i was so proud of myself this morning. i got up, got ready, and was out the door TEN WHOLE MINUTES before the meeting was supposed to start! and it only takes FIVE minutes to walk there! i was so proud. i was gonna be there EARLY. and it was OPTIONAL, too, an optional seminar for current and alumni FVMs on fundraising and sharing our stories about the impact of this year on our lives. and i was gonna show up all ready and ON TIME, looking so responsible...
and then, just as i walk through the gate onto church property, five minutes early, i see a familiar face. a face that i saw and pitied my first week here, when he was asking at the friary door for food, and i was told that he came there all the time, he's homeless, we feed him sometimes and sometimes you just have to ignore him, and be careful because he's schizophrenic and can get violent sometimes. one of my first fist-clenching moments of frustration with the seeming futility of efforts to 'fix' Camden stemmed from being advised to ignore him when he was asking if he could use the bathroom. where else is the guy gonna go? if the church won't care for him, who will? if the church won't care for him, how will he know that Jesus does?
over the next several months, i would see him sometimes, strolling around the neighborhood or hanging out on the church steps, sometimes rocking out to a CD player, sometimes walking a dog. sometimes he seemed 'okay', apparently when he was being good about taking his 'good meds' for schizophrenia. sometimes he seemed strung-out, hard-as-nails, and downright angry, ready to lash out with obscenities if anyone so much as said hello. any spoken wish for him to "have a good day" or "take care" was met with muttering and resentful head-shaking - you don't understand, i CAN'T have a good day, i'm in CAMDEN and i can barely get by alive, much less take CARE, are you kidding me?
i heard that he sometimes had lapses back into the grip of his 'street meds', the ever-available destructive doses of tantalizing escape-tricks called 'crack' and whatever else. i think it was during one of these periods that i had one of my most electrifying encounters with him: i was walking the four blocks home from St. Anthony's one day, and saw him walking toward me, in the middle of the street, looking hard as nails, muttering to himself. it didn't seem like the time to start a conversation or be too bright and cheery, but i also didn't want to ignore him and possibly make him upset at that. i decided to try a simple friendly "hello" when he was a few feet away. at first he said nothing, then gathered up his breath and hurled a "FUCK YOU!" at me over his shoulder just as we passed. all i could do was keep walking, keep a calm exterior, keep heading home and hoping he was continuing on his own way in the other direction. inside i was reeling from the almost physical blow those violent words had produced in my gut. my trembling pounding heart somehow felt connected to every woman who has ever been demeaned, abused, belittled, threatened. i hurt more for him, for his mind clenched in anger that would lash out like that, than for whatever shock effect his words had on me.
the next time i saw him was at the Francis House Thanksgiving meal, where he still seemed to simmer with resentment at not being a part of all the tight-knit families around him, but at least he was civil to everyone, and barely acknowledged me when i walked around his chair at the table. i continued to see him sometimes, hanging around the friary, and we acknowledged each other with varying degrees of friendliness/grudgingness. i heard that he had been hurt by lots of females, that he didn't trust them anymore. okay, that makes sense, i thought. all i want is to be one tiny example of a female that is at least genuinely friendly and acknowledges him as a person with dignity and worth. Lord, show me how!
so i see this familiar face this morning. i haven't seen him around for a while lately, not since the week Brother Jerry died, beginning of March. he had a special relationship with Brother Jerry, one of those gruff-on-the-outside, but inside you know they've got some pretty deep soft spots for each other. Jerry was the one who most often signed off on the 'David Rivera feeding' record sheet. made him sandwiches, gave him bags of bread or boxes of pizza or salad stuff grown from his own garden. stood around and chatted with him for hours on nice days outside, or sat inside the church with him after daily mass in the morning, staying warm on brutal winter days. the last time i saw David was the day after Brother Jerry died, in the church parking lot, holding a bag of some food stuff. he looked like he had gotten a make-over, with a clean haircut, glasses, a baseball cap, and a hipster puffy green vest over black longsleeve shirt, i almost didn't recognize him apart from the usual layers of sweatshirts and greasy jeans.
we didn't talk that day in March; he was hunched over his food, and i had places to go, things to do, funeral music to get ready, etc. etc. besides, i didn't know what to say. i didn't know how he was taking the news of Brother Jerry's death, or whether he was even fully aware of it. so i kept my distance. and haven't seen him since.
until today. he was just standing there in the parking lot, with a pizza-box-full of cinnamon rolls that i recognized as a donation from a local bakery, which the church social worker had probably given him earlier that morning. great, he's got food for the day, i've got a few minutes to say hi to him and then i can be on my way, almost still on time for the FVM meeting. okay, he looks friendly today, more mellow than usual. i can do this.
