On a blistering afternoon in July, Amy Beck sits in her car with two other advocates working to bring new immigrant families inside and off the streets.
Beck’s parked in an industrial zone in Sun Valley near a warehouse shelter — one of two remaining city-run spaces in Denver specifically for newcomers without homes to stay the night.
Her phone’s plugged in. The AC’s blasting. An entire homeless encampment — tents and other necessities she can pop up in a pinch — waits in her trunk, just in case somebody needs it.
The advocates are sweaty. They’re tired. Their work is never done.
Beck was up late the night before trying to get a family of three — partners Henry Aguilar and Leivy Ortega, their son Josue Aguilar, and their service dog Donna — into another city-run shelter where a handful of immigrant families are staying.
But the shelter workers refused to allow the family to sleep there: The dog wasn’t welcome.
So Beck called city workers and advocates late into the night. That didn’t pan out either. Frustrated, she called the mayor’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so she left a message. A few minutes later, her phone started ringing. People in the city were finally paying attention.
Even so, the family didn’t get a spot in the group shelter. They slept in their cramped car, backs aching through the night.
Now, Beck is making another attempt to bring the family indoors. They were supposed to arrive an hour ago, but they’re still making their way across town.
She’s about to make another call to city staff, trying to get answers to her questions.
“We want to get really clear on who is allowed in shelter and who's not and exactly what the rules are,” she said.
Over the past two years, Denver has supported more than 42,000 new immigrants who have arrived from the southern border.
Some have been bussed in from Texas. Countless more have shown up from other cities across the country.
Some are individuals. Many are families. Most are looking for resources — housing, help with work authorization, food, medical care, and more.
For a while, Denver offered much of that.
But the city, facing massive budget cuts, scaled back services dramatically.
Mayor Mike Johnston announced the city was transitioning from costly crisis mode to a more stable and affordable newcomer support program.
The city does still offer support for asylum seekers, help with work authorization and assistance finding shelter or leaving the city altogether, but advocates say it’s often not enough.
Each family Denver has helped has a different story. For Ortega and the Aguilars, staying with Donna, their dog, mattered.
They had brought her on their journey to the United States.
They hauled her through their seven-day trek through the treacherous Darién Gap, a 60 mile stretch of roadless jungle, where they were hungry , dehydrated and the ever-present fear of deadly animals loomed.
The family cuddled Donna under a blanket as they rode on top of a train for seven days, walked endless miles, and eventually brought her into the United States.
They arrived in Texas and cradled her on the bus to New York City where the New York Times published photos of the family’s journey.
They took Donna to Times Square, posed in front of the New York Times building, traveled again and braved Connecticut snow with her.
Along the way, Donna had become part of the family. Where they went, she went. And one night in a shelter wasn’t worth separating from her.
Still, the family wanted inside as soon as possible.
Two days before, Denver shut down its last of seven hotel shelters where families had been staying in rooms, a closure process that has been in the works for several months.
“At our peak, we had seven hotel shelters going, and they were packed,” said Jon Ewing, a spokesperson for the city’s new immigrant response. “We're talking a couple of families to a room. We're talking four individuals to a room. We were renting out hotels that had suites so we would even have more room space.
“Essentially, we were at a point in January where we literally had the conversation where we said, ‘One more bus arrives today,’” he continued. “We did not know what to do.”
Denver started shutting down the shelter hotels in the winter, but ultimately left some open so as not to throw families into the streets during freezing cold weather. Over the months, Denver has also closed those.
More than 2,300 people participated in the city’s work authorization clinics, getting legal advice, and in some cases money, from the Rose Community Foundation, to pay for their expensive applications.
The city encouraged people to move to other cities, paying for bus tickets and airplanes. Nonprofits helped others secure apartments and space in homes with local residents.
Some families, however, have found longer-term shelter.
At Mullen Home, a project of Catholic Charities, there are roughly 120 new immigrants, in families, staying there.
