Dear Anonymous,
Folks are scattered this morning and one young man is arranging his pack under a staircase off the street in an alley.
This is how the hairs on his arms were. Each hair a jungle of drops beginning to collect the dew and the rain. He comes over with a smile.
'I called my parents.' he says with a voice buoyed by something. Maybe hope.
'I wanna' go home.' he continues and the tone goes down an octave.
'I hope they come get me.' he adds with what sounds like a question, a doubt. Maybe fear.
Then,' I miss my little baby girl.'
His daughter is 2 and a half years old.
I hope he can go home.
'I don't wear collared shirts.' he states though I do notice he is wearing one...
Dear Anonymous,
'I don't wear collared shirts.' he states though I do notice he is wearing one. He is emphatic. His speech punctuated with meaning.
'Last time I wore one of those was at my partners' funeral. We were together three and a half years. I changed his diapers at the end. No mention of me in the obituary. No mention of me at the funeral. His sister, she took everything...'
and then he is choked up. No words. A long painful moment, a perplexingly long inhalation that has stopped and I just want to breathe for him.
'I'll take the shirt.'
It is a Ralph Lauren. I tell him Ralph would be lookin' good on him. We smile.
He suddenly animates himself,eyes to the leaden sky. 'Faaaaaaahhhhhhccccckkkkkkkkkkk. And now the rain!'
He leaves. What is it we leave. What is it we carry forward like him, in a wobbly shopping cart lifted from across the bridge in another town. Filled with the crumpled and broken. With the redeemable. With our baggage placed alternately with tenderness and violence.
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though...
Dear Anonymous,
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though. They smoke. Share a light.
Coffee cards. Coffee cake. Socks. A shirt here. A sweatshirt there. Some eczema cream for his hands. A belt. Any pants? No pants. Any backpacks? No backpacks.
'Any books?' the Reader asks.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I may have books.
I show the photograph of that young blue eyed man to the young blue eyed man. He smiles. Then he shows me the color variations in his eyes. A tad of yellow here he says. A tad amber down here. The man knows his eyes.
Many regulars are not here. It's the first few days of the month. Checks come in. Jingle enough for a moment. Rooms to rent for a night or two. Addictions to feed. Pains to soothe. Things to do.
May they know some peace and may I never assume what that may look like.
He asks me again and again if everything is alright with me and if he can help at all with ANYTHING...
Dear Anonymous,
He asks me again and again if everything is alright with me and if he can help at all with ANYTHING and he assures me he is at my back. Street brothers. Street sons. I know he struggles. I know he has shown me a bit of his big heart. And we stand out here bruised and tattered with coffee cards and socks.
There's a request for tents if anyone has simple and smaller tents they'd like to move on.
A woman comes by and takes some shoes, a pair of pants, a coffee card and blows her cigarette smoke directly into my face. Half affectionately. Half diabolically.
I'll take that as a win.
They all arrive and then disperse. Some gulping water. Some gulping coffeecake. Heading for a beer. A cigarette. Heading for a coffee. Heading to do some dumpster diving. Some dealing. Some whatever. Many will make sure they say goodbye. Some will send their 'Love yous'. Some will be unable to lift their eyes...those bricks holding a secret they search them for.
Friends this morning holding a fresh copy of the July 2020 edition of MAINERNEWS featuring excerpts from TRANSIENCE BOOK II...
Dear Anonymous,
Friends this morning holding a fresh copy of the July 2020 edition of MAINERNEWS featuring excerpts from TRANSIENCE BOOK II, a memoir about homeless existence here in Maine by Kenneth W Beek. You can pick up a copy free all over town and please do. Kenny's writing is insightful, rich, honest, humorous and spot on. I am honored to have my images of Kenny used on the cover and throughout the article. They were taken on a morning like this, only it was cold. And Kenny's good pal Joe Blaze threw an arm around Kenny and asked 'Would ya' take a picture of me and my best friend?' Kenny, having trouble focusing his eyes and stumbling and slurring his words a bit offered this unforgettable comment: 'I'm not on the street 'cuz I drink. I drink cuz' I'm on the streets.'
And that, for me, was a tipping point.
Thanks Kenneth W Beek.
https://mainernews.com/category/views/transience/
'Been hard the last two months. My girl left. She wants to be HERE. I can't be THERE...'
Dear Anonymous,
'Been hard the last two months. My girl left. She wants to be HERE. I can't be THERE. We fall into bad habits together. But everybody's askin' for her all day. And my mom, she's real ill. And it's rainin' and the cops tell us to move out from beneath the awning and we're drenched and then the next cop tells us to move under the awning 'cuz it's rainin'.
We got Hannaford cards donated to us and a bunch of us pooled it together to get stuff for the shelter kids. We was able to get popsickles and cookies and we got them to the beach. And they played. With the new toys I brought. Some of them kids had never seen the water before even livin' here in Portland. It was somethin' different for them. For us. It helped the parents. Helped the kids. Gave us somethin' good to do. I wound up playin' Barbie. Dressin' and undressin' the dolls like the girls do cuz' that's how they play. One little one kept runnin' to the edge of the water and just stickin' her toe in and runnin' back. Over and over.....'
