Central Oregon transgender woman strives to escape homelessness in face of mounting barriers

Patricia Griffith has made her share of mistakes in life. At 60, she's trying to help others, and herself, get out of The Junipers.

Patricia Griffith stands by the site of her former camp when she lived unhoused east of Redmond. Griffith says she built the memorial to commemorate friends and loved ones who have died. She also said it’s the place she decided to quit using drugs. Photo by Joe Kline.

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Editor's Note:

Patricia Griffith was introduced to the Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions team by Redmond houseless advocate Bob Bohac. He works with people living in The Junipers southeast of Redmond. He says they have the decks stacked against them when it comes to finding permanent housing. Griffith lived in The Junipers for 20 years and recently moved into a tiny home at Oasis Village. Bohac knows the challenges she’s faced and the barriers to her finding a home, and he was awe-struck by her willingness to share her story with the Real Stories team.

Journalists are honored when people, especially the most vulnerable, trust us enough to share their stories. We’re not only asking the person to trust us during the Real Stories project, we’re also asking our partner publications, advocates, care providers and our advisory group to be confident that we did our due diligence.

Before publishing the story, we made sure Griffith knew how widely her experience would be shared. We let her know what was in the story’s final version. We spoke with our advisory committee. We talked to other journalists and some of our partners. The conclusion: We all agreed, her story is a truth about homelessness that needs to be told.

Jody Lawrence-Turner, Real Stories project manager and editor

By David Dudley

ForJournalism Lab

Patricia Griffith lived on and off in the juniper forest just east of Redmond for 20 years. On a recent cold February afternoon, Griffith, who was previously known as John, drove a white Honda Civic through a network of dirt roads buried beneath six inches of fresh snow.

The snow didn't stop the 60-year-old from finding her way to the spot where her camp once stood. Along the way, a maze of camps arose in openings between the trees surrounding the site. There are lean-tos made of pallets enclosed with tarps. Trucks and campers stand on cinder blocks, along with RVs, school buses and other vehicles that have been parked and may sooner rot and disintegrate before leaving the area.

A pair of black dogs emerged from the trees and brush, barking playfully and snapping at the rear wheels of Griffith's Honda. They eventually grew bored and disappeared just as suddenly as they appeared.

Griffith stopped, shifting the Honda into park.

"It all started here," said Griffith, her lanky frame unfurling as she climbed out of the car. Her dog, Suzy, barked from the back seat. Griffith pointed toward a wooden cross that she'd made to honor the memories that came to pass on that spot. "It started here, and it ended here."

Griffith was referring to her choice to move to what's known by many as The Junipers or "the dirt" — and leaving it when she was offered a small cabin in a nearby shelter that offers transitional housing. Though Griffith faces significant challenges to finding long-term housing — she's a felon who is required to register as a sex offender, she's a trans person, and she has a medium-sized dog— she dreams of finding a place to call her own.

Patricia Griffith shows a ring she wears that says “I am enough” and stands near her former campsite east of Redmond. Photo by Joe Kline.

Boxed in

But Griffith said she feels boxed in by barriers that will make that dream difficult to obtain.

Formerly incarcerated people are 13 times more likely to be homeless than those who don't have a criminal record, according to a study by the U.S. Interagency Council on Homelessness. The study went on to say that homeless people are also more likely to be incarcerated — especially in places like Grants Pass, Oregon, where criminal charges may be filed against those living unsheltered, creating a cycle that becomes increasingly difficult to escape.

The upheaval within the federal government at the dawn of President Donald Trump's second term is also yielding new complications. Within days of being confirmed as secretary of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), Trump pick Scott Turner issued an order that will halt pending and future actions related to the Equal Access Rule, which was meant to guard against gender-based discrimination.

Turner said in a press release that the rule "tied housing programs, shelters and other facilities funded by HUD to far-left gender ideology."

“We, at this agency, are carrying out the mission laid out by President Trump on January 20th when he signed an executive order to restore biological truth to the federal government," Turner stated. "This means recognizing there are only two sexes: male and female. It means getting government out of the way of what the Lord established from the beginning when he created man in His own image."

Yet, one in three transgender people will experience homelessness in their lifetime, and 70% of trans people who have used a shelter have experienced harassment, according to a statement from the National Low Income Housing Coalition.

