The Great Divide

"I found a note with your name
And a picture of us
Even though it was framed
And covered in dust
It’s the map in my mind that sends me on my way

They say it’s never too late
To stop being afraid
And there is no one else here
So why should I wait?
And in the blink of an eye, the past begins to fade

So have you ever been caught in a sea of despair?
And your moment of truth
Is the day that you say, I’m not scared..."

-- Shinedown, "Unity"

Friends, take note: this is more than a comeback from a long hiatus, and more than a mea culpa for being divisive, stubborn, and unrelenting. I don't like to think of myself as part of the problem, but as an emotionally-driven person, I certainly can be. Admittedly, I will occasionally go to great lengths just to be heard at any cost.

However, too much negativity is toxic to a creative soul, and I'm still navigating the whole process of letting it go. Inhale, exhale, lather, rinse, repeat. And so, as inspiration begins to flow once again, here I am.

But, show of hands: how many of us, in life and/or social media, prefer to create an echo chamber of like-minded sentiment, shutting out anything that challenges our beliefs?

How many of us have sneered at opinions that don't match our own, dismissing the other party as uneducated, out-of-touch, ignorant, conformist, attempting to label and belittle their views, to demonize and otherwise cast "us" as superior and "them" in a light of wrongness?

Come on. Hands up.

Yep. I see you. That's a lot of hands.

Recently, I declared that friends, associates, and family would have avoid any sort of political discourse with me, lest they be ignored or ostracized. I made the decision to disassociate with those whose views starkly challenged my own.

Eventually, I realized that by refusing to listen, I am missing out on the opportunity to grow. And I am missing the connection I had with people in my life who, like me, just want to be heard.

It started with a very nice talk I had with Mom earlier today. We talked about the RNC and the upcoming election. And I came away with a better understanding of where people I don't agree with are really coming from.

One thing just about EVERY American agrees on: our nation, and our society, is horribly broken. We are disillusioned. We are frustrated. We are furious.

And we want change. Real change. No more empty promises, no more lip service, no more platitudes. People on all sides of the political spectrum figure until we do something completely different, it's going to remain that way.

The only thing separating us from real unity is how we believe these problems ought to be solved, and by whom.

For the record, I personally abhor everything Donald Trump says and everything he stands for. I don't believe in singling out blaming an entire race or religion for our problems. Nor do I think he has the intelligence, tact, or experience to fix our country. But you know what? I totally understand the appeal.

When people look at Trump, they see a major deviation from the status quo. First and foremost, that he is not a politician. And many have deduced that since traditional politicians cannot be trusted, someone who is not a politician and who doesn't adhere to conventional party lines (or political correctness), must be, by default, the "real" voice of the people. Moreover, Trump capitalizes on people's most basic fears and prejudices, and sells himself as the solution. He might be obnoxious, and he might represent the wealthy 1% and everything that is wrong with this country, but many Americans believe anything - even a billionaire reality TV sideshow - is better than another lying, corrupt, out-of-touch bullsh*t artist.

They aren't really voting for a candidate, but rather against a candidate. By supporting Trump, folks believe they're voting against corruption, division, and, more importantly, societal stagnation.

Truth be told, I think no matter who wins the election, it's going to be another case of "meet the new boss, same as the old boss." The type of change we need isn't just in our leadership.

Real, lasting change begins with us. With "we the people." With us realizing that the mass media (the true scourge on our society, in my opinion) and the powers that be on all sides are not ever going to operate in our best interests. With us, as individuals, learning to be a little more tolerant, a little less fearful, a little more giving, and a little less selfish. With us banding together, seeing past our differences, and with one voice crying out, "ENOUGH." With grassroots efforts, commitment to morality for the greater good, dialogue, and an unwavering sense of community, including the abolition of this all-pervasive us/them mentality.

That, friends, is what will bring about real change. I know we're all just struggling to survive, hold down a job, feed our kids, stay afloat in the murky waters of an uncertain future, vent our frustrations whenever and wherever we can in the vague hope that we will find someone to listen. But for the moment, what we change within ourselves and our own little corner of that world doesn't have to be monumental. It just has to be.

It can start with all of us doing a better job of listening to each other. No judgment, no accusations, no name-calling, no waiting to interject with our own words of presumptive so-called wisdom. Just listening, because every human being deserves to be heard. Simply heard.

Anything less, friends, will get us nowhere.

Starting today, I promise to do better. How about you?

