitian-Dominican family. They made the harrowing journey to the United States from Brazil last year, arriving in Boston after learning about help for migrants. But before long, the welcome mat began to wear thin. The state announced a nine-month cap on shelter stays, foreshadowing a major restructuring of a system that was patched together as thousands of families migrated to Massachusetts.

If they failed to find a home, the Eduoards were facing a possible return to the Dominican Republic. Their elder daughter, Ana, and Heroína are citizens there, but Frantz, a native of Haiti, was never able to secure citizenship or work papers in the DR. Their 8-year-old daughter, Fransheily, was born in Brazil. Massachusetts was where they were putting their hopes for a shot at life in the United States.

“I didn't want to have to leave,” Ana said. “I was already used to the climate here. It would mean starting all over again.”

Frantz was working multiple jobs here — cleaning hospital rooms and running deliveries for Uber and DoorDash. Heroína and Ana were pressing to get work papers. All their plans depended on finding a place to live, in a region with sky-high rents and a longtime housing shortage.

But the Edouards had someone watching out for them — a man Heroína calls their “guardian angel" — who was willing to look as long as necessary to find them housing.

'Every family has their own Tetris game'

Wesbert Olivier Jr. arrives at the Stoughton shelter at 6:45 each weekday morning to help kids get onto school buses. Known as Junior, he works for a nonprofit hired by the state to assist families in shelter.

As a caseworker, he’s charged with helping a dozen families manage their daily hurdles. That can mean learning how to monitor immigration status, figuring out how to get a CharlieCard for the T, or filling out job applications. Often, Junior said, it’s just about lending an ear.

“We do help them navigate through life,” he said. “It's like Tetris really. Every family has their own Tetris game.”

“I didn't want to have to leave. ... It would mean starting all over again.”

— Ana Eduoard

Not literally a game, but the analogy is apt: a video game of fast-falling puzzle pieces and a race against time. To Junior, a defining moment of victory for him and the families he helps is finding them long-term housing.

“I will find a place,” he said, glancing at his laptop screen full of apartment listings. The rents are high, but Junior relies on a state program that offers subsidies for two years to people leaving shelters.

Beyond that, the challenge is “making sure that the family can sustain themselves after the two years,” he said. If they don't land jobs, “That's a true doubt.”

The program, called HomeBASE, is the state’s main housing solution for people exiting shelters, whether they’re locals or recent arrivals. Families pay 30% of their income toward rent and can get $30,000 in subsidies over two years — with a possible third-year extension.

Junior emphasized that the rent program is a temporary benefit, as is the entire shelter system. One recent morning at the Stoughton shelter, he explained to a young mother that the program is a bit like helping a kid learn to walk.

“And before long she’s ready to run,” he said. “This is to catapult you so you can help yourself.”

The Edouards are among more than 130 families who’ve been staying at the former hotel. They’re part of a wave of 7,500 families — more than 20,000 people — taking shelter at locations around the state. About half are migrants who arrived with nowhere to stay; the rest are longer-term residents who’d fallen on hard times.

Junior spent months helping the Edouards search for housing, scouring listings from the South Coast to the North Shore and west of Boston. He said the fiercely competitive rental market means many landlords won’t rent to tenants with assistance benefits that will one day run out. On Facebook Marketplace alone, he pursued more than 200 leads.

He thought he’d locked down an apartment for the Edouards in Norwood — but it fell through. Frantz and Heroína were losing hope.

“When Junior told me I said, ‘Oh my God, what are we going to do now?’ ” Heroína said. “I felt awful that day because I thought that was going to be my house.”

But Junior was tireless in his search, and it eventually led him to an apartment in Fall River, about 45 minutes south of Stoughton. He drove with them to check out the apartment and tried to hype up the city: “I’m like, ‘It's a great community, there’s a lot of people that speak Spanish and Portuguese. You’re going to be able to find jobs.’ ”

Frantz would need to quit his job in Boston, and Fransheily would have to go to a new school district. But the family was all-in on moving to Fall River. In July, they packed up their belongings and said goodbye to the hotel, the crowds and the communal meals.