Several people are speaking at once and there's water and tshirts and socks and...
Dear Anonymous,
Several people are speaking at once and there's water and tshirts and socks and coffeecake and coffee cards being distributed and 'Do you have any backpacks?' 'Do you have any pants?'
I have my camera over my shoulder and he says ' I guess I'm not pretty enough today to be photographed." and flashes this smile.
He doesn't love to be photographed. But he gives permission. He's looking for...
Dear Anonymous,
He doesn't love to be photographed. But he gives permission. He's looking for a pair of shoes we had for him yesterday. But he can't find them. Size 15.
'I wasn't coherent yesterday.' he whispers in a quiet and raspy voice.
He asks for sage, a pair of socks 'Can you spare two?'. He needs a shower he says. We get some clean clothes rounded up.He taps his medicine bundle with his hand, near his heart and nods his head ever so slightly with gratitude to Maria, of the Penobscot Nation.Thank you.
He does not like being photographed and changes his posture immediately when the camera comes out ...but he allows me and I know this is a gift from him. He is a man of tender heart.
We change. And we will continue to change...
Dear Anonymous,
We change. And we will continue to change. This first photo is of our friend Tyler this morning, June 27. The photo on the right is of Tyler last year, June 30 2019. I wonder sometimes if Tyler recognizes why every time I see him now it's a miracle. It. Is.
—with Tyler Scott
These are toys from Dear Anonymous for Mike to distribute at the shelter...
Dear Anonymous,
These are toys from Dear Anonymous for Mike to distribute at the shelter.
Mike has told us giving to others, particularly kids going without, is a high. 'I love these kids. It's their parents who get a little grabby!'
I say I hope it makes someones' day.
'You kidding?' he belts out on the sidewalk 'It's makin' MY day. They're gonna love this. '
He looks at me impishly and says ' I can't wait to play!'
And he trudges off like the Street Santa. Toys in a garbage bag. Goodwill.
He waits until everyone has left. All I can think and feel is...he is so young. He tells me he overdosed...
Dear Anonymous,
He waits until everyone has left. All I can think and feel is...he is so young. He tells me he overdosed yesterday. Alcohol. Meth. He is partly humbled. Partly cocky. Maybe having walked that dizzying line and made it. He tells me this is is 5th or 6th time. I don't really know in this moment if he is grateful to survive or pissed off. I don't know.
He'd like some water. A coffee card. Coffeecake. Socks.
And he drifts off while he continues to speak. Talking on and on. It doesn't seem to matter that no one listens.Now he's down the street. I will beep later as I drive by and he will not lift his head, focusing on the bricks ahead of him.
I asked the other guys about so and so, where's he been?
'Got his 'script. On a benzo bender for 2 or 3 days. Then he tries to steal ours.'
Meanwhile there is a small chorus of thank yous. Thank you Dear Anonymous.
The coffeecake is long since gone. But now he sits in the sun not entirely happy...
Dear Anonymous,
The coffeecake is long since gone. But now he sits in the sun not entirely happy I have my camera out. But he is kind. Tells me about baking berry crisps. He has his standards as a baker and my coffecake has made it through the gauntlet. He recognizes the flavor of unsalted butter. He recognizes the favored 'crumb'. Tells me he had brought me a package of blackberries but someone swiped them. Tells me he only drinks on days ending with y. Tells me the last time he 'dressed up' was at his partner's funeral.
He wears the hat offered by you this winter. A fleece sweatshirt too...
Dear Anonymous,
He wears the hat offered by you this winter. A fleece sweatshirt too that had been handed to him about that same time. He has managed to hold onto them. Nothing short of a miracle out here. I notice. He smiles.
And socks are distributed and there are not enough coffee cards but they eye the stack of clean and beautifully folded tshirts. And they settle. And they choose. And there is dignity in the offer (thank you Dear Anonymous) and there is dignity in the receiving.
Just that. That's all. And that is a lot.
And he stays by so I may photograph and I am so taken by his eyes that I fumble with my camera. Is it on? Oh, settings? Is it focusing? All the while those eyes...
I have met extraordinary young men in recovery. Men who literally shine in the world...
Dear Anonymous,
I have met extraordinary young men in recovery. Men who literally shine in the world as people, employees, sons, fathers,husbands,friends. Men I respect, admire and am proud are in this world, holding it, as I get older and older.
The same men were often in this kind of place. Disenfranchised. Addicted. Overwhelmed. Struggling with self worth. Struggling with sanity. Struggling with who they are. Struggling with what they have lost. Struggling with the daily hustle, mental health and the extreme siren call of heroin, or alcohol, or meth or whatever. The same heart that I see in them now was in them then. Only there was more journey to journey. And each of them carries their own story.
Not going to pretend everyone will experience stunning and dramatic 'recoveries' or even anything we might label 'recovery', but the point is...we don't know. I certainly don't.
Thirsty? Here's water.
Need a coffee? Gotcha' covered.
And this is not necessarily the story of this particular young man. But I can say each day he waits politely until everyone leaves, tries to hustle a second coffee card and when I turn him down with a smile acknowledging his solid attempt, he smiles back. A slightly wicked and sweet smile and says 'Love ya'.'
