Van dwellers had told me about “the knock” — usually three sharp raps at the door, often by the police. The risk of getting jolted awake and kicked off my patch of asphalt kept me uneasy and made it hard to sleep.
I was living in a van as a journalist, as research for my book “Nomadland.” Over the course of three years, I followed Americans who had been squeezed out of traditional housing and moved into vans, late-model RVs, even a few sedans. I drove more than 15,000 miles — from coast to coast, from Mexico to the Canadian border. And night after night, I bedded down in a new place, whether a truck stop or the Sonoran Desert. Sometimes I stayed on city streets or in suburban parking lots, which rattled me in ways I’d never expected.
I think about “the knock” a lot these days. More people are moving into vehicles as shelters of last resort, and their ranks are likely to swell when Covid-19 eviction bans expire. Laws punishing the unhoused population have been appearing around the country in a wave of NIMBYism.
We are emerging from what may be the most introspective year in American history. The meditative film based on my book, which is up for six Oscars this weekend, fits that mood well. The pandemic has prompted much talk of interconnectedness and empathy, what we owe one another as a society. “Nomadland” reminds us that our bonds should extend to those who live in homes-on-wheels. No one should have to live in constant fear of the knock.
In the film, Fern, played by Frances McDormand, is startled by a knock that interrupts a quiet meal. She looks up with a start and swears. A face hovers at the window, and a fist pounds once, twice, three times on the door. Then comes a gruff voice. “No overnight parking! You can’t sleep here.”
Watching the character’s panic at the sudden sound of a fist hitting her van gave me anxious flashbacks. Then it made me sad. Then I felt angry, because that scene was just too accurate, and I wished it didn’t reflect the reality of how people treat one another.
Some of the nomads from my book play versions of themselves in the film. They know this phenomenon too well. Swankie, 76, told me she had nightmares about it while sleeping in her 2006 Chevy Express van.
“I have this strange, surreal dream of someone knocking,” she explained. “Usually happens if I am not 100 percent comfortable with where I am parking.”
Bob Wells, 65, has a popular video, “Avoiding the Knock,” and has been lecturing on the topic for ages. I first heard him talk about it seven years ago in the Sonoran Desert, at a gathering called the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. He shared tactics for “stealth parking,” such as creating police-friendly alibis and making your van look like a contractor’s work vehicle.
At first listen, I thought about how clever and resourceful those strategies were. But after hearing them a few times, I reached a second conclusion: In a better world, people wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to stay out of sight.
The nonprofit National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty keeps tabs on over 180 urban and rural cities across America, more than half of which have enacted laws that make it hard or nearly impossible to live in vehicles.
Over the past decade, Tristia Bauman, an attorney at the center, has seen the regulations multiply. Some places forbid overnight parking. Others outlaw inhabiting a vehicle outright. Penalties can pile up fast. Unpaid, they lead to the cruelest punishment of all: towing. Failing to pay an impound fee means losing not just a car but a home.
Over the past decade, Tristia Bauman, an attorney at the center, has seen the regulations multiply. Some places forbid overnight parking. Others outlaw inhabiting a vehicle outright. Penalties can pile up fast. Unpaid, they lead to the cruelest punishment of all: towing. Failing to pay an impound fee means losing not just a car but a home.
by Jessica Bruder, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Adria Malcolm for The New York Times
