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.
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.
To those of you I know out here who have struggled with their fatherdom...
To those of you I know out here who have struggled with their fatherdom. Who have not been present to their children due to substance abuse, mental health issues, because sometimes you were initially broken by your own father...who was likely broken. Or had no father. Or no model for what it might be to be a man you now want to be. A lineage of broken hearts. Cheers to those I know out here who have been able to rekindle relationships with their children and those reshaping what it is to be a fathers child. Who have rebuilt relationships as you rebuild who you are and what you can be to others. Prayers to you who want to leave a legacy for your children, the children who have dismissed you or will not recognize you, so hurt are they. Keep. Going. I pray you continue your work on yourselves, the greatest gift you can offer your child ...and us. We see you and hold you in our hearts. And for those that have been hurt by your father, in all the ways humans hurt vulnerable humans, I open my heart to that pain and pray for you, a life in love. Regardless.
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.
Follow up to April 2020 interview with Justin Downey
Justin: This was an absolute hell ride. I wish I could tell you it only happened this once but I also did a separate 9 month stint in solitary and three different 6 month stints. I wasn’t a victim here, I want to be clear on that. I knowingly and willingly attacked guards and inmates. I won’t apologize for not coming down with Stockholm Syndrome. Trust me, for that environment and the mentality there I did what I had to do.
I told myself long before I went to prison as a survivor of childhood traumas that I’d never let anyone hurt me and that I’d defend myself at all costs even if I have to suffer terribly. I’ll not just survive I’ll also show people what happens if you try and hurt me.
All that being said what I didn’t know was that this experience made me confront my shadow and ask myself ‘Am I a f * * kin’ animal or am I a loving person?’
Through deep picking apart of my psyche I realized there was a deeply wounded child inside me that birthed a vicious man. It wasn’t that I was heartless. I was created so I can be recreated. Fearless work on myself upon release, working with yogis, meditation, helping people ( anyone ), vedic texts, drinking ayahuasca with shamans is what it took because I wanted to live so f * * kin’ bad. It was, and is, an incredible passion I have to love life. To feel its’ pulse; to wake myself up; to pick up the broken pieces of other people. Hate put me in a darker hole than this experience in solitary ever did. Only love was my freedom. Deep, hard passionate ferocious love.
-Justin Downey April 2020 Follow up to his interview.
Have you heard Sheltering-In-Place referred to as Solitary? Might want to read this.
An Interview with Justin Downey April 2020
I recently heard someone make reference to Shelter-In-Place as being in Solitary. I thought I'd ask someone who has actually been in solitary for his view of life during Covid19. The result is an interview with Justin Downey, originally from South Boston. I met Justin when he became a MaineWorks employee several years ago. It may be a tough reality check of a read for some folks but Justin reveals some powerful lessons learned on 10 Block.
Justin can speak from a place of facing his deepest, darkest shadows. A man identified with vicious brutality is today a bodhisattva of sorts. If he can emerge from the dark violence of his past maybe we can too. I think his words help all of us to do the same. To face our own shadows. It's not always polite, nor easy, but his words can help launch our own self investigations with the hope of a ferociously loving outcome.
Me: How, if at all, is our current situation with Covid19 like being in solitary? What did solitary teach you? What can it teach us as we isolate ourselves during the Covid19 Pandemic?
Tell me about Walpole and your time in solitary.
Note: Walpole Maximum Security Prison is under the jurisdiction of the Massachusetts Department of Correction, located in Norfolk, Massachusetts.
Justin: I was in Walpole 10 Block. It’s an isolation unit. There have been books written about it and documentaries too. It was the first prison implementing extended isolation. To break up gangs. Prison isolation tactics are based on Walpole 10 block. I was on the unit for one year. It’s located in a sub basement. There are no windows. There is no light in your cell other than a ‘bug light’, a dim light that buzzes constantly. It’s on all the time. But ironically it’s always dark. A single cell is smaller than a regular cell. If you start with your back against the wall, side to side it’s 5 paces. That’s foot to foot. You can almost touch both walls. From the back to the bars is 7 paces. There’s a stainless steel toilet 8”-10” off the ground. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday you get out for a total of 45 minutes. This includes a shower while handcuffed and time in an outside recreation cage 15’ by 15’. You’re alone to pace or do pushups and stuff. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday you never leave the cell. You can’t see other inmates because your cell doesn’t face other cells. They’re all side by side so you wind up having conversations with people you can’t see.
