Scot More Helps LGBTQ Houstonians Reclaim Their Lives Through Homeless Court

When Scot More came home from a date one night when he was 18, he didn’t expect to be told to leave. His mother was waiting in her reading chair, which was an ominous signal, More says, because “I know she doesn’t read.” What followed was a moment that shaped the trajectory of his life and career.

“She goes, ‘Where were you tonight?’ I said, ‘I was on a date.’ I told her his name, and she did the classic, ‘Oh, my God, what did I do wrong? Nobody needs to know this. You need to leave.’”

At the time, More didn’t realize that he was experiencing homelessness. “I ended up going to a friend’s house, and then I was couch-surfing,” More recalls. “There was one time I ended up with a stranger, actually an acquaintance.” Unbeknownst to More, that acquaintance was dealing drugs. “He went to jail. I wasn’t on the lease, so I was kicked out again.”

These lived experiences, and the understanding they cultivated, grounds More’s work today.  As the organizer for Houston’s Homeless Court and the community resource manager at the Coalition for the Homeless, More works hands-on with Houston’s unhoused population in order to help individuals reclaim their lives. These roles require him to facilitate a special court session that resolves misdemeanor offenses for unhoused individuals, while also managing a broader system of support for people experiencing homelessness.

More’s journey into advocacy began with a turning point. “After the second time I was homeless, I ended up in a transitional housing program, and I committed to that program,” he recalls. “I took an internship with the Coalition for the Homeless back in 2004 where I made $4.25 an hour for 20 hours a week just answering the phones. It was only supposed to last for six months. They ended up extending it for another six months, and then they didn’t want to let me go, and they put me on contract labor.”

That internship-turned-contract position provided More with the stability he needed to regain his footing. It also opened the door for his 20-year-and-counting career rooted in advocacy and healing.

His introduction to Homeless Court came somewhat serendipitously, when a supervisor sent him to a meeting she couldn’t attend. “The meeting was about Judge Steven Kirkland with the City of Houston Municipal Court,” says More. Judge Kirkland had gathered a group of homeless providers to help create a Homeless Court program in Houston modeled after the successful program in San Diego. But this group was stumped on how to get the program off the ground. More offered to be the liaison between the group and Judge Kirkland, and then one thing led to another.

More now oversees that restorative court model, which helps unhoused individuals resolve legal barriers—most often tickets or fees that prevent them from accessing state-issued forms of identification, jobs, and housing. “Still, to this day, after 20 years, that is our number-one barrier with the clients we serve because it’s very difficult to get them out of their crisis situation and into housing without that ID.”

Unlike traditional court, referrals to Homeless Court come from case managers, and participants must be actively engaged in programming. “The judge will give them community service, but we define community service as their work and their participation in their programming,” More explains. “So they walk out of the courtroom owing nothing.”

That sense of renewal is palpable. “Every single time I go to court, I’m watching them with their shoulders down. They’re clenched. Their heads are down. They’re not looking at me, and I’m trying to tell them what to expect,” More says. “I’m telling them they’re not going to jail, but they don’t believe me until they speak with a judge and they get their paperwork. And once they get their paperwork and they see a zero balance, they’re standing up straight. Some start crying. If they start crying, I start crying.”

As a self-described “gay hippie grandpa,” More also serves as a beacon of representation for unhoused LGBTQ Houstonians, many of whom feel isolated and unsafe in the system. “There’s not a lot of trust and a lot of fear with people that are living on the streets or unhoused, especially if they’re LGBTQ+, because they’re very vulnerable,” More admits.

Yet, due to his being openly gay, More finds that unhoused LGBTQ folks usually will listen to him and are more trusting of him. “You just need that representation to help those that are in crisis,” More adds. “And just by me being who I am, that allows other people to feel comfortable to share. They want to make a difference, but  they just don’t know who to trust.”

Over the years, More has seen major progress in how local shelters treat LGBTQ youth and adults. “I’m not calling out Covenant House, but they have really transformed,” states More. “Twenty years ago, if you were openly gay or trans, no way were you getting into that shelter.”

More champions this progress, especially having seen it come from the inside out. He has seen funders for shelters recognize that they cannot discriminate against LGBTQ people, and he has watched these trends pass from Covenant House to other shelters, including Houston’s Star of Hope and the Salvation Army.

“Now there are other agencies and drop-in centers like Tony’s Place, Grace Place, and even the Salvation Army has a drop-in youth center focusing on LGBTQ people. So the whole community has turned for the better,” More notes.

Still, challenges remain. “Youth and young adults are still being kicked out or fleeing their family situation because it’s not safe,” More says. “Unfortunately, we are still being discriminated against at certain jobs or losing our employment. They don’t explicitly say it’s because you’re gay, but you know that feeling. It’s like, ‘Oh, I just got fired. I think I got fired because I was who I am.’ So it still happens, but not as much as it used to.”

From More’s point of view, Pride Month offers an opportunity for reflection in addition to celebration. “Remember that those who are unhoused are actually our neighbors,” More emphasizes. “When I was out on the streets the second time, my street name was Hollywood because no one believed I was homeless. I didn’t look homeless.”

“I truly believe that those that are unhoused are celebrating Pride with us,” More adds. “They’re celebrating whether they’re allies or part of our community. They still want to have hope, and I think that’s what Pride means. It’s not just hope for our community, it’s hope for the entire community.”

Moreover, in honor of Pride Month, More urges us all to take action to support unhoused LGBTQ individuals. “Donate, donate, donate. Volunteer, volunteer, volunteer,” he implores.

“You can donate to the Coalition for the Homeless. All of the funding for Homeless Court comes from private dollars because there’s no other funding for it. And if there’s no funding there, we can’t hold the docket,” explains More. “If you don’t have the funds or the means to donate materials, then volunteer, because all of our providers rely on volunteers. The same is true for us at the Coalition for the Homeless.”

Lastly, it’s good to know that time and healing have brought some closure to More’s early trauma. “After decades of not speaking with my mom, we reconnected about seven years ago,” More shares, “and all is now well.”

To support More’s work and Houston’s unhoused LGBTQ community, visit www.cfthhouston.org.