Writing in the student newspaper at Core Butte High School in Chico, California, Audrey Jensen-Thackery describes what she sees as she rides her bike through a park in town: a “cluster of tents and tarps up ahead. I speed up and keep my gaze forward,” she writes, “avoiding the bits of trash scattered around on the ground. Even though they make me anxious, I can’t help but feel sad for these unhoused people as I rush past them, after all, they are people, just like me.”
Butte County School TiesChico has one of the largest unhoused populations in Butte County, California, and many of the city’s young people see the effects of homelessness every day. After the 2018 Camp Fire, Chico’s population swelled with displaced residents, some of whom never found stable housing. For a student growing up in Chico, homelessness isn’t an abstract social issue; it’s woven into the fabric of their city. And some have expressed concern about how the community is responding.
There’s also a direct school connection. Homelessness affects thousands of US students. The federal McKinney-Vento Act requires schools to identify and support children and youth experiencing homelessness. In California, the number of unhoused students is particularly high, often in the tens of thousands statewide. That means some of Audrey’s peers may be struggling with unstable housing, couch-surfing, or living in shelters.
I invite you to read her whole story about unhoused people. It’s one way to stand in solidarity with classmates who are affected but less visible than adults in tent encampments. It’s also a way for young people to lend their voices to an ongoing “housing first-enforcement first” debate, as a court ruling specifically about Chico’s homeless encampments has kept law enforcement away from the encampments but is set to expire if it’s not cancelled by politicians who have claimed, without evidence, that homeless people commit crimes more frequently than other residents.
In Chico Unified School District, more than 800 students were identified last year as experiencing homelessness. Countywide, the number rises to nearly 1,800. Most of those children aren’t in tents by the creek; they’re doubled up with relatives or moving between motels, shelters, and temporary housing. But the instability weighs heavily on their education. Teachers say it shows up in missed assignments, sudden absences, or classmates who arrive at school without a safe or quiet place to study the night before.
Programs like Butte County’s School Ties try to keep those students anchored. The program provides tutoring, assists with transferring school records when families relocate, and arranges transportation to ensure children can remain at the same school. Under the McKinney-Vento Act, districts are required to provide that kind of support. The goal is to minimize disruptions, as changing schools mid-year can negatively impact students’ academic and social progress.
California as a whole sees some of the highest numbers in the nation. More than 260,000 students statewide were identified as homeless in 2023–24, about 5% of all public school students. Nationally, the figure tops 1.3 million. While most live in doubled-up housing situations rather than outdoors, the stress of uncertainty persists, showing up in classrooms from elementary to high school.
For students like Audrey, the encampments in Lower Park are only the most visible side of a broader problem. Her reporting bridges the gap between what young people see in their neighborhoods and what they feel in their schools. The same classmates who laugh in the lunchroom may also be wondering whether their family will have a stable place to sleep that night.
By writing about it, Audrey gives her peers a way to see homelessness not only as a civic issue but also as a human one. In a city still marked by wildfire displacement and political debate, her story shows how high school voices can cut through the noise, reminding readers that behind every policy argument are people, often classmates, simply trying to find stability.