While emotional support animals are protected by the Fair Housing Act — the webpage of which has since been taken down — landlords may deny potential renters who own certain dog breeds, like pitbulls and rottweilers, among others.

But in spite of the high odds against her, Griffith has no intention of giving up.

Patricia Griffith sits inside the community building at Oasis Village in Redmond. Griffith moved into Oasis Village, a transitional housing shelter with individual tiny homes, a year ago after living unhoused nearby. Photo by Joe Kline.

An oasis

A little over a year ago, Griffith joined the ranks of those who've moved away from "the dirt." That's when she was invited to live in a tiny house that's part of Oasis Village, a cluster of 20 cabins for those who need transitional housing.

She recently gave the Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions team a tour of the grounds, facilities and her cabin. Oasis Village is the result of a years-long collaboration between Jericho Road, Hayden Homes, and a slew of others, in the aftermath of Gov. Tina Kotek's emergency order on homelessness and housing dating back to April 2023.

Though Oasis Village is less than a half mile from Griffith's former camp, it feels like a different world. In addition to the shelter each cabin offers, Oasis Village residents have access to heat, running water, showers, use of a communal kitchen, WiFi, mailboxes and personal storage.

That last one provides peace of mind for Griffith, as theft is rampant among The Junipers.

"There are people back there who will steal anything," said Griffith, who stood in the center of her cabin, basking in the safety it provides. "Someone stole one of my dogs a few years ago. I still miss that dog. I don't care about things, objects, but your people and animals can't be replaced."

Griffith moved into her tiny home around the same time Oasis Village opened in January 2024, said Josie Anders-Mize, the executive director of Oasis Village.

"We've served around 23 individuals through Oasis Village since opening," said Anders-Mize, who has more than 20 years of experience in nonprofit and community services. "They come to us through referrals from the Central Oregon coordinated entry system."

Once an individual experiencing homelessness is referred, Anders-Mize and her team will conduct an interview to ensure the person is a good fit for the program. Though Oasis Village is what's called a "low barrier" shelter, there are still rules.

"There's a curfew, for instance," she said. "And we expect people to engage with services, and begin looking for work — if they can work — and long-term housing.

"We also expect them to be sober," she added. "They can't have drugs or alcohol in their cabins, because many of our residents are in recovery."

Anders-Mize said that, though Griffith is facing significant barriers, she's a good neighbor and a valued member of the community.

"She's kind and respectful," Anders-Mize said. "She also cuts through the B.S. If a new resident is complaining about some rule, or doing community chores, she'll quickly remind them of how lucky they are to have their own cabin."

Though Griffith still has friends in "the dirt," she doesn't want to return to it.

"Without that tiny house, I don't know that I'd be alive today," Griffith said. "Without Suzy, my dog, I don't know if I'd be alive today. I promised her that I'd give her a good life. If I can do that, and help a few of the people out there to live long enough to find their way into one of these cabins, I will die happy."

A sign Patricia Griffith made is seen near her former campsite east of Redmond. Photo by Joe Kline.

It's not possible for all of us

Griffith breaks her life down into three phases, each lasting about 20 years. There's childhood, during which she suffered untold abuse at the hands of her biological parents in Green Bay, Wisconsin, before being adopted at the age of 3 by the parents that raised her in Oregon.

Her adolescence was defined by an all-consuming confusion and pent-up rage. When Griffith was 19, she was convicted in Umatilla County of rape, sodomy and assault on a person unknown to her. Those charges resulted in a 25-year prison sentence. Griffith served 21 years but returned to prison three times for parole violations, the last of which was in 2006.

And, at age 40, she transitioned from life in prison to becoming a father and husband, and finally to living in "the dirt."

"When I first moved out there, there were only three of us," Griffith said. "It was much better then. You didn't have to worry constantly about somebody stealing your things, setting fire to your home or vehicles. Or, as happened to a friend of ours, being found shot dead."

That last bit brought another moment of silence, as Griffith reflected on the mysterious circumstances that led to the untimely death of her 26-year-old friend River Feldmiller.

Depending upon who you ask, the number of people who live out there ranges from 100 to 300. While most of the area's residents treat each other like neighbors, Griffith said, it can be scary at times.

"Some of these people have done too much meth, too much Fentanyl," Griffith said. "They're spinning out and you don't know where their mind is, or what they're willing to do."

Griffith said that most of the people who live out there would trade their camps for an apartment in a heartbeat.