Awakening

Since my first drive up that dirt road in 2013, people close to me had a lot of questions. What was it about that place in the woods that pulled me in so hard, inspired me, and transformed me? Why would I bother to fight a losing battle with the municipality and the government? And, knowing what I knew about the conditions there, and how Lakewood Township stole its morale, why in the world would I keep going back? Why, almost two years after it was shut down, does a big piece of my heart remain in those woods even now?

My mother in particular didn't fully grasp my newfound calling. But as a social-justice-minded Christian, as well as a former civil rights protester and child of the 60s, she always supported me, was always there to lend an ear and some solid advice. And even though she had no inclination to visit the homeless camps (largely due to mobility issues), when opportunities arose for her to help Destiny's Bridge, she jumped in and assisted in whatever way she could, even got her own prayer group on board. They were particularly instrumental in getting our first major fundraiser off the ground.

I don't blame people for their reaction. The sad truth is that most house-dwelling folks don't know what to say or do when they encounter a homeless person.

Yesterday, when Mom came to the Easter celebration for the homeless hosted by the Colonial Coffee Shop in Howell, she got it. I mean, really, really got it. She got to see the faces behind the stories and the names. She got to laugh and joke with them, dine with them, see and hear them. They were not invisible. They became real.

She met Hollywood John, and they had a conversation about music from the 1960s. She met Clarence, and he joked that she was his "future mother-in-law." She met Igor and complimented him on his woodworking skills, but wasn't sure if he'd heard or understood her. She was amused and touched by many of us - homeless and friends of the homeless - dancing and singing together.

After the event was over, she immediately started talking about planning another event, possibly a Memorial Day BBQ to honor homeless veterans. I loved the idea, and I loved her enthusiasm. Most of all, I loved what she said next: "They shouldn't be scattered like this. They need to be together again. They need each other, and they need a place where all the volunteers can get to them."

At that moment, I wished she would have seen Tent City - the Chapel, the "makeshift rooftops," the chickens up in the trees, the artists who found their respective muses there. There were more people I'd wished she'd gotten to meet. Some had since found housing. Some had moved out of the state. Some, like Doug, Dawn, Walter, and Marek, had passed on.

But in the people who once lived there, she saw, heard, and felt the soul of that place, and fully understood what it was all about.

Thanks to everyone who was a part of yesterday's celebration, and may your light continue to shine!

The Walk

Yesterday evening, a fellow advocate informed me that one of our homeless friends, Ted, had been hospitalized after a bout with the flu caused pneumonia, which resulted in a collapsed lung. He'd been on a ventilator for nearly a week, and there was little hope of recovery. They were talking about "pulling the plug" if he did not improve.

I used to visit Ted regularly when he lived in a nearby camp. He had a fantastic, goofy sense of humor and never failed to make us laugh. He loved to tell stories, especially of his hunting escapades and his misadventures on his beloved dirt bike. Whenever any of us came by with a meal, coffee, blessing bags or warm blankets, he was always so gracious and appreciative.

I went to the hospital with a friend to see Ted today, not sure of what to expect, and quite honestly, I was feeling uneasy, even scared. The thought of seeing this usually jovial, feisty man hooked up to machines and tubes was unnerving. We were told he was heavily sedated and might not even know we were there. 

But when we reached the ICU, we were met with a very pleasant surprise.

He still had his oxygen and feeding tubes, but three hours earlier, they'd removed the ventilator. And even though he was still coming off the sedatives, his entire face lit up when he saw us. He lifted his hand to reach for mine, and I only wished I could have hugged him proper at that moment.

Despite some difficulty communicating, it was clear to us that he was on the mend: joking, cussing, asking the pretty young nurse if he could please have some breakfast, unaware that it was already dinnertime. She said no; he would have to wait until the next day; aspirating on solid food was still a concern.

There's still the question of what awaits him once he is released - if he will resume his life on the streets, or if Ted's miracle is only just beginning. But for now, we took comfort in his recovery, and we continued pray for his continued healing.

Hills, valleys, slopes, rocks, puddles, and landings: that is the nature of the walk.

It is a handful of success stories. The man who moved in with his cousin in California and, to this day, hand-writes letters to his New Jersey friends. The young mom who left her abusive relationship and sings at her church. The couple who worked and saved their way from a tent to a new apartment. The animal activists who, with the help of like-minded advocates, found a home down south with an acre of property so they can tend to their furry and feathered family.

