Laura Chapman is a civic volunteer, social justice activist, and works with human-services nonprofits that help neighbors in need.
PUTNEY-Not that long ago, Brattleboro voted to formally identify itself as a Compassionate Community: a town that commits to dignity, care, inclusion, and shared responsibility for one another, especially in moments of vulnerability. I believe this to be true and, through my professional and volunteer work, have seen it in action many times.
As individuals, most of the people who serve on the Brattleboro Selectboard would rightly describe themselves as progressive, caring, and deeply concerned with justice. They often and sincerely speak about equity, inclusion, and the dangers of authoritarian governance when they see it play out on the national stage.
So it was a true shock when, on Dec. 22, while most of us were thinking all the holiday thoughts, the board held a public hearing to change a zoning rule. The language was technical: "interim bylaw," "conditional use," and "orderly growth."
But the heart of the matter was not technical at all. It was moral.
The proposed bylaw would turn "Social Services or Charitable Assistance" from something once embraced into something that must plead its case. Though the Selectboard chair insisted the change was neutral, the urgency behind it told a different story.
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Again and again, a small but vocal group returned to one place: 69A, an art and community space that welcomes everyone, including people without homes, people struggling with addiction, and people living with mental illness.
The complaints were not really about zoning. They were about visibility. About having to see suffering downtown. About behaviors that made some uncomfortable. About the belief that hardship and the messiness of humanity should be kept elsewhere, out of sight, so commerce could proceed undisturbed.
But 69A did not create homelessness. It did not create addiction or mental illness. What it created was a little bit of space. A bathroom. A place to sit. Some warmth. A place where people could be indoors without having to buy something first.
If that door closes, the people do not disappear. They return to the sidewalk. They lose the bathroom. They lose the warmth. They lose one of the few spaces where they are treated as neighbors rather than nuisances.
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That night, 25 community members spoke up. The overwhelming majority asked the board to slow down, to follow the normal process, to involve the Planning Commission, to give the community more time to be part of the decision.
As Joshua Davis, executive director of SEVCA, wrote in a letter submitted to the record: "Service siting debates become de facto referenda on poverty, homelessness, addiction, or 'who belongs where.'"
When rules change in ways that make help conditional, the question quietly shifts from land use to human worth.
Even the Planning Commission itself, its members highly experienced and well-versed, unanimously but for one absence asked the board to delay its vote and allow them to weigh in. They reminded the board that the first public hearing notice automatically put the interim bylaw into effect for 150 days.
There was time for due process. Time for research. Time for community engagement. In other words, there was no true emergency.
It is also important to note that board members Isaac Evans-Frantz and Oscar Heller spoke out clearly and publicly, raising thoughtful, compelling objections and urging the board to slow down.
But the vote moved forward. By the narrowest margin, the bylaw passed.
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This is where the contradiction becomes hardest to ignore. Three members of a board that largely sees itself as thoughtful, community-minded, forward thinkers chose a rushed, top-down approach, one that bypassed normal democratic processes and concentrated decision-making power in a way that I dare say most of them would almost certainly condemn if it were happening at the federal level.
During a recent visit to Washington, D.C., I noticed that the one place consistently prioritizing the safety and dignity of people without homes was the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. It was warm. It welcomed everyone. Many people gathered there, likely because of its basic amenities and because so many other spaces had been made hostile under the inhumane actions of the current presidential administration.
I found myself wondering what would happen if those policies and approaches to homelessness ever reached the library as well. If even that door were closed, where would people who were already suffering the most be expected to go?
I now find myself asking the same question of Brattleboro. Are we moving toward a future where we continue to make it increasingly uncomfortable for people without homes to exist anywhere at all? As if their lives are not already painful enough. As if people are not already dying in frigid Vermont nights, forced to live outdoors.
What feels intolerable when imposed from afar somehow became acceptable when applied locally, to people with the least power to push back. The change now makes it harder for 69A to secure an occupancy permit for a new space, one farther from downtown, larger, and better equipped to address the very concerns raised.
After complaints about 69A's previous space closer to downtown, this step toward compromise - moving farther down the street - was met not with patience but with a new barrier.
The irony deepened quickly. Two days later, a local emergency warming shelter announced it would close temporarily through the holidays, which have seen some of the most dangerous weather conditions of the winter so far.
They were not closing because the need had disappeared but because they had hit a staffing crisis. Volunteers were stretched thin. The message was simple and heartbreaking: We want to stay open. We cannot do it alone.
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And there, in the space of a few cold days, the story reveals itself.
A town willing to act swiftly to restrict spaces of welcome moves far more slowly when it comes to sustaining them.
It is easier to regulate compassion than to practice it. Easier to move suffering out of sight than to share responsibility for it.
But winter does not care about zoning categories. Cold does not ask whether someone is permitted. And humans, neighbors, friends continue to suffer.
The measure of a community is not how orderly its downtown appears, but whether its values endure when care is inconvenient and uncomfortable.
This Voices Viewpoint was submitted to The Commons.
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