There is a woman who had a daughter that used to be on the streets. She died not far from these streets. She made it her mission to collect and backpacks for people living out here. And we did our best to get them to folks who needed them. #maggiesmission
One of Mike's greatest joys is giving toys to the children of folks living at the shelter.
Mike, chronically homeless, loved offering the toys we were able to collect to his ‘kids’ at the shelter. Lifting their spirits for just a bit. He is loved there as Uncle Mikey.
Charles
Charles is not homeless but he lives close to the streets. Collecting returnables. Picking up what is cast aside. Redistributing. He is a lovely man. His nickname, an affectionate one, is The Gnome.
Off Mike goes with a bag of toys we supplied this morning...
Dear Anonymous,
Off Mike goes with a bag of toys we supplied this morning.
Maybe managing his mood through giving. That's not the whole story, I understand. But it is a medicine I can understand. It connects him to youth in a healthy way in which he seems to prosper.
The guys standing around my car ooooh and ahhhh as we reveal the items. A Barbie doll of color. A WWF action figure. A toy fire truck. Action figures of all sorts.
OOOOOOOOOOO. Ahhhhhh.
And they show in that second the children still in there.
Just for a moment. A crowd of boys, though they are all men.
And then it's off for a beer. Or a smoke. Or whatever it is that is their next step. One man looking better than usual comments,' People trash talk SPICE (a street drug) but when I use it I don't wanna' drink. And I don't wanna do weed. So that's a win.'
And he does look better.
All finding our way. And losing it. And finding it. And.....
Better than Christmas morning.
Dear Anonymous,
Better than Christmas morning.
Size 9 and a half. Check.
'Im gonna' have to learn to walk again!' he smiles.
I say 'Oh? Now that you've got your soul returned?'
'You remember I said that yesterday? That I was sole-less.'
His eyes twinkle. '...and now it's back.'
They both fit into their new ground pads, able to cast off sole-less, too big, heavy boots.
You know that feeling? Of something fitting properly? Of not having to schlelp and scuff your way down a street? Trading in the winter boot for a lighter sneaker?
Better than Christmas morning. Thanks Dear Anonymous.
His bag is just too heavy to carry.
Dear Anonymous,
His bag is just too heavy to carry.
'Can you hold it for me for a few days?' he asks, with a jaw that has been rearranged and a face with steel plates holding it together.
Yes. Yes I can.
We wrap it up and store it in some corner of my car.
'It was just too heavy to carry.'
Some things are just too heavy. Best to put them down. I agree.
He wants to send a message to Evan Andrews, who he met at the YMCA gym and remembers fondly, before being brutally beat on the streets.
'Tell Evan, I love him too. I will pray for his brother. And him.'
He says this as a declaration. Here we are. Wounded and patched together and wound up in addiction and mental health chaos and here he is. Offering love.
Love it is.
He is telling me a story about a friend slitting his wrists. I look at his forearms...
Dear Anonymous,
He is telling me a story about a friend slitting his wrists. I look at his forearms. The inside of his forearms show long white scars running about 6 inches long. One arm carries 3 or 4 crisscrossed scars.
I pause.
He looks up at me.
'I have disassociative disorder. One of me was telling me to cut. The other was being cut.'
I am still pausing.
This is the man who wrangled a porcelain sculpture of the Buddhist Goddess of Dawn down to Commercial Street as a gift weeks ago...
Dear Anonymous,
This is the man who wrangled a porcelain sculpture of the Buddhist Goddess of Dawn down to Commercial Street as a gift weeks ago. I still cannot imagine how he was able to do that. I remain floored by his generosity. He comes. He goes. He struggles. Everything he has is chronically lost. Everything is always stolen.
And in essence, he is a love. In essence he IS love. And that's the way we meet.
And then everyone goes off as they do. I watch him lumber up the street with bags that seem like they are filled with rocks. He tells me they are supplements. He is going to gain 35 pounds of muscle this month.
'I'm taking before and after photos.' he says.
'Have any shoes?' he asks... I am soleless.' he said...
Dear Anonymous,
'Have any shoes?' he asks.
What size?
'9 and a half.'
I don't have any today.
He shows me his right foot. The sole and heel are gone from his construction boots.
'Sole-less. Like me.' he says.
'Hardly without soul.' I say and then he beams this smile no mask can hide.
It has been pouring rain. Guys out here with sneakers have wet feet. They can't wait to get dry socks.
A new book for The Reader. Coffee cake. Coffee cards.
'Hey, you don't smoke but you got a light?'
I am grateful I do.
It is breezy. I cup my hands around the hesitant flame of an old lighter I found in my emergency gear. He leans in to light his cigarette. The cigarette trembles in his mouth. I notice he keeps his hands in his pocket for the most part and when he grasps the cigarette between two fingers they are shaking too.
I am soleless.' he said.
Name it. What is this place called?
He is sitting on the curb with his backpack on, a little grubby from the streets and having just woken up. He is watching his 'girl' accept a couple of dresses she has asked for. Her eyes are big and lit up. It's the way he is smiling at her. There is tenderness. There is something like deep appreciation for this moment of her receiving something she wanted. And responding to her joy.
I see the look and I wonder how we would all be transformed if there was someone that would look at us with this regard. And there was no hope of getting the camera. It was a moment that could not be interrupted by being seen any more than it was.
Name it. What is this place called?
Love. It is called love.
Even though it wears disguises and sometimes I don't recognize it at first.
What do you have to do here?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Thank you Dear Anonymous, thank you.
And though he is struggling to remain upright, and is shaking, he is polite and kind...
Dear Anonymous,
And though he is struggling to remain upright, and is shaking, he is polite and kind. The man next to him is wearing a hat we handed him weeks ago and I comment on it. I congratulate him for still having it. So, cigarette in the lips, he quickly points to his mask and smiles. I smile too. Because it is a mask we handed him also several weeks ago. We celebrate this small victory over personal space and belongings for just a fraction of a second.