The card that Mike received as part of a gift after a weekend when he overdosed...
Dear Anonymous,
The card that Mike received as part of a gift after a weekend when he overdosed and was good as dead had no one intervened with Narcan. He is hanging onto it. Closely.
Says it helps him.He is grateful for it, thank you Dear Anonymous.
In a world where a policeman came through and said,
'I'm sick of all your needles. I'm sick of all you addicts. You should all die.'
When this is what is said out loud to you.
Mike is clear this is not ALL police.
Not at all. And he was very clear about this.
But words can cut like knives.
Homeless. Not heartless.
Someone donated a big bag of tshirts and part of the joy was unfolding each one...
Dear Anonymous,
Someone donated a big bag of tshirts and part of the joy was unfolding each one with the guys and watching them figure out who would like each one. This guy will only wear plain shirts, 'I ain't no billboard.' So, the plain one goes to him.
This guy loves Batman so the Batman shirt goes to him without question. The skateboard shirt goes to the younger fellow along with the band tshirts.
Mike calls out 'THAT one's for Tyler!' and we put it away for him. Tyler arrives and Mike is excited to hand it to him. And Tyler's response, so worth it.
Thanks Dear Anonymous.
A few days ago Mike overdosed near Preble Street...
Dear Anonymous,
A few days ago Mike overdosed near Preble Street. A man, a stranger to Mike, jumped in to administer narcan, not once, but three times before the ambulance arrived with the fourth shot on the way to the ER.The man even retrieved Mikes' gear and kept it all safe for him until he was released from the hospital.
That man speaks little English and is an immigrant, we believe from Iraq.
Mike found him yesterday to thank him. Offered him a beautiful medicine bundle gift from his own culture and tried to describe its meaning and value to the man who saved his life.
'I tried but I was gonna' start ballin' my eyes out. Years ago I woulda' said GET LOST to someone like him....'.
Someone like him refers to the mans' immigrant status.
Mike is struggling this morning with inner disappointment, that shame of relapse. A heavy burden.
He's taking some actions to start painting again.
He stuffs a bag with donated womens pants and tshirts to bring 'up the hill' to the resource center.
Mike is showing me that he attached a card sent to him along with a medicine bundle from a friend in the Penobscot Nation. He says it's a prayer that helps him. Sometimes I watch people who have almost nothing, and what is it they hold onto. Thank you Dear Anonymous.
It's Father's Day. And that can be a trigger out here...
Dear Anonymous,
It's Father's Day. And that can be a trigger out here. Abusive dads. Dads that are dead now, that despite their abuse, they miss with their broken hearts. Dads they are afraid to call because they are calling from the street. And that call is likely not going to go well.
Grief over not being able to be present to their own children. Or failing at yet another relationship. Abandoning their own children as they have felt abandoned. There is love in the story. Ferocious love wanting to be lived but it's strangled with trauma. Riddled and choked with shame. Complicated with mental health issues.
So, hey the pain is too much and I don't wanna feel ANY more pain, so...let's get high.
And by the grace of a stranger on the street and three narcan shots administered by that stranger and another narcan shot in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and he's here to speak about it.This is the story Mike tells me of his yesterday.
An empathetic ER doc who fed him popsicles and talked straight with him is on my mind. Thank you. The stranger is on my mind too. Thank you. That Mike will share this story is a sign of strength I pray he someday recognizes if not already.
The ghosts of guilt, shame and remorse are flying about his head like those old cartoons of birds flying in a circle to illustrate the effect of being pummeled in the head.
I arrived in a pissy mood, not aware of the situation. And he made every attempt to lift my spirits. He tried to soothe my aggravated little, puny self. And then this story tumbled out.
Sometimes it is really best to shut the f*** up.
Every card. Every shirt. Every pair of socks. Walked away clutched in hands and stuffed in packs.
Tyler always offers himself to be photographed. He steps into the experience of being seen in a way few do...
Dear Anonymous,
Tyler always offers himself to be photographed. He steps into the experience of being seen in a way few do. And I always love that he allows us to see him. In good times. In bad. That somehow he seems connected to something far deeper in him than appearances.
This morning he drops his gaze into that lens and looks straight into me as if he can see a distant galaxy, and simultaneously as I squint through that viewfinder, he becomes the galaxy himself. The camera disappears and I am standing holding nothing but ferocious love.
And then there's socks and coffee cards.
Today arriving with a generous donation of shoes and boots, pants, socks and coffee cards...
Dear Anonymous,
Today arriving with a generous donation of shoes and boots, pants, socks and coffee cards. Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Mike is a shoe guy and was really pleased with this donation. Happy feet help on the street when you're pounding the pavement without regular hygiene.
It's a morning of loss too.
This young man lost his family to his drug use. Worried about his mom.
And this woman. She lost her job, her home, her kids. Drug use.
He lost his backpack. Again. Pants, no belt...and all I can find is some clothesline.
He, well, he lost his patience long ago. Along with a grandson.
Some have lost their minds.
Mike apologizes for the behavior of one person, 'She 's been out here so long she's lost her politeness.'
And so it is.