By Noreen Marcus, FloridaBulldog.org
Kinard Shirley was one of 172 homeless people who died this year in Miami. He wasn’t somebody’s father or spouse, but he was a brother and a son.
Shirley, 37, was a day laborer at a downtown construction site near North Miami Avenue and NW 6th Street. It’s an intersection of history, transportation and commerce – the venerable Freedom Tower, the sleek MiamiCentral train station, and the upscale restaurants and shops that go with gentrification.
That’s where Shirley and his fellow laborer Marshall Ragsdale, 66, were fatally attacked with a metal pipe at about 5:45 a.m. Thursday, Jan. 16. A male-and-female couple also were bludgeoned; the woman was critically injured, but both survived.
Brenton Clarke, 36, a recent transplant from Long Island, New York, remains jailed without bond on first-degree murder, attempted murder and armed robbery charges, the last for allegedly fleeing with a victim’s meager belongings, according to state records.
The rampage briefly captured media attention. The names Kinard Shirley and Marshall Ragsdale were added to a list of fatalities – almost all unknown to the public – that the Miami-Dade County Homeless Trust compiles year after year after year.
“It is unconscionable,” said Ron Book, the longtime Homeless Trust chairman. “As long as there are people who call the streets their home, there will be senseless attacks. Bad actors prey on the vulnerable, and there is no one more vulnerable than a person sleeping on the streets.”
Last Friday the Homeless Trust joined Miami-Dade County Mayor Daniella Levine Cava, advocacy groups and family and friends of the departed for an annual vigil at the Stephen P. Clark Government Center, about a half-mile from the sidewalks where Shirley and Ragsdale died.
For more than 13 minutes, all 172 names printed on a board held by Leonel Fragel, a solemn man wearing a white shirt and white gloves, were read aloud. The dead, as young as 19 and up to 99 years old, included four U.S. military veterans and 26 victims of opioid addiction, WLRN reported.
There were speakers and uniformed police officers bearing flags in formation. Community volunteer Alexandria Arango sang two songs for the crowd: “Rise Up!” by Andra Day and “Missing You” by Brandy.
The vigil ended with Levine Cava, Kinard Shirley’s mother – Charlotte Burnett – and others releasing dozens of white doves, traditional symbols of purity, peace and freedom from earthbound sorrows.
A SON AND BIG BROTHER
Shirley’s brother, Cornelius Burnett, a warehouse worker who lives in Fort Lauderdale, attended the memorial. Florida Bulldog interviewed him afterward.
“It’s important to know who my brother and Marshall [Ragsdale] are so people can understand this is a human being, not some random person on the street, not another number or statistic,” Burnett said.
“Know who these people are and get some insight into who these people are, don’t turn a blind eye on people who are on the streets. I knew a lot of them growing up. I never turn away or ignore somebody. I always try to help someone in need,” he said.
Burnett said he and Shirley were close growing up. Kinard was the eldest of 13 siblings, many of whom lived with or near his father in Jacksonville; Cornelius was two years younger and they shared a bedroom.
Kinard, Cornelius and two other siblings lived with their mother Charlotte Burnett. Kinard visited Jacksonville, but his early years were spent mostly in Perrine in South Miami-Dade County. He was graduated from Miami Palmetto High School and got some training in plumbing and related fields at a job corps program.
Family members described Kinard Shirley as loving fishing, playing football and joking around. He was always a good son and a caring older brother, Burnett said.
When his sister’s TV broke, he ran out and bought her a new one. “He used to cut mom’s yard without her asking. He’d come over and if the grass needed maintenance he’d do it without asking,” Burnett said.
When their mother moved to Miami Gardens in North Miami-Dade, Shirley joined her and lived there until his late 20s. Then he moved out and took jobs installing tubs and toilets at building projects. He would turn up at a labor agency early in the morning, get a ticket, go wherever the work was that day and then seek some kind of makeshift shelter nearby, his relatives said.
‘TO ME, HE WAS QUIET’
Burnett couldn’t explain why Kinard Shirley chose to live on the streets. “I have no idea,” he said as if expressing an old frustration. His brother didn’t have much money but he had options – stay with their mother, move in with Burnett, go somewhere else with a roof and four walls.
“He wanted to accomplish things on his own,” Burnett said. “I don’t know why he was determined to do things without anybody’s help but that was his thing.”
Experts say most homeless people cling to a false sense of independence and make bad decisions because they’re mentally ill and/or drug-addicted. Society still feels the impact of the 1970s “deinstitutionalization” movement that closed mental-health facilities and returned patients to communities where they were supposed to be helped but instead were largely ignored or jailed.
Burnett doesn’t label his brother: “To me, he was quiet. If he knew you, he’d speak to you, he’d be more comfortable.”
The year 2025 was an especially bad time to be homeless in America and the forecast for 2026 isn’t any better. The federal government’s existing approach to homelessness is under attack by the Trump administration, which last month issued new rules that could cut $3.9 billion in awards to community organizations for long-term housing programs, The New York Times reported.
Rhode Island U.S. District Judge Mary S. McElroy recently blocked the sudden rule change that opponents say requires congressional action. But her ruling is temporary, and the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development argued the order is moot because the agency plans to issue another batch of rules that must be judged separately.
Book and his allies aren’t about to give up on ending homelessness in Miami-Dade, where the Homeless Trust is funded primarily by the county’s 1 percent food and beverage tax. Lives are at stake.
“Kinard and Marshall remind me of why we do what we do,” he said. “We must continue to fight for the rights of people to have access to stable housing. That’s the only way stories like these will become a thing of the past.”
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