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.....
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.
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.
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.
holding tenderly without clutching. holding tenderly without refusing to bloom...
holding tenderly without clutching.
holding tenderly without refusing to bloom.
holding tenderly even as we unfold.
holding tenderly what we deem impossible.
What Robin was posting.
What Robin was posting.
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.
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.
The Day Joe introduced me to Kenny, and Transience, chapter 64 "Babes in the Woods"
This is Kenneth W Beek who I met out on the streets a few years ago. More of his memoir TRANSIENCE will be published in Julys' edition of MAINER NEWS. His writing is...remarkable.
Here's an excerpt that he offered in the comments of an image I posted on Father's Day:
'Ashlea had given me a phone. She actually traded me for a cigarette, but when was the last time you bought a phone for a dime? My guess is, phones probably cost more than ten cents when the first telephone was sold. And so it was a gift.
The first thing I did was download a free text app. The second thing was text my “elder” child, who happened to be with my “younger” child- who is more accurately my middle child- the two of whom happened to be in Old Orchard Beach. That's not two hundred miles away like Bangor. That's two towns away, or somewhere between Biddeford and Purgatory. So we made arrangements to meet. It had been awhile… I hadn't seen Rachel since she had to go, and I hadn't seen Bowman since the weekend I lost my last wallet and found myself in jail rather than Heaven. I was waiting for them in Monument Square across the street from the library using the public Wi-fi. I was listening to Hank Williams and wondering how my dad was doing. I was wondering about a lot of things, the sorts of things normal people don't seem to wonder about at all. I wasn't worrying about anything, which also seems to distinguish me from normal people. Maybe that's just a misconception, but I seem to encounter a lot more worry than wonder, most places I go.
“Dad!”
It was Rachel. She was approaching from across the park with her brother and her boyfriend. I waved to them, and Bowman waved back. He can't get too excited about seeing his father. He's a teenaged boy, a young man. He has to be kool. I can relate. Being kool made me what I am: The Beast on a bench with nowhere to go.
“What's going on?” he greeted me, the drawl of Kool Kids of America.
He had waited until he got close enough to not have to yell. Kool kids only yell at concerts and cops… but an ear to ear grin was fastened to his flush and blushing face. He kept his kool, but just barely. He was excited to see me. I was happy to see him, but with that level of elation only possible when it springs from a deep well of regret, like a bucket hanging clear to Hell, drawing its final drops of Joy. The reservoir of those emotions is a ravine of regret, a hidden landscape forged by remorse for the sins of a condemned soul. I'm pretty kool.
I got up and hugged them both and shook her boyfriend's hand. I'm not much for hugging. It's difficult to embrace anyone else, even my children. I've always felt like that. My mother never hugged me that I can recall, and my father mostly only did so to apologize for taking a beating beyond the reasonable level of discipline. I figure that's how most tough guys are made. Lord knows, my father was tough. The Lord also knows my father was beaten often as a child, and quite beyond any reasonable level of discipline. I've never hit Rachel. I spanked Bowman once, but it hurt me more than it did him. I'm not just voicing an old cliché. I spanked him once. I could never have done it again.'
Transience, chapter 64 "Babes in the Woods"
The Day Joe introduced me to Kenny
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.
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'.'
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.
I will remove the color so I can see your impossible structure because if I touch you, you will come undone. Literally.
I will remove the color so I can see your impossible structure because if I touch you, you will come undone. Literally.
His face is swollen. Stitches. He leans on his cane...
Dear Anonymous,
His face is swollen. Stitches. He leans on his cane.
Somedays remaining upright is not possible.
Sometimes that ground hits hard.
He struggles.
He is in our world. In this world in which we move about together and move about apart. Soft spoken. Courteous.
He always turns toward me as he leaves, new socks tucked into his front pocket, with a dignified smile and makes eye contact as he lowers his chin, looks up at me and says 'Now you have yourself a good day.'
And when he says it I can feel that possibility. I can feel like I'd like my day to be good because he wishes it so. Maybe I COULD have a good day.
You too, friend. You too.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
He contributed to Dear Anonymous when he received his stimulus check.
Dear Anonymous,
He contributed to Dear Anonymous when he received his stimulus check.
It is wet and chilly out here and Mike is shivering. Everyone struggling their struggles...
Dear Anonymous,
It is wet and chilly out here and Mike is shivering. Everyone struggling their struggles. And exceptionally polite. And kind. In this moment. Always a 'Love ya'' when they leave. Always a consideration of 'How are YOU today?' These two markers of humanity always move me. It is not a given. And when anyone of us is lost in what ever suffering we are suffering, hearts appear to shut down like collapsing origami balloons. All that space that can hold 'other' collapsed.
A piece of coffeecake here. A coffee card there. Finally able to get this one woman some new underwear. She smiles a smile that lights up the street. Mens boxer briefs hold real street cred out here. Handed out as a sacrament of holiness.
No pun intended. They are received with the embodied gratitude of open palms, of two hands opening a tattered bag and accepting them as they drop to the bottom.
Backpacks via #maggiesmission where swept up. Thank you.
Dry socks on a wet day. Divinity.
One man hands me a gift. A copy of THE PLAGUE by Albert Camus. I promise to bring books the next time to swap.
There were three men chatting over cigarettes and there was coffee cake and water and coffee cards...
Dear Anonymous,
There were three men chatting over cigarettes and there was coffee cake and water and coffee cards. There were socks.
One of them had requested a backpack.
I said, 'I got one but, it's... well, it's pretty.'
They all stop.
How pretty?
I say, 'It's pretty damn pretty.'
I go to the car and show the man who scoffs at it.
Mike on the other hand said 'What the hell? I've thrown bright pink backpacks over my shoulder and walked uptown!'
He takes the very preppy, very white pack, pretty much made for a picnic on a boat heading out from a yacht club.
I said 'So, I see you can do pretty?'
Mike laughs.
And that...that was the moment we both sought.
I told them I would order pink backpacks from here on out. It was met with laughter and groans and a few eye rolls.
He was in and out of the hospital last night. Story unclear. Not sure. OD maybe. Profound agitation...
Dear Anonymous,
He was in and out of the hospital last night. Story unclear. Not sure. OD maybe. Profound agitation. Upset with a possible relationship break up. No reserve to cope with the emotional onslaught. In the ER a woman wails as her husband dies there. He leaves the ER.
'Can't handle it. I was depressed going in, and then THAT?'
Another man shares his plan to get on a bus today to Boston. He can't make enough signing on the street up here since Covid19.
Socks. Water. Coffee cards. A t shirt. Tiny little props for an unhinged moment.
"If we desire a society in which men are brothers, then we must act towards one another with brotherhood..."
"If we desire a society in which men are brothers, then we must act towards one another with brotherhood. If we can build such a society, then we would have achieved the ultimate goal of human freedom." – Bayard Rustin
This image was originally posted June 8th, 2018, with the following caption:
Chronicle of a Homeless Man: Mistaken for someone wanted by police he is taken down in a parking lot by three policemen. The fourth incoming officer recognizes him by name, and assures the other officers it is not who they are looking for. A fractured rib, and a damaged ankle he goes to the ER. Where he is offered a 'cocktail' of pain killers including oxycontin. He is two years sober. He knows well it's the beginning of the end of sobriety, or sell them on the street. He declines both apparently. He walks all night, having taken an aspirin,unable to sleep. One never knows the whole story. But this is a chapter.
How she felt.
How she felt.