TEDDY MADDUX guides his green 2001 Ford Expedition along an open strip of asphalt between far-reaching rows of weather-beaten tents and plywood shanties. It’s a bright morning in mid-January. With a thick rust-colored beard and ready smile, the 45-year-old waves to residents who lounge in plastic patio chairs, tidy up their living areas, or cycle by on battered mountain bikes. Hitting the property’s southern border, he turns right, gliding by a covered patio and a row of gray porta-potties before reaching another stretch of ramshackle structures along the lot’s western fence line. In front of a tent-like portable carport, off-white and badly worn, he parks. This, for now, is home.
In a small, ersatz backyard, Maddux is growing nopales and green onions in a raised planter. Inside the vinyl garage, he’s hung a half-length mirror and photo print of the Conciergerie in downtown Paris. As he shows off each detail, he chuckles, with a hint of self-deprecation. “Humor helps you out here. If you can’t laugh about it, you’re gonna cry about it,” he says. On the asphalt floor, he’s placed a white plastic horse, a gift intended for a 9-year-old daughter he hasn’t seen in six years.
For the past 10 months, Maddux has lived at a 7-acre homeless encampment on state-owned land in far Southeast Austin. Opened by the Texas governor in late 2019 as part of a political spat with local officials, the site sits just off a major highway, wedged between a shuttered heavy equipment dealership and a mobile home park. Over time, the paved and treeless lot has transformed into a cacophony of ad-lib architecture.
Toward the front sit about two dozen connected garages, formerly used by the state for vehicle maintenance, now made into customized shelters. Doors with locks have been jury-rigged and front patios concocted; inside, furniture is arrayed beneath hanging string lights and decorated walls. Farther back begin the tents and shacks. Campaign signs from the 2020 elections now serve as fence panels and pseudo-insulation. One man has laid down artificial grass; another has built an arched entryway decorated with logs and moss.
The camp sounds like highway traffic and planes flying overhead to the nearby airport. With some frequency, it sounds like a person in the throes of emotional crisis, screaming at neighbors or the heavens. The place smells often of dust, sometimes of grilling meat, and anywhere near the porta-potties it tends to reek.
