Dear Anonymous,
A smile like this. Bigger than anything that has happened to her out here. And more beautiful. Don’t know how she does it.
Thank you Dear Anonymous, for not looking away. For sharing a resource. For helping to carve a moment in a tough day where things are likely not going to go well where things are ok for a fragile moment.
Dear Anonymous,
Mike is telling us about distributing toys again up at the family shelter.
'It got too GIMME GIMME so I stopped and came back a bit later. Told the kids and the parents that it was gonna be 'PLEASE' and 'THANK YOU'. But it's hard. Everyone wants something and I only got so much.'
And that, he says, is echoed out here. And I agree. There is never enough. There is always the voice of MORE and I NEED and GIMME. Always the reality that this particular resource could dry up overnight.
This morning, though, I also hear the voices of appreciation. Of gratitude. Of relief.
Thank you. Those that have recently donated clothing and jackets and backpacks please know that it has all found homes out here.
Dear Anonymous,
She's not much for wanting to be photographed. But today she is. It's her one year anniversary of her housing in Portland.
We reminisce about life prior to that. The bitter cold. The tears. The carrying pounds and pounds of stuff in a pack, schlepping through the slush.
Mostly, I remember how miserable she was. Understandably so. Housing has been a good thing for her and I celebrate her achievement ( it has not all been easy ) and her ability to adapt to the changes/rules/regulations surrounding her housing. Something some cannot tolerate.
She has been able to navigate it.
No small achievement.
And for those that know Mike, she is his partner.
What love looks like. A moment after the proposal. She said YES. Congratulations Ben and Athena.
—with Ben Klebe
So. Two years ago I may not have had an imagination big enough to imagine this moment. Things looked a lot different then.
This is Ben Klebe, having just proposed to Athena...and she said yes.
Congratulations Ben and Athena. And cheers to people overcoming daunting odds.
You may recognize Ben as a staff member at MaineWorks.
Every once in a while, in a world filled with its' share of despair and seemingly irreparable brokenness, I am invited to witness the joy.
She said YES.
Congratulations Ben and Athena!
—with Ben Klebe
Sometimes it's remarkable to stand in the light. To look at the world with eyes wide open. To build a life with the scaffolding of intention and support. Making change. Cheers to the Pioneers of Recovery at MaineWorks.
Dear Anonymous,
Mike is stocked up this morning from donations we delivered
( thank you Robin Lynn Herrick and Dear Anonymous ) and ready to distribute the dolls, stuffed animals, legos, HotWheels, dolls and coloring books. It's challenging to hand them out with kids and parents so needy he says. Not everyone exhibits exemplar behavior. But he works it out.
And the arrival of the items never fails to illicit smiles from Mike. That inner kid shows up in him. And me too. We pick up each toy and ooooo and ahhhhh over them.
Another lovely man from the streets stops by to thank us for the fleece hats the two young ladies at Portland High School made for the community last month.
He smiles. A big warm, engaging smile and says
'It's my granddaughter's favorite hat. It's blue. She calls it her 'Smurf Hat'. Thank you....'
Those two girls were able to offer something to this man that he could gift to his grandchildren. He hasn't forgotten.
Thank you Dear Anonymous. Thank you.
Dear Anonymous,
He delivers toys we gather to the family shelter. Largely, as he describes, an immigrant population. Someone in the street population accuses him of being racist.
'You only give to THEM.'
He states 'I deliver to KIDS. I had a swastika tattoo the size of a fist on my chest for years. It's covered now with a heart. A BIG heart. I deliver to KIDS'.
He asks if it's okay to deliver to other groups by which he means non-immigrant populations. Of course, it's a decision he can make.
'I'll split them then.'
Mike has been open about his racist past. How it began. How it was cultivated. How it wounded him deeply. And how he changed. And what helps heal. He noted the irony of being labeled a 'racist' in this situation. But it shook him.
'I wanna help KIDS. Not black kids. Or white kids. Just KIDS.'
Dear Anonymous,
He tells me about the 13 and 14 year olds he finds sleeping here and there on the streets.
'It's ain't right.' he says.
He collects a bag of hats, socks, coats and a back pack or two to distribute. We add to his 'dress up' attire (he has shared he likes to dress on occasion ) with a pair of new lined denims and a new Dickies jacket. His smile is some kind of medicine for me. I ask if I may photograph him this morning and he says 'Long as you don't post it in the post office.' And we laugh.
Another man arrives with a bag of boots and sneakers he finds. Abandoned by folks for all sorts of reasons.
'Tried selling them but nobody's got any cash. They wanna' trade drugs. Not everybody wants drugs...'
and he holds up both hands, palms pushed outward toward me as if he is pushing something away; pushes his face back to the side.
My heart hurts. I know he's trying to stay sober (from heroin) out here. A tough job.
He offers the bag to distribute on the street.
Dear Anonymous,
March can be cruel in Maine. A warm day and we're all seduced with the idea of spring and the next day it's bitter cold. Nothing new about this but it feels mean spirited on the street.
Fleece lined pants were a hit as were lined jackets and an extra layer of chamois or flannel shirts.
'May I photograph you this morning?' and he responds by taking his sunglasses of and smiling.