You’re not allowed to receive canteen while you’re on the block and you’re restricted to a 1500 calorie per day diet. Your meal comes with a juice or milk container, like kid size, that you have to hold onto to use for water. No cup is provided.
They’d bring in a cart of books every two weeks. You get to pick one or two. Books were allowed to be sent in courtesy my aunt who picked some for me and she would get some I asked for. You got two twenty minute calls a week. They’d wheel a phone in on a cart. You had to hope the person you’re calling is available. Three weeks can go by without a call picked up. Only 5 people can be linked to your account. I had my aunt and two friends.
Hygiene was almost nonexistent. The shower with cuffs wasn’t much. No shaving. You’d lose weight. Your skin becomes translucent and people without mental health would lose more of it.
I was in one full year. Some guys had been in for 5 years and longer. If there was a crime committed while on the block there was no lawyer. No judge. You were brought in front of a jury of guards and a sentence was implemented. No fair shake. Guys would lose their minds. Get restless. They’d throw piss or feces or become violent. They’d do anything to be touched. To provoke a response. To interact. Then they’d be maced. The guards would do a forced extraction and then they’d increase the isolation. They’d attach a solid metal door to the bars of the cell. Shut the light off. For 4-5 days at a time. Couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
After the 4 or 5 days they’d crack open your door and hurl an insult...to provoke a response. The inmate would say something like ‘FUCK YOU!’ and they’d justify continuing the isolation as a result. 7-8 guards would come in with full tactical gear with mace and force you to react. The entire cell block is affected by that gas. They’d beat the hell out of you ’til you’d submit. Handcuff you. Then beat the hell out of you again. Then you were left. It was an eerie deep silence. You could feel the pain and hatred in the air. It wasn’t a nurturing silence.
All the guys reacted when any inmate was getting beat.
Then you were left in a restraint chair. In cuffs. You can’t move. No circulation. A face mask so you couldn’t spit. They’d leave you for 6-12 hours. A nurse came in periodically to check for a pulse.
The restraint caused intense pain in your extremities. Then they went numb. Guys would collapse when they were first released . They couldn’t stand up or walk. They’d get nerve damage. Their hands and feet just never worked right again.
If you got sick you got no care. Tooth extraction was the only solution to dental complaints. A couple of times when they were macing me thru the bars I’d pick up my food and start eating it to show them they had no effect on me. I’d just completely disassociate from the pain by channeling hate or become totally indifferent to being maced. I’d do the same when they would come in and it would be a fight. I’d never submit. They’d HAVE to beat me. I just was never going to give them the satisfaction of beating me. I’d even laugh while being held in those painful restraints. I had to own the situation and this was my way.
Some guys would sing. Some guys would provide a back beat for them. Some would tell stories to keep from going crazy. It wasn’t all positive. There was also psychological warfare. A guy would piss in one of those milk cartons, or fill it with sperm or feces and throw it at another prisoner. Or they’d kick the door of their cell at 3 AM. To fuck with everyone collectively. With an iron will they just wouldn’t stop. So that no one sleeps. Everyone’s screaming ‘We’re gonna kill you!’ and begin plotting one another’s death. If you developed an enemy while on the block and they returned to general population the prisoners would communicate and create trouble for your enemy out there.
Always fucking with one anothers’ minds.
Guys would rub feces all over themselves. All over the walls for attention. Negative attention. And they’d get it.
I had lots of altercations with the guards but I got along with prisoners.
I was a hard line racist. My next door cell mate was Izzy. A militant black Muslim. He came to his cell door and called to me ‘ White boy!’
I answered ‘Wassup?’
’You don’t like niggers?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well, I don’t like white boys. But we in this together so we gotta get along.’
He turned out to be one of the funniest guys. We talked about hate. Became friendly. I was flipping out at the guards one day and he threw piss at them.