"Hi, David! how are you?"
he does a double take. and starts talking, like i've never heard him talk before. i find out that he's diabetic, so he actually shouldn't eat all those cinnamon buns... i suggest that he can share them with his friends, and he looks at me like i'm crazy. tells me that he's forgotten how it feels to be around people, that every place he tries to stay, every female he tries to tell her he cares about, people just keep rejecting him, making an example of him as someone who just can't get anything right in life, who has no hope but to fuck himself up with drugs, but he doesn't want to do that anymore, he doesn't want to chase females, he just wants to be there for one person, but nobody seems to want to stay faithful to him, they all run off with other people and leave him out in the cold, again and again and again. he's standing there with this box of cinnamon rolls and is asking me, "hey, i don't know what to do. what do i do? you know, i don't usually do this, i don't ask females what to do, i don't even really know you, but i'm askin, what to do? what is there for me to do? ehh, i know you don't know, it's okay, sweetie. yo no se tampoco"
"and who are you, sweetie? i know i've seen you around, but what's your name, honey? i'm tellin you all this shit (excuse me, excuse my language) and don't even know your name, what's your name?"
i find out that he's about to turn 42, he has a daughter who's 21 and just had a baby girl, his granddaughter! and lives in North Camden, but he can barely see them. he has a cell phone, but it keeps breaking, and every time it breaks he has to walk all the way downtown to go to the place to fix it or get a new one. his ankles hurt from constantly walking. "would it help to put ice on them?" "honey, i don't have no ice. there's some people in a house down the street that sometimes let me use their refrigerator, but the same thing happens, they leave me out, they forget, i can't get in there. i don't have no ice. no lo tengo." "i'm sorry."
"man, why you standin here talkin to me?! don't you got things to do? i don't wanna be wastin your time, sweetie. man, you keep smilin, you're always smilin! you're makin me blush, sweetie, you see that?"
no, David, i don't really see it, but okay. and i can't help smiling! i know i'm blessed in a lot of ways, but even i've had some incredibly lonely times in my life, times when i've wondered why am i even alive, why does it matter, what's the point. and i know you can't always depend on people, even people you thought would always care and be there for you. but there's one Friend i've found...do you know him? isn't it CRAZY how GOD came to earth and had to be born in a stable with ANIMALS??! "i like animals" okay, me too. but then even in his life, he didn't really have a home, and people rejected him...isn't that crazy?? he knows what you're going through! he knows YOU!!! and loves you, David.
"i know, i know. you're makin me blush. but oh, man, these cinnamon rolls are getting heavy. what am i gonna do? i've got pizza somewhere that they gave me, too, but you can't live on just this stuff, you get sick... and i'm thirsty, too, you think i can get a drink?" i don't know David, maybe if you go to the park, maybe there's a water fountain there? [again, he gives me a look like i'm crazy, even though he had just said that he might go sit in the park]
every once in a while in the conversation, he throws out a phrase in Spanish, and one time he asks me, "comprendes?" and i say, "si, comprendo un poquito", and he's like "whoa! you got a cute accent there! how many languages you know?" "solo dos" "whoa, that is really cute. i mean it. you gotta talk more. that is a damn cute accent, excuse my language." now look who's blushing!
so, for over an hour, we stand there, talking, smiling, blushing. i'm getting a little hungry, because i had been planning to get to the meeting and take part in the coffee and refreshments. of course, this little soul-exchange has been more refreshing than any food or drink could be, but still, my stomach is growling a little. and he is holding a box full of way more cinnamon rolls than he can possibly eat. "David, can i have one of those?" "oh sure, sweetie, sorry, i didn't know you wanted one, i would have given you.." "oh don't worry, i didn't want one until just now. thank you!"
and so we break bread together. smiling. blushing. something incomprehensibly special has happened here. he insists i take another cinnamon roll to go with me, "take that one, the biggest one, in the middle, there you go sweetie". so now my fingers are all sticky, but i don't want to leave without some tangible touch to make this real.
"David, my fingers are sticky, i can't shake your hand" "oh sweetie, it don't matter, go ahead, shake my hand" "but - um - " [i try to lick my fingers off but i'm not fast enough] "David, can i just give you a hug instead?" "oh - sure - "
i will remember that moment forever, i hope. a moment of feeling so profoundly inadequate - i don't have the counseling skills, or the social work systems knowledge, or the medical contacts, or the authority with the church's resources to give him any tangible guidance or material things. but i could listen, human being to human being. i could assure him with all my heart that he is worth being alive, that he is and can be one of the good apples of Camden, that my hope is that he finds people who will consistently care about him and not pressure him to do things he doesn't want to do; that he can share his gift of singing with his baby granddaughter; that he continues to come to St. Anthony's when he is in need. "oh, i'll be back, sweetie, don't worry! you just made my day!" "David, YOU just made MY day."
and two blushing faces turn and walk on their way.