It is frustration. The myriad of people who received a year of housing under the consent order that closed Tent City, but who ended up back on the street or in the woods. The struggle between honoring the humanity and dignity of every individual, regardless of circumstances, and wondering how much is genuine help, and how much is enabling. Watching people deteriorate from substance abuse, wondering what sort of demons they are compelled to drown, numb, or feed. Learning to forgive the toughest ones - the defensive souls who lash out like rabid dogs, the master manipulators to whom empathy is merely a weakness to be exploited. And realizing they, however flawed, are human too.

It is introspection. Realizing how just one choice, one catastrophe, one stroke of bad luck, can mean the difference between a roof over one's head and a flimsy cot in a rain-soaked tent. Looking at one's own life with newfound, overwhelming gratitude. Admitting that sweating the small stuff, life's little inconveniences, is time spent poorly. Wondering if my kids are absorbing the lessons of our encounters with the homeless, and feeling proud when, in ways great and small, they demonstrate principles of charity and generosity in their own lives, to all who cross their respective paths. 

It is profound compassion rooted not only in what we feel, but in faith. The full realization that, in the words of Katherine Henson, "having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness." It is possessing such a heart, one that has borne slings and arrows of the worst kind, but beats on, driven by a fierce, unrelenting, life-affirming love. It is leaning on one another as brothers, sisters, confidantes, and healers, and on He who has brought us this far, giving us the strength to soldier on.

This is not the life I've chosen, but the day I followed my heart down an unpaved road in the Pinelands, this life chose me.

Days like today, I'm thankful that it did.

Bread and Ten Thousand Roses

"Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for—but we fight for roses, too!"

The sermon at church yesterday morning centered on social justice, so the choice of that particular hymn, "Bread and Roses," was befitting. It called to mind the 1912 Lawrence textile strike in which people of all nationalities united for worker's rights, as well as my fondness for the musical talents of the late John Denver.

Later that day, I was still pondering the lyrics, and how accurately they surmise the human condition. We have the practical needs that keep us alive, and the spiritual needs - love, acceptance, dignity, and respect - that make life worth living.

The song remained in my head as I made my way through the snow heading towards Tonya and Mark's trailer. It was the first time I was seeing the place up close.

I greeted both of them with hugs. Mark seemed so frail, his face sunken around the hole where his nose used to be, and in obvious pain. Yet, he remained upbeat.

They were using the gas burner on the stove to heat the trailer, and I found the dry propane heat made breathing slightly uncomfortable. It was hard to imagine how it must have felt for Mark, who, with his missing nose, was only able to breathe through his mouth.

Mark offered me a bottle of water from their "fridge," a little crate just outside the trailer door. They had some power, but weren't allowed an actual refrigerator; it would have cost the property owner "too much money in electricity."

This was the same property owner who had sealed the door to the trailer's bathroom shut, requiring Mark and Tonya to walk to the main house to use the facilities. Who refused to hook up a pipe to allow for running water, again, citing the expense. And yet, who charged this ailing couple several hundred dollars a month for their crude accommodations.

My suggestion was that a recent cash donation might buy them a night or two at a hotel where Mark could enjoy a bath, where they could watch TV, have running water, and a comfortable bed.

As Tonya contemplated it, she reminded me, "It could always be worse."

And for a time, it was. They had previously lived in a shed, contending with spiders and other vermin; she mentioned one time when she was bitten by a spider and took months to recuperate.

Yesterday was also Super Bowl Sunday, and my kids were looking forward not as much to the game as to the halftime show. Over iced tea and green bean fries and other assorted appetizers, they sang along and marveled at the spectacle. A spectacle to rival the show itself: the ten thousand roses sent to halftime performer Beyonce by her husband, Jay-Z.

And I thought about how that degree of excess - a standard to which the rich and famous are accustomed - are not the "roses" we ought to be fighting for. Especially when there are people at the opposite end of the economic in this country who are homeless, sick, and forgotten.

Especially when only an hour or so before, I heard a penniless, suffering man praise his partner, saying, "I don't know what I'd do without her. I definitely wouldn't still be alive."

But I'm sure if he could afford to send her ten thousand roses, he most certainly would.

(To donate to "A Home for Mark and Tonya," click here.)

Unhealed Wounds

Tonight was the second time Tonya and I had spoken on the phone. Tonya was soft-spoken, articulate, and tired. Extremely tired. Every word sounded tinged with a sigh.

Even before she'd started telling me her story, I'd seen Mark's picture, I understood.

Home Coming

Sam is presented with the keys
to his Tiny Home during a special
event at Monmouth University

Mention the word "homecoming," and for many it evokes thoughts of football games, reunions, and school dances.

