That is not a contradiction.
That is the reality too many veterans have lived—and are still living today.

My brother, John Middleton, was 17 years old when he joined the United States Marine Corps in 1967. He didn’t enlist because life was stable or predictable. He enlisted because he was trying to survive—trying to find a way off the streets.

That decision sent him straight into Vietnam.

He served with both the 3rd Marine Division and the 1st Marine Division as a squad leader responsible for 12 Marines. Ten and a half months into combat, he was wounded by shrapnel—injuries that would follow him for the rest of his life. He was awarded the Purple Heart.

Then came the long journey back—Da Nang, Manila, Guam, Japan, Alaska—before finally arriving at Great Lakes, Illinois. Months of treatment for physical wounds. Months of navigating something few understood at the time: acute post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) .

And then he was sent home.
No real transition plan.
No structured support.
No roadmap for what came next.

The only welcome he received was from a cab driver who refused to take his money.

That was it.

From Service to Homelessness

What happened next wasn’t random—it was predictable.

A young Marine goes to war.
He comes home wounded.
His trauma goes untreated.
There is no real system in place to stabilize him.

And then?

He becomes homeless.

My brother went from pillar to post, doing whatever he had to do to survive. Sleeping in stairwells of 15-story buildings just to keep from freezing during the winter.

While most people were sleeping in warm beds, my brother—a combat-wounded Marine—was counting floors in a stairwell just to make it through the night.

This is what veteran homelessness actually looks like.

The System Didn’t Just Miss Him—It Minimized Him

The VA knew.

They contacted my mother multiple times while my brother was living off the land in the projects. Letters came for follow-up appointments related to his combat wounds.

When he finally engaged, he was given a 10% disability rating.

Ten percent.

When a case worker spoke to my mother, she told them the truth:
He sat staring at walls during the day.
He cried out and shouted through the night.
He was scaring the younger children in the home.

She wasn’t given tools, resources, or support—just a son she couldn’t reach and children she had to protect.

So she made an impossible decision.

She put him out.

At a second appointment, his rating was increased to 30%.

But his combat injuries were minimized.
His nerve damage was missed.
His trauma was untreated.

What they called “superficial” required surgeries for the next 20 years.

That is not oversight.

That is failure—and it is one of the pathways into homelessness.

Rebuilding—Despite the System

Even in the middle of that failure, my brother kept pushing.

His father helped him get a job as a janitor with the Chicago Taxi Cab Company.

A World War II veteran—his supervisor, Claude Ervin—saw what the system didn’t and pushed him to use the GI Bill.

That mattered.

At just 26 years old, my brother bought his first home in Bellwood, Illinois in 1976 using the GI Bill.

Let that sink in.

From stairwells… to homeownership.

He was the first Black homeowner on his block—and in surrounding blocks.

And even then, the fight didn’t stop.

Service Didn’t End—The Struggle Continued

Homeownership did not mean peace.

My brother faced racism from neighbors, surrounding communities, and even law enforcement. He was routinely pulled over after exiting the expressway—simply for driving through his own neighborhood.

He lived in Bellwood for 30 years, building a life while still carrying the weight of war.

He worked.

• 16 years as a mechanic, welder, and tow truck driver for Checker Cab
• 11 years driving armored transport

He kept going.

But the injuries never left.

The shrapnel remained—still in his knees.
The nerve damage persisted.
The PTSD continued.

At one point, his condition required a full month in a VA mental health ward.

This is the part people don’t talk about.

War doesn’t end when service does.

The Long-Term Cost of Being Dismissed

By the age of 50, my brother was finally awarded 100% disability.

Not because the injuries were new—but because the system had taken decades to fully acknowledge them.

Decades of surgeries.
Decades of pain.
Decades of living with what had been minimized from the beginning.

This is what happens when veterans are not properly evaluated, supported, and stabilized early.

The cost doesn’t disappear.

It compounds.

The Stories I Grew Up Hearing

I was just a baby when this began, but I grew up hearing the truth.

And that truth shaped me.

Because long before veteran homelessness became a national conversation, I already knew what it looked like.

I didn’t learn it from reports.

I learned it from my brother.

This Is Still Happening—Right Now

If you think this story belongs in the past, it doesn’t.

I am still meeting veterans today living this same reality.

Different war. Same outcome.

Still going from pillar to post.
Still battling untreated trauma.
Still trying to survive instead of live.

This Is Why I Do This Work

This is why I push.

This is why I advocate.

This is why I refuse to be quiet.

Because I’ve seen what happens when the system gets it wrong—and I’ve seen what’s possible when it finally gets it right.

What Needs to Change

If we are serious about ending veteran homelessness:

• Intervene before veterans lose housing
• Treat PTSD and mental health as urgent priorities
• Stop minimizing injuries—visible and invisible
• Build real, long-term housing solutions
• Support families—they are often the first to see the warning signs

Because once a veteran is homeless, we are already too late.

This Is About Responsibility

I honor my brother, John Middleton, with this story.

Not just for what he endured—but for what his life proves.

Veteran homelessness is not an accident.

It is the result of gaps we have the power to fix.

We cannot keep honoring veterans in words and abandoning them in reality.

Housing is not a privilege.

It is the baseline—and until we treat it that way, we will keep repeating this story.

To learn more about Mission Roll Call’s work uplifting veteran voices and advancing effective housing solutions, visit our Homelessness page:
https://missionrollcall.org/spotlight-priorities/housing-and-homelessness/

Mission Roll Call is committed to listening first. If you are a veteran, family member, caregiver, or community partner, we invite you to share your story with us. Your experiences guide our advocacy and help us push for the changes veterans say matter most.

Your voice matters here. We encourage veterans, families, caregivers, and supporters to share their experiences through Mission Roll Call’s national surveys. Your stories help shape policy, raise awareness, and ensure veterans are seen and heard:
https://missionrollcall.org/surveys/

Understanding the truth brings us one step closer to ensuring every veteran has what they deserve: stability, dignity, and a place to call home.

Yvette Jones-Swanson, M.A., is a subject-matter expert on veteran homelessness and housing. A U.S. Army veteran and survivor of MST, she brings more than 22 years of frontline experience helping thousands of veterans secure stable housing.