It's a thing. Some of these guys arrive each morning having lost everything including sometimes the shirt off their back.
One man arrives in tough shape with a shirt that reads NO REGRETS. I comment on it . He says' Yeah....but I got plenty of 'em.'
His eyes meet mine looking up from his downcast face.
Something we have in common.
Haven't seen him in a week so it is good to lay eyes upon him...
Dear Anonymous,
Haven't seen him in a week so it is good to lay eyes upon him.
He is struggling. He stumbles into an explanation for his absence and I smile and stop. There is no owing of explanations. There is no throne of expectation willing to dash anyone to the feet of disappointment. Life is hard enough.
Need a clean shirt?
How about a water?
A coffee card. A piece of cake.
Love you.
Living the street life. Always a story. Always a little hustle. Always a smile. Always on the edge...
Dear Anonymous,
Living the street life. Always a story. Always a little hustle. Always a smile. Always on the edge. Always a boundary to push. A touch of the outcast. The anarchist. The shark.
But all I can see is a young man who is someones son. A brother.
He always leaves with a 'love ya'.
And I think he arrives with that too. And then I think that is such a good way to arrive and leave, with a 'love ya' spoken or unspoken on our lips.
With that enthusiasm of my children reserved for when they were younger, he reveals 'It's my birthday!'
Dear Anonymous,
With that enthusiasm of my children reserved for when they were younger, he reveals 'It's my birthday!'
Happy Birthday, Tyler. Happy 35th.
He got an extra piece of coffeecake, shhhhhhh.
Last year I wondered how you would make it another year. Seriously. And you did. Hell, yes, you did. Congratulations on building a life for yourself.
A flower in the street garden...
Dear Anonymous,
She woke up later on as I was leaving town and I happened to have clothing that fit her. She is a larger size woman and her eyes lit up when I was (we were) able to hand her a denim jacket and shirts and shorts that fit. (thank you Dear Anonymous...talk about timing!)
Her smile was extra large and her voice full of gravel and gratitude. And a hot coffee to look forward to. And a fresh bottle of water.
I have two windows in my bedroom. A bedroom that is dry. I have no one that threatens me in that space. A bathroom close by. I am counting these blessings. Counting. Counting. Counting.
I also understand she may not want these things that I count as blessings. Nor the responsibilities or stresses related to these 'blessings'. I hold that too.
But the gift this morning of her full face smile. That voice with deep treads. A flower in the street garden. Thank you.
Love from the streets.
Memory from July 8th, 2019:
Dear Anonymous,
He shouts at me from across the street.
'Hey! I got somethin' for you!'
He hands me a card. Taped inside is a necklace he has made. Within it is a note torn from a spiral bound notebook.
It is a thank you to a certain Dear Anonymous. It's content echoes the same message he has for each of you. For all of you Dear Anonymous's.
'Thank you for everything you do. I would have wrote sooner except I have problems with reading and writing, so someone helped me write to you.
You have done more than my family has ever done for me. You've shown me love and compassion. Which has made me see my life from a different point of view.
Also, it's inspired me to start doing some art work.
All my love from me and the homeless community.
We love and appreciate you!'
Coloring books. Paper. Markers. Socks. Coffee cards. The blankets. The fleece neck warmers. The boots. So simple.
It does not go unnoticed.
Love from the streets.
...He seems to be barely hanging on.
Dear Anonymous,
He was at the corner of an intersection. Alone. At 6 AM when there are few if any cars going by. Carrying an illegible sign. Carving a tiny, little space to be at a traffic light that people would have to eventually stop. But not for him.
He can barely speak. His eyes wide open. Light blue grey eyes big as saucers, and I wondered if light itself may hurt when it enters.
He accepts water and socks and a coffee card. A clean t-shirt. He does not smile but I can see he is appreciative.
He seems to be barely hanging on.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
How'd you sleep last night?...
Dear Anonymous,
I asked after everyone had a piece of cake, water, tshirt or shoes. Whatever the need du jour was. Who is this? But no one seemed to know who it was.
The condensation was forming under his plastic wrap and I thought 'meat trays'. A horribly uncomfortable thought once I had it.
I stuffed his boot with socks, a bottle of water and a coffee card like some twisted St. Nick in the Summer, letting him know I was close by with a 'Good morning. I don't mean to disturb you...' so he did not become too alarmed. His voice in return was soft and appreciative. Good morning.
How'd you sleep last night?
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Here is a message attached to a PayPal donation of cash to Dear Anonymous...
Dear Anonymous,
Here is a message attached to a PayPal donation of cash to Dear Anonymous. ( https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/joannearnoldefforts )
'Do as you see fit for a suffering person from a suffering person.'
A donation from someone who knows the streets. Harder streets than these.Knows isolation cells down in the basements of prisons. Knows heroin addiction. Knows recovery.
Deep regards and unbounded gratitude.
So, it's tender. I think about, and name the long litany of names...
So, it's tender. I think about, and name the long litany of names and feel all the ones I know personally who have died from fatal overdoses. The ones I loved. And still love. I think of so many folks I know who have lost count of all the people they have lost. Imagine that? LOST COUNT. They can no longer remember after the first 15 or 20 deaths.
And the ones that struggle now. That struggle mightily. The siren call of the drug de jour that doesn't give a sh**. But, oh, the call away from pain. The call toward a tremulous relief. Like these little raindrops. Clinging and temporary. Beautiful and at a different scale no different than boulders.
Inevitable falls. And maybe that is the rhythm of a life that is chosen.
All I can do is collect raindrops in my own folds and know they drop like boulders on some.