"But it's just not possible for all of us," said Griffith. "Due to my past, I can't find a job. I can't rent an apartment. People see that I'm a registered sex offender, and they think I'm a pedophile."

Due to laws that prevent sex offenders from living near schools, parks and other areas where children gather, the number of homes available to members of that group are more limited, according to a study by the Colorado Department of Public Safety. In the study, called "Housing Barriers for Sex Offenders," researchers found that New York landlords were less willing to rent to applicants who have criminal convictions, especially for those convicted of sex crimes.

Griffith thinks of the crimes she committed as a youth and said she deserved the punishment handed down by the judge in her case.

"I was guilty, plain and simple," she said. "I am not proud of that. I've caused suffering, and I've suffered for it ever since. I'm still getting counseling for it."

Griffith's adoptive mother, Pamela Ann Nelson, died of breast cancer in 2001, leaving a void in Griffith's life.

"Before she died, I gave her a hug," Griffith said. "And, she said: 'That's a good, strong hug. You know, when you were a little boy, I'd hug you and you'd go stiff as a board.'"

Upon her release in 2004, Griffith spent her days collecting cans and bottles and sleeping rough in various spots between Bend and Redmond. She also learned to "sign" — standing in a visible, high-traffic area with a sign — to collect money from charitable community members.

Griffith eventually moved to Sweet Home, where she built houses with her adoptive dad. Griffith, who identified as a man then, had a son with his then-wife, Rhonda Dodson, in 2007. While Griffith said she was happy then, her life unraveled through a combination of bad decisions and the circumstances that followed.

First, Griffith was fired from her job after offering crystal meth to a coworker. Then, in 2019, Dodson, a diabetic, died from complications related to the disease. Following that, their son, Jeremiah, was adopted by a family who lives in the area.

"Boy, I miss him today," Griffith said. "His name means 'God-given,' and that's how I think of him. He was a gift to us, never a burden. If he reads this, I want him to know that I love him like no other."

Patricia Griffith stands by a memorial she built at the site of her former camp when she lived unhoused east of Redmond. Griffith says she still visits the site now that she lives nearby in Oasis Village. Photo by Joe Kline.

'I'm here for a different purpose'

Back in The Junipers on that February afternoon, robins flitted to and fro, alighting on the juniper branches overhead and all around the cross. The bright sun shone on the snow, bathing the world in harsh, revealing light. Though it wasn't quite 2 p.m., the moon hovered low in the sky to the west.

Griffith said she moved there to find some peace and stillness amid the chaos that had engulfed her life at the time. It was lonely, but she needed solitude.

"In the beginning, around 2007, it was me, Bob and Dan," said Griffith. "Bob disappeared one day, and years later they found him dead by the canal."

Their names are written on the cross that Griffith built on Jan. 20, 2022.

"That was the day I quit the dope," Griffith said, squinting while looking up at the sun. "I've written the names of friends who have died, or moved away, to honor their memory."

Griffith kicked her meth habit after catching COVID-19 — twice. She'd injured her back after sitting on a faulty chair, which gave way from under her.

"My back went 'pop,'" she said. "Come to find out, I was millimeters from severing my spine. After an operation, I was on painkillers for three weeks. That's when I realized I could quit the meth."

Griffith said you've got to quit something if you want something else. After kicking meth, she was able to save enough money to buy the Honda. She applied and was approved for disability benefits. And she's been approved for $1,600 a month in rental assistance. She also began taking estrogen pills to block her testosterone, after meeting with a doctor who visits the dirt to offer services to its residents.

"I owe Mosaic Health for that," Griffith said. "I've always felt like a woman trapped in a man's body. I'm not going to get a sex change operation or anything like that, but the treatment I'm receiving has improved my life significantly."

"I'm becoming myself more every day, and I'm finding that I love myself," she added after a pause. "I'm not into men or women anymore. I deserved to die, but God let me live. I'm here for a different purpose."

That purpose, she said, is to help people in The Junipers to stay alive, as she does with her Facebook page, and transition to places like Oasis Village as they're ready. Griffith knows from personal experience that nobody leaves The Junipers before they're ready.

Homelessness: Real Stories, Real Solutions (realstoriesrealsolutions.org) is a journalism lab funded by Central Oregon Health Council under FORJournalism (forjournalism.org), an Oregon nonprofit dedicated to supporting journalism statewide. Sign up for weekly newsletters to receive updates.