When I was in restraint he’d talk me through it.
He’d cover himself in shit to provoke the guards.
I joked with Izzy. That shit wasn’t gonna show up on his skin. We laughed. Might even call him a friend.
Routine was important. So was creating structure.
Exercise. Reading. Meditating. I’d count bricks in the wall.
I’d count the noodles in my meal. Anything to keep my mind sharp. I’d memorize the food menus that changed every two weeks. I’d try and memorize quotations. I’d rip the page out and use toothpaste to attach it to the wall to empower me.
I’d read a lot. Spirituality, psychology, philosophy, poetry....a James Patterson novel wasn’t gonna cut it. I’d leave there mentally.
The more tortuous the condition got, I was going to have control over it.
I would sink into silence. Not allow my emotions to overcome me. I sought equanimity. I’d read. I’d do street exercise programs. Pray. Hopefully there would be a guard who might leave a radio on at the end of the hall loud enough to hear.I liked digging into my psyche and pulling things out. There was a lot of soul searching and moral inventory.
When I got out and into a sober house the Step Program just wasn’t gonna help me. I knew this was a trauma issue and not an addiction issue.
The manager at the sober house didn’t like the way I made my bed. And went into my room and messed with it. I lost it. There was gonna be a bloodbath if they threw me out. I wasn’t gonna be out on the street.
We worked it out. I found my way to another sober house.
Me: So during the covid19 pandemic we are in confinement. What can people do?
Justin: Couples can make love. Talk. Make food together. Go on walks. Do relationship repair. Ask themselves why they’re together and whether they should stay together. People can meditate. Listen to deep talks. The internet can be used for more than social media and pornography. Go after spiritual people and think tanks. The mind is an asset. Examine your own inner engineering.
Create healthier food habits.
Try sinking into silence.
Observe your thinking patterns.
Learn breathing to co-regulate anxiety.
Self soothe with something other than tobacco and alcohol and drugs. Self medicate without all that stuff.
Individual consciousness leads to community consciousness. I hope it doesn’t return to business as usual. Or just stressing about what you can’t control.
People can dig into their hearts not numb their minds. They can use their minds properly in proper form.
Dig into great thinkers and leaders like Ram Dass, Thich Nhat Hanh, Robert Adams. Like Sri Ramana Mahrashi.
Use promoters of spirituality and breathing, pranayama and yoga to get in tune with your body and mind. Both separately and in correlation.
Stop eating cheese doodles and feeling sorry for yourself. Stop watching the news and conspiracy theories. We have buffoon and asshole leading us. Don’t get your information from him.
Practice gratitude.
Upon awakening list 5 things you are grateful for. Big or small.
Meditate on these.
It worked for me. And that’s another thing. You gotta figure out how your own brain is wired. Get high on your own supply.
Use breath work.
Have sex with your partner.
That’ll clear your head. Probably make you happier.
If you dig into individual consciousness you bring it out into the collective.
Work on individual consciousness to change social consciousness. Tell that to the cheese doodle eating #!&%@ watching MSNBC like it's god.
I was unwilling to be killed by my own life experiences.
I was a stubborn f*ck and I wouldn’t give any joy to people who wanted me to fail.
I’m gonna break them by doing well.
I was always going to have the upper hand psychologically even if they overwhelmed me physically. I’m the captain of my mind and soul, no matter what, in every and all situations. Nobody takes that away from me. Ever.
Justin Downey from South Boston is a card carrying member of Pipefitters Local 537, Boston, Massachusetts and is a proponent of psychedelic therapy, meditation and yoga amongst other spiritual practices. He has recovered from heroin addiction after having served time in several Massachusetts prisons.
Note: An addendum to this interview was published on April 19th. To read further, please visit Follow Up to April 2020 Interview with Justin Downey
Prayers. My prayer. Alden Andrews I love you.
Prayers. My prayer.
Alden Andrews I love you.
May you have known this and all the love that surrounds you.
My deepest condolences to his family.
Heart sick.