This month, however, it carries a much deeper meaning to those of us who serve the poor, with two tales of hope, kindness, and transformation.

Two days ago, through the efforts of an organization called "Make It Rain," a former Tent City resident named Sam Dill was given a tiny home all his own. Both New Jersey 101.5 and 6ABC News covered Sam's story.

But there is also another story for which there was no news coverage, no unveiling. Yet it is a story that reminds us that the simple act of caring for one person at a time is how we can change the world.

In February, I wrote about two Tent City alumni, Igor and Marek, neighbors and best friends. When Marek passed away, Igor truly believed his life was over – “Finito,” he’d said.

Igor’s health wasn’t optimal either –back injuries, lost sight in one eye, cognitive challenges – and his

Igor in front of his tent, with a table and bench he constructed

heavy drinking only made things worse. It’s only natural to lose hope when you feel like you’ve lost everything else.

But today, I write about how through one family’s love, Igor has hope again.

A few months ago, a Ukranian-American couple, Svitlana and Aleg Papirnik, opened their hearts and home to Igor. They provided him with food and clothing. They took him to church and doctor’s appointments. They helped Igor replace important documents that he’d lost over the years of being homeless. They helped him find and reconcile with his family back in Ukraine.

Igor and his latest artwork: a coffee table designed
from donated materials

Since then, Igor’s progress has remarkable. With his hope renewed, so was his interest in woodworking. He began crafting tables, benches, and other items out of old tree limbs and donated plywood. The artwork currently adorns his tent and impresses anyone who happens to pass by.

And this past week, Lana and Aleg got Igor into a Ukrainian rehabilitation center in Pennsylvania, where he will be spending the next few months in recovery from his alcoholism.

Imagine if more people were willing to help just one homeless person in the same way. Not just with food, clothes, and other necessities, but with genuine love and friendship. Imagine how the world would be changed. Imagine how many people who have lost hope would be transformed, just like these two men.

Or, we don’t have to imagine at all. We could reach out to a person in need, offering them more than just corporal needs. We could truly give a bit of ourselves, just as the folks at Make It Rain did, and just as the Papirniks did.

 "To the world you may be one person; but to one person you may be the world."

Seventeen

Seventeen.

That is the number of homeless people who live in Ocean County, according to the Point in Time survey conducted by the State of New Jersey.

That is the number Ocean County Freeholder Gerry P. Little referenced in an interview with the Asbury Park Press, to counter claims that they are not doing enough to help the homeless.

I am furious, because that number is an ugly, bold-faced lie.

I know this because I have been serving as a voice for Ocean County’s homeless for the past two years. I can tell you with complete certainty that there are more than seventeen homeless people in one Ocean County town alone. And I can also tell you that these individuals would not come forward and take part in a statewide survey because by doing so, they could be risking police harassment, destruction of the meager roofs over their heads.

What Freeholder Little is really saying is that the homeless who were not counted don’t matter. That, in essence, they deserve to remain invisible.

On Saturday, I saw the movie “Freeheld,” which tells the true story of a terminally ill Ocean County police lieutenant, Laurel Hester, who wants to give her pension to her female life partner but is denied this right by the Ocean County Freeholders.

The names of the freeholders are changed in the current film. But in the 2007 documentary of the same name (which won an Academy Award for Best Documentary Short), we see Freeholder Joseph Vicari blaming the state legislature and John Bartlett blaming union contracts as reasons for the county to uphold their denial of benefits to Laurel. Freeholder Jack Kelly invoked his personal beliefs, stating that recognizing domestic partnerships would violate the sanctity of marriage. Laurel’s partner on the police force, Dane Wells, compared the Freeholders’ denial of benefits to gay couples to laws in the segregated South. “The freeholders had a different excuse every time we asked them about this,” said Don Bennett, a reporter with the Ocean County Observer.

Ultimately, public outrage and a call from Governor Corzine pressured the Freeholders to reverse their decision. Until that point, however, they refused to acknowledge the basic rights of same-sex couples.

Just as now, nearly ten years later, the Ocean County Freeholders refuse to acknowledge their moral obligation to institute a program that will benefit the homeless. And again, by their words and actions, the Ocean County Freeholders are sending a message that certain people don’t matter.

But “we the people” includes ALL people. All people matter. Equality matters. Human rights matter, far more than votes or surveys or the self-serving interests of those in power.

And if those in power choose to remain out of touch with the economic realities “We the People” face every day, then they do not deserve to represent us.