As the sun set over the jungle behind Trujillo Bay in Honduras, I watched a little girl squat along the shore and press her palms into the wet sand. When her brother ran up beside her, she said, “Mi manos!”
It was the last day of our Cascade College service project. My wife and I flew down over the summer to volunteer at the Little Hand, Big Hearts medical center. They provided critical surgeries and rehabilitation for children with congenital birth defects and developmental disabilities. We painted the center, built a retaining wall and a security deck for a family with a child who tended to wander into unsafe areas. We did not do any of this by ourselves. Honduran citizens were busy at this lifesaving work every day, and we were privileged to join them.
Saint Teresa of Kolkata said, “Do small things with great love.”
I have created or contributed to more problems than solutions in my life and community. I cannot save the world. To think I can is one of the most narcissistic notions a white, middle-aged man can foster. I have learned, however, great contentment from showing up and doing what I can to connect with you — my community — at the intersections of our crooked paths.
In 2001, I was a newlywed, in our first apartment. I stopped to talk to an elder neighbor in the hall. She said she wanted to visit her mom in Woodburn, and I offered to drive her. Our first car was an ’84 Mercury Zephyr, and I felt so excited to use it to good purpose. That weekend, we got in the car, and she asked if we could stop by her clinic on the way. She needed to get her medications. So, we stopped and picked up her refills.
Nineteen years later, I now work at that same clinic.
I am not sharing these experiences to brag about my goodness. I have chronically relapsed on dope and booze, committed two felonies, was abusive to my partner when we were married, and was given the best love and education from family and professionals, only to return to these destructive behaviors. I am not proud of the good I have done. I am grateful that I have been given the chance to join the blessed community that Josiah Royce, the founder of American idealism, described and that the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was killed for encouraging — killed by my white ancestors, to be specific. And I have a lifetime of work ahead.
Sixteen percent of Portland’s unhoused individuals are Black while the Black community makes up less than 6% of Portland’s population. Shelters are closed to new admissions or have long wait lists due to the pandemic. The expanded shelter space at the Oregon Convention Center and other places is only open to existing shelter occupants for the purpose of physical distancing. Motels have opened their doors only for unhoused community members who have been discharged from hospitals after being treated for coronavirus and individuals who present the highest risk of death from the virus. And, camp sweeps have begun again. All the while, white progressives and white cops are fighting in the streets over their own agendas, rather than listening to Black Lives Matter activists and the people who don’t have homes to go to after tear gas is shot into crowds.
Clinicians like me are privileged to work from home without disruption to our income. Caseloads are increasing while some clinics close to clients. The workload borders on unethical. Managers are preaching productivity without addressing burnout.
I work for a predominantly white social work institution, trying to ameliorate problems white supremacy creates from the viewpoint of a member of the oppressive class. It’s hard not to think I am still part of the problem while claiming to be part of the solution.
I have always told clients my goal is to work myself out of a job; that they are their own best resource in recovery. I still try to stand by that. One of my supervisors said if all I can do some days is be present, it is more than I would offer by my absence. Black, Indigenous and people of color who are leaders and my colleagues urged me to abandon the perfectionism I learned from white supremacy. I need to deal with my emotions and press on.
Grandma Sharon often tells me a story about a person carrying a beached starfish into deeper tide pools. A guy comes along and says, “It’s impossible to help them all.” The person wades deeper and says, “I can help this one.”
Two Honduran siblings and an American white guy — living 3,295 miles apart — shared a moment of joy and togetherness on a sunset beach.
A single elder woman and a young, newly married neighbor took a 32-mile road trip. She was separated from her family by such a short distance due to extreme financial hardship, and he had a car.
And, a moment of rare mercy in criminal court resulted in an unhoused, convicted felon encountering a newspaper editor with an offer that changed his life. I never imagined the twists and turns that would bring me to these challenges and wonders. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
There are unknown horizons and new signposts at every bend. This year took my pride and replaced it with gratitude, took my confidence in exchange for strength, removed some close friends and gave me real ones instead.
I am living with Grandma Sharon, while I put what I would pay for rent into a money market account (her idea). I deferred entry to a Master of Social Work program until next year due to COVID-19 and financial amends I need to make. In the meantime, I will be working on my first book. Ahead of all this, I continue to prioritize my recovery and healing.
As a result, on Aug. 19, I celebrated three years of abstinence from all drugs, including alcohol.
This is my final “A Crooked Path Forward” column. So, my friends, it’s the next turn of your path I want you to consider. Could you organize a peaceful protest around camps about to be swept by police? Do you want to submit something to Street Roots for publication? Will you eat lunch with an unhoused person? Can you get on a plane and go laugh with children of other languages? If our crooked paths cross again, let’s talk and walk together for a while.