A woman, not well dressed for the cold, is wandering up and down the street screaming a name over and over. Like one might call a lost dog. Forlorn. Desperate. Urgent. Like a foghorn. Something lost. Something in the dark.
A young man arrives with a pair of beautiful Nike shoes in hand. They are in great condition. Bright orange and yellow. They look like candy corn against the relative blue grey of the street. They sparkle. He looks at me and says, 'I'm gonna' find someone to give them to.'
I respond.
'I'm sure you'll make someone's day when you do that.'
He says,
'Like you do for us .'
I respond 'There's no better feeling.'
I only include this as a way to thank YOU.
Thank you Dear Anonymous. His response to me is for ALL of YOU.
Coffee cards. Socks. A clean t-shirt. Briefs and off he goes.
I notice as he says goodbye, under the hood of his jacket a hand knit hat I recognize from one of you. The muted gray blue yarn a perfect counterpoise to his clear, light blue eyes.
Thank you Dear Anonymous. Profoundly.
Dear Anonymous,
This is Charles again today. Told him my focus was off yesterday when I photographed him.
He says, 'Told you I'd break the camera.'
We laugh.
And though he has a place to live he spends much of his time on the streets collecting bottles and cans and distributing whatever he can find to others that may need it more.
He says to me in his sweet and wizened voice
'You know... we all the same. Black. White. From here. From there. Ain't no different in the eyes of god.'
and he lifts his eyes to the sky and points with his index finger above the gutters of the buildings.
And although I personally do not identify with a god in the sky I feel he/she is there as much as under our feet or scraped from our boots so I look at him and receive the gift of his words. I start reading the scriptures in his eyes. The holy book of his face.
He accepts the pair of new boots someone else has traded in for a coat. Says,' I like gettin' dressed up sometimes. I'll save 'em for that'.
And I think, I hope I get to see Charles dressed up someday.
Dear Anonymous,
When I first arrive on the street this morning it feels like it does when I enter a room where someone has had an argument. I can feel the tension. Something off kilter. I will leave not knowing the content but cannot shake the feeling.
First week of the month. Some that receive checks disappear temporarily. Get the refuge of a hotel room for a night or two. Perhaps, maybe, at times feed their addiction du jour. Others this morning are struggling with the aftermath of yesterdays drinking. They are kind but in pain.
Some wait for the coffeecake. I never have enough.
He has a mouthful in this image. Tells me he is looking at alternatives to the street and working on housing. He, like some others here, has a safe roof over his head at night presently, thank you Milestone Recovery.
Coffee cards and socks fly out of the car. A jacket here. A pair of boxers there. A hat.
Thank you's fly too, like spirited feathered things taking flight and then disappearing into the sky. Free at last.
Gonna' be a good day. MaineWorks employee geared up and ready to go. Hope lives here.
WMPG talk show host Christopher White inviting me in for another interview last night as we rambled through the rabbit holes of making, motivation and meaning. We happily lay waste to a half hour : ). Thank you Chris.
Dear Anonymous,
He helps distribute the items that don't move. Coats that are rejected or passed by. Back packs for the young women on the streets. A few blankets for his relations as he refers to his extended family. A coffee card for his brother,
'He ain't doin' too good these days.'
This is Charles and he tells me his birthday is March 20.
'First day of Spring!' he laughs.
Dear Anonymous,
And you'll hear stories about one man, who is deeply familiar with these streets helping a couple new to the streets. The couple who were dismissed from the shelter, for whatever reason. He shows them the warmer spots to sleep. He panhandles enough money to take care of all of them last night.
The couple looks dazed. A bit besides themselves.
The sun is coming up. Hot coffee helps.
Dear Anonymous,
It's a little bit like Filene's Basement on the sidewalks some mornings with clothing flying in and out of bins. Trying to find something that fits this 3XL guy and then a snug enough hoodie for this Medium guy. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. The socks were depleted today. No hand warmers available, or gloves ,or mittens. Things come and go rapid fire. They are always disappointed when the homemade coffee cake is gone. And it is always gone sooner than some arrive.
A hot cup of coffee remains the standard request. As are socks.
This is Todd. Todd has given me permission to photograph him for years. He astounded me years ago when he remembered my name (I am terrible at remembering names) and greeted me on the street the day he left the hospital after spinal surgery.
Today he has a smile. I cautiously share that he tells me he might have garnered housing. Maybe. All fingers crossed and everything else that can cross.He seemed enthusiastic and appreciative of his caseworkers.
He tells me he's been on the street for the better part of 10 years.
Profile.
Dear Anonymous,
I know, though she gave me permission, she may not like this image. For me I am stunned by the beauty in her vulnerability. I share it because it helps describe the street. The tincture of Desperation and Resiliency. The tonic of survival.
Her wild beauty. Her difficulty. Her struggle. Her gratitude.
The impossible task of being ok when things may not be ok.
Shares that her grandfather was an Irish born boxer. She puts up her hands and lowers her head and dances the steps of a fighter in the ring.
'I was born trainin' in utero!'
Thank you Dear Anonymous for the coffee cards, socks, neck warmers and backpacks we could get to her because of you.