A place of their own

Their small apartment is in a working-class part of Fall River, on the top floor of a three-decker.

The place is sparsely furnished, but Heroína and Ana show it off with pride: the two bedrooms, the living room, kitchen and laundry room. Ana said landing a home was like finding freedom.

“I felt a tremendous weight off of me when we got this place,” she said. “I felt very, very happy.”

Heroína is grateful for the help they got at the shelter, and continue to get. But she relishes the newfound peace in their own space.

“We have privacy here,” she said. “We don’t hear a lot of people making noise and talking all the time. This is a good place to live.”

Junior helped furnish the apartment, with beds, a dining table and sofa provided by a local organization.

“We have privacy here. We don’t hear a lot of people making noise and talking all the time. This is a good place to live.”

— Heroína Eduoard

With their immediate housing problem addressed, they focused on money and education. By the end of the summer, Heroína and Ana were still waiting for work papers. Frantz spent his days searching for a new job, stressed out about supporting his family and paying the bills that would soon come.

“The worry I have now is that neither one of us is working,” he said. “I have experience doing many different kinds of jobs, but I don’t get any offers.”

As fall approached, Fransheily enrolled in second grade. Ana, now 20, spent her days learning English. She plans to study nursing at a local community college, and hopes to focus on surgery or physical therapy. Fransheily seems to want to follow in her big sister's footsteps.

“The little one said she wants to be a doctor,” Heroína said with a delighted laugh. “That's her dream — and she's going to be a good doctor.”

Frantz gazed across the dining room table at his daughters, smiling at their ambitions. He hopes their lives will be free of the worries that have dogged him for decades.

“When I'm trembling on a cane,” he said, “I will have my daughter as a doctor.”

'They say there will be deportations'

The Edouards had passed through a gauntlet to get this far: fleeing violence in Haiti and discrimination in the Dominican Republic. Braving the jungles of Panama and waiting in Mexico to apply for asylum in the U.S. Then finding shelter in a Massachusetts hotel, and finally securing a home of their own.

But a new reality would emerge this fall, when voters decided to return Donald Trump to the White House. On the campaign trail, Trump promised “mass deportations,” and as president-elect, he has named a border czar to carry out that threat. His administration could upend policies, like asylum and Temporary Protected Status, that have allowed many Haitian migrants to enter and legally stay in the country.

“I’m a little scared,” Heroína said in a WhatsApp message. “People talk a lot — they say there will be deportations.”

“But I’m alright,” she added. “It’s all in the hands of the Lord.”

Junior, the Edouards’ caseworker, said there's no point discussing questions he can’t answer.

“There are certain things it's better that you don't talk about,” he said. “You don't know what's going to happen.”

For now, Junior said he’ll keep working to help migrants find their way in Massachusetts. But he may not be in Stoughton much longer. As the state looks to scale back the $1 billion-plus cost of the emergency shelter system, Gov. Maura Healey announced in mid-November plans to phase out using hotels as shelters over the next two years.

“More needs to be done so that Massachusetts taxpayers do not continue to be on the hook for this federal problem,” Healey said as she rolled out the shelter overhaul.

The state also plans further caps on how long families can remain in shelter. If the Legislature approves, the new rules would decrease shelter stays to six months. Families deemed capable of working and in need of less assistance would be limited to 30-day stays.

The Edouards got in at the right time. Ahead of the election, they had more progress to report: Frantz landed a job driving an Amazon delivery van, and Heroína’s work authorization finally came through.

The family has little idea what could happen in a country where the politics of immigration stand on the brink of an abrupt shift. Frantz said he knows new challenges lie ahead.

“I’m always struggling. I want my family to continue to improve and to be happier,” he said. “Things don’t always work out that way.”

How things work out may depend on the good graces of a government that — at least until now — has allowed families like the Edouards to find refuge here.