Update:YESTERDAY
by Kendra Vinal, Organizer
UPDATE
3/14/20 11:30PM
The 3rd cardiac arrest happened and we were in the ICU waiting room. The charge nurse came out explaining what was happening and advised that pretty much after the last one they were already concerned that there was extensive brain damage due to no circulation for over 10 minutes. His mother and I went into see him and the entire team still working on him. She had to make the call because we both knew he would not want that quality of life.
Alden lost his fight at 7:22pm this evening.
I do hope that everyone understands that the delay of this announcement was out of respect to our families, as they needed to hear it from us first and not through social media. We appreciate everyone's love and support throughout this terrible ordeal.
We will be sure to keep everyone updated with details of his Celebration of Life. From the bottoms of our hearts, we thank each and everyone of you for your daily prayers.
As I move between street and MaineWorks what I feel is this:
As I move between street and MaineWorks what I feel is this:
It is not easy to show up here at the MaineWorks Circle. No one shows up here because it's been easy. No one shows up that isn't fighting a battle on many fronts. Struggles with past. Struggles with present. Struggles with envisioning a future, of having the energy of hope to propel them forward. Because hope is like that. It isn't passive. It requires an energy and when you are exhausted by life and by all that has happened and all you have done and all that the hijacked brain of an addict will do then there's a storm cloud you have to steer through each day. A mad dog gnashing it's teeth at your heels. And I stand next to them. Hear stories that break my heart but not to the degree theirs have been broken. Of lost and painful and sometimes unjust childhoods; of repeated failures and broken promises and the distance one can grow from what we love in the throes of addiction. I stand there and pretty much want to salute those that can show up. Repeatedly. And for those that cannot, who disappear after a week? I hold you in my heart. A welcome mat at the front door to my heart, swept clean each morning. You have taught me that. Thank you Margo Walsh for living this.
It seems some days a trail of endless despair. Of dead ends.
Dear Anonymous,
It seems some days a trail of endless despair. Of dead ends. Of deep mental confusion and a collective abandonment of reason. Somehow a cog broken in the gears of cause and effect. Wandering and grasping and belonging nowhere.
Some days it feels weary. Never enough. Do you have more? They stole everything.
My backpack was taken...again.
Somedays eye contact seems impossible. The weight on the back of necks like a shackle, like a heavy pendulum that can no longer swing.
Do you have.
I need.
A wide mouthed insatiable maw.
The only place I can operate is in the moment.
And it's a dropperful of dirty water in a desert.
This is not a place easily marked out in progress. Or evolution.
Cold? Here's a coat. I have one today.
Here's a coffee card. I have one today.
I don't know about tomorrow. Do you?
Meanwhile as some hearts may soften on either side of an equation I cannot make sense of, the world and our human behaviours continue.
Ruthless.
Desperate. Loving.
And likely there will never be enough at the same time that there is plenty.
One of you Dear Anonymous's dropped off big heavy down coats yesterday and they were a hit to say the least.
Dear Anonymous,
One of you Dear Anonymous's dropped off big heavy down coats yesterday and they were a hit to say the least. And new. And there was a dignity to that. Yes, they'd accept anything to stay warm...tattered, torn, stained and broken. But a new coat? Just for them? And warm? They stood up a bit taller. Some of them traded in lighter weight coats I had yesterday for the heavier ones. When they were gone the lighter weight ones moved coupled with fleece lined hoodies.
Hot coffee. Hand warmers. Socks.
Many thank you's that I need to convey to all of you.
And then his eyes. That remind me, that amplify, that this is someone's son. Someones child. I hope that at some point someone held him with ferocious love. Swaddled him warm and just right to comfort him. Beamed at him when he smiled at them.
'Would you like a piece of coffee cake?' I ask.
He says 'You have no idea....'
And reaches into the basket, always meager in relation to the need, and puts his hand around one.
This is the street....
Dear Anonymous,
This is the street. The arrays of issues are immense. Sometimes I can guess. Sometimes I can know. But all I know for sure is that some of the people in my life who currently shine brilliantly into this world, at one time, also hid. And when they weren't hiding they were spitting mad. And couldn't stand being in their own skin. And were wretched. The ones who shine today with a brilliant soulful light in the world identify with images like this and point and say 'Yes, I remember. That was me.' These young men who are beautiful and clear eyed and contributing members of our community look and say 'Yes, this was me.' And they say it with empathy.