Now, the city has two short-term shelters for new immigrants: one in a gym and the other in a concrete warehouse. These spaces offer a place to get out for a few nights until people can connect with the larger shelter system.
As of Wednesday morning, just 16 people were staying in the two city-run shelters.
City officials say the demand for them is just not what it once was.
President Joe Biden’s recent executive order has radically slowed the number of new arrivals coming in through the southern border.
That means fewer people are coming to Denver from Texas.
But others, like Ortega and the Aguilars, are coming here from other cities that themselves have encouraged people to leave.
Others, who have been through the city’s new immigrant shelters and landed in apartments, are now facing eviction and another round of homelessness. They, too, want someplace to stay.
Many are piecing together their lives, one night at a time.
Beck is on the phone when 11-year-old Josue, his parents Henry and Leivy, and Donna the dog finally arrive.
After another long night in the car, the family is ready to give the city shelter another try, hopefully this time with their dog.
The advocates and the family chat for a few minutes and then walk into the shelter, a massive warehouse where they’re greeted by friendly, bilingual staff who hand out bottles of water.
Makeshift desks are set up where people do intake of the residents. Roughly a dozen people sit around, charging their phones, waiting to find out what’s next, and whether they’ll be permitted to stay.
The building looks more fit for manufacturing than it does for shelter. Green mats are laid out for sleeping, a little cushion on the concrete floors. There are no showers to use, though portable toilets and handwashing stations are positioned outside the front door. An armed sheriff deputy and a security guard patrol the grim industrial space.
The shelter is not designed to be comfortable or particularly humane. It’s a place where people can come inside, connect with a case worker and either find some sort of individual solution or move on to another city.
Most guests have just 72 hours to figure things out before staff and city officials make them move on.
The family waits for their information to be processed. They watch videos from their trip from Venezuela, chat and nap. An advocate hands out ice cream sandwiches and popsicles. The family devours them with glee.
Then they wait some more. Waiting and hoping maybe something better is coming.
Some new immigrants have entered the city’s already burdened general homeless shelter system. How many? Nobody knows.
At group shelters run by the Denver Rescue Mission, the Salvation Army and Catholic Charities, the number of new immigrants staying in the facilities has not been documented.
By law, Ewing said, the shelters are not permitted to ask about immigration status.
“We don’t track a person or family’s immigration status when they come to The Salvation Army for help and services,” said spokesperson Jennifer Forker. “The Salvation Army’s mission is to serve our neighbors in need. We meet human need without discrimination — as we have since 1865. We are committed to respond to the needs of our community in the best way possible with a ministry motivated by the love of God.”
The Denver Rescue Mission and Catholic Charities declined to comment on the number of newcomers in their systems.
What is known: No city-run long-term sheltering options are left for new immigrants, so people who haven’t left, found apartments or are living outside are most certainly in the general system.
Eventually, the Aguilars and Ortega learn, once again, that they cannot stay at the shelter because of the dog.
Beck asks city staff to intervene. Eventually, officials help the family arrange to spend three nights in a hotel.
The family receives a phone number to connect with the city’s broader, private homeless services network.
Through that, they can get in line with victims of domestic violence and others looking for longer-term shelter through the city’s nonprofit and religious homeless services system.
They’re grateful for the help, for a bed to sleep in, for a few days of stability.
Then they realize food isn’t part of the city’s plans. Yes, they’ll be inside. Now they have to worry about dinner.
Beck has 50 pounds of chicken thawing back at her house. She offers to cook some of it along with rice and bring dinner to the families.
Ortega grins and dances, thrilled her family will eat.
Around 6 p.m., Beck returns home, cooks the food and eventually goes to meet the family at the hotel. She drops off the food and helps them settle in.
By 11 p.m., Beck is finally back at her house. Not that she has much time to rest. Already, she’s working to help yet another new immigrant living in a car.
“They have lost their community because the hotel closed,” she said. “They don’t know what to do next or where to park. I’m working to get them inside tomorrow.”