Empathy for the person in the image. Empathy for themselves. And sometimes they shake their own heads wondering how they ever made it out alive. But they did.
So how can I not see their beauty here too?
Coffee cards, coffee cake, socks, more coffee cards, more socks ,backpacks, pants and hats and gloves and a sleeping bag and blankets took flight today.
Dear Anonymous,
Coffee cards, coffee cake, socks, more coffee cards, more socks ,backpacks, pants and hats and gloves and a sleeping bag and blankets took flight today. And near the end of the morning gathering he stops by with a big smile.
Shows me the backpack he has had since he received it here from Dear Anonymous in November #maggiesmission. Wanted to make sure I took note he was still using it.
Photo with permission. Even took his hat off for a moment.
Then a woman trudges by. Small in frame. Looks cold.Hood up. No eye contact.
In a moment the guys sort of indicate it's ok and she comes over and we chat.
She's tender. And cold. And we get her set up with a coat and a vest. 'Can't put it on now, got no bra on.' and raises her eyes to the group of guys a few yards away from us.
'All my stuff is in my boyfriend's car.'
She is walking vulnerability.
Fill her bag with handwarmers and foot warmers and socks and toiletries.
Something about her boyfriend locking her out of his car where all her gear is.
Something from me about careful hangin' with folks that lock you out. Once said I wished I could rush out, collect those words and toss them to the ocean before they arrive at her ears.
'But I love him.' And she cries. Her nose is red. Her coat insufficient. Her boots wet.
She is grateful for the resources and a hot cup of coffee.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Sometimes it's the conversations that spring up amongst MaineWorks employees....
Sometimes it's the conversations that spring up amongst MaineWorks employees that really illustrate what is at hand. This morning several employees were reflecting on where they were in their lives two years ago. One year ago.
Self described as 'The Walking Dead.' Repeat that : The Walking Dead.
I sincerely barely recognize them from those times.
These men, standing by a fire at 6 AM conversing, are alive. Vibrant. Compassionate. Deliberately so.
With transformations like this, so much, so VERY much seems possible. Keep. Going.
They are waiting and it's not even 5 AM.
Dear Anonymous,
They are waiting and it's not even 5 AM.
One gentleman I don't know well is introduced and we are able to set him up with a backpack, some extra large shirts, socks and a coffee card. He smiles.
This one takes a coat for a girlfriend. This one takes a coat for a young woman up the street.
Someone else stops by on his way to work, living in the shelter and needing to get to work by 5:30 AM. He needs socks, working down on the wharf. I look at his shoes. Insufficient at best. I pray they have boots for him.
I hear a difficult story involving some folks I know out here. Good people. But desperate. And desperation creates some pretty awful, and most often, regrettable behaviors.
My heart sags a bit. Maybe folds just a bit.
But watching these men light up just for a moment is the gift, the lesson reminding me to stay with the love. Reminding me to be too busy with love to feel those stabs of resentment or disappointment or anguish or all that other wreckage. Stay with the love. Stay with the love.
Death Deck
Dear Anonymous ,
This is Mike. Describing his Death Deck. It is his collection of memorial cards from each homeless person who has died out on the streets in Portland, Maine in the last year and a half. Over 62 cards from the last year and a half.
A Death Deck.
And there are people who contribute to Dear Anonymous whose children are in that damn deck. And if that doesn’t make it real, I don’t know what does. #streetspeaks
He has an apartment and a beloved wife. But he knows the streets.
Dear Anonymous,
He has an apartment and a beloved wife. But he knows the streets. Collects bottles. Sees what's happening. This morning he is distressed with the amount of young women he has seen sleeping on the street. Young. Teenagers. Kicked out of their homes. Kicked out of the shelters. No home to return to. No parents. No guidance.
'I don't know what to do. ' he states with distress.
'I can't take 'em home even though my wife would take 'em in. That ain't gonna work either. So I tuck a blanket by their feet. Or put some clothing close to 'em.'
Ferocious love on Commercial Street.