cherubMUD

PLEASE MEET MELISSA:

I had not seen Melissa in a long time. And in the rare event that our paths crossed, I always missed the opportunity to speak with her. She passes silently, avoiding attention. Each time I saw Melissa, she vanished. Sometimes into the crowd. Sometimes into the darkness.

Melissa has no home. Not even a tarp. She lives on the streets, travelling light, wandering alone in a deliberate attempt to mask her location. Sometime she stays with people she knows. Sometimes Melissa gets beat up.

I parked by the tracks. Between the overflowing dumpster and the concrete “eco blocks” that clutter the streets of Georgetown. The concrete, chain link and razor wire provide a somber ambience. Like a prison courtyard. And there’s mud. Always mud.

I stepped from the car, not anticipating the puddle contaminated with antifreeze and a floating cottage cheese-like substance. I leapt and skid on wet garbage. Barely recovering, I startled a cluster of rats that scattered in a radial pattern. A huddled bearded fellow pushing a shopping cart laughed at the scene with a gentle toothless grin. His cart was empty, except for a large teddy bear. Composing myself, I looked up. And there, out of nowhere, was Melissa.

We spoke for a while, then agreed to meet again to talk more. I asked her what I could bring her to eat. She said, “Something cooked. That would be so nice.”

Melissa’s journey is uniquely common. Family struggles. Trauma. Addiction. The dangers of street living. The pain of separation from her 3 children. She’s sought help for her addiction, but stopped short. I asked her why. “I’m not ready to start feeling again. The thought of feeling again scares me.”

Melissa knows she needs help, but feels unsafe with the mental health services available to homeless women. But she does believe that, with the right help, she will eventually end her struggles with drugs and homelessness. And see her children again.

I moved on, following the board-walk past flooded tents and disheveled RV’s. I passed a damaged ceramic statue of an angel lying in the mud. I visited with Tiffany and Megan. They greeted me at their RV doors with welcoming smiles. Like jovial neighbor ladies from an old TV sitcom. You can see this stuff a million times and still not get it.

I gazed around at the scene. The people. The surroundings. The raw sewage. The contradiction. The juxtaposition of that which is filthy, with that which is beautiful and fragile.

Seattle Neighborhoods | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a gift that is meaningful to you--even a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. Thank you.

#facinghomelessness #justsayhello #TheBLOCKProject #kindness #windowofkindness

killingFLOOR

PLEASE MEET NATE:

The small camp intrigued me. There was curious energy, but not exactly the welcoming sort. A young man lay in the shade. There were a few chairs and a guitar case near the concrete bulkhead. A small tent. The man sat up as I approached. I felt tense eyes lock on with precision and suspicion. I hesitated, but soon sensed tentative permission to proceed with caution. Nate stood as I approached. We shared a few words. I handed him a water bottle and started to leave. But the tension eased and there was a hint of trust in his eyes. “Have a seat.” he said. “Let’s talk.”

Nate was angry. His wallet was stolen earlier. His eyes caught fire as he spoke ruthlessly of finding the thief. “I’m the most Christian non-Christian you’ll ever know. And I’ve been restraining myself lately. Trying to stay positive. But I’m about to snap. And right now I need a shot that would kill an elephant.”

Nate spoke of his life and family. The tension gripped as he reached for his guitar case, revealing a worn wooden hollow body arch top. “You see, I’ve got a beef with God and the devil.” he explained as he donned his brass slide. He winced as he positioned his guitar against an abscessed needle wound.

The air wept with sweet sound as Nate warmed up, drawing his slide deep. Extracting cries of hopelessness and despair from the simple acoustic instrument. He slid gracefully into a haunting rendition of the classic Depression era Skip James number, “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.” Nate explained that this version was a homage to his friend who was shot in front of his wife and children during a home invasion in Houston.

Nate grew up in Texas. He suffered during his childhood. He speaks bitterly of the hypocrisy of his family and conservative Christian minister father. His brothers were divided when his parents split, deepening his anger and confusion. “I got tired of the lies. I was outcast by the Church, by the school. They rejected me, so I became their worst nightmare. I became a hell raising asshole and I like it.” Nate joined the armed services at age 17 and served honorably for several years.

Nate is an accomplished bluesman, and goes by the street name “Swamp.” “I play ramshackle back-porch devil music.” There’s fire in his eyes and chaos in his soul. He’s played clubs throughout the South and Northwest. The words MOJO HAND are tattooed across his fingers. “The Blues are a highly spiritual and emotional tool,” Nate explains, “Everyone’s searching from door to door looking for heaven.” Nate explains that heroin has its downsides, but helps him stay the course. “I’m not happy as an active alcoholic addict. And I’m not happy as a sober one. “And when I do pills or drink, I wake up in jail. But never with heroin.”

Nate exudes raw honesty and unprocessed truth. His music purges poison and passion from the bilge of his soul. His stories disturb me or make me laugh. He speaks of cruel revenge for those who have wronged him. But kindness lurks cautiously behind the anger.

Nate lit a cigarette and set his guitar aside. He exhaled a plume, and with head down explained, “I’ve gotten better about letting go. I ain’t gonna kill anyone. I’m a good Samaritan out here. I’ve been so kind to people.”

Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a gift that is meaningful to you--even a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#facinghomelessness #justsayhello #TheBLOCKProject #kindness #windowofkindness

babyDOLL

PLEASE MEET JAMMIE:

It’s a hot day in Seattle. The sun pounds on tents and trash in the industrial zone. The air smells of diesel and musty rubbage. Trains and trucks thunder by and sirens blast as the post-COVID pace picks up in the Jet City. I hadn’t seen my friends around here in a while.

A sweating bald man sits on a Radio Shack speaker. His hands are black with dirt and grease. He’s working on a purple glitter stingray bike with a plastic Star Wars figure on the handle bars. “Who lives around here?” I asked. “A black guy named Whitey, Andor, Man Hands Kim and Blandy. Oh, and there’s a pregnant gal in the RV over there.” He squinted in the sun, pointing his crescent wrench. “Jammie?” I asked. “Yeah, I think so.” A good day was in store. All old friends. A big mouth shirtless guy in a pickup sped by recklessly. He flipped us off while shouting fuck-you to the long line of tents. I knew I was in the right place.

I anticipated Jammie’s upbeat greeting and hug. Her positivity and peace sign. But no answer as I knocked on the funky old RV. I pulled the sun-bleached drape aside at the open window and looked in. I felt the heat escape. An uncomfortable pregnant woman lay awkwardly on the floor. “What do you need Jammie?” Without motion or eye contact she whispered, “A large Oreo shake.” “That’s all?” I asked.

We met Jammie four years ago. She was taking care of her partner at the time, who was badly burned in an encampment fire. You may remember her. She has appeared in stories here a couple times. She has lived many places since, enduring long winters and ravaging sweeps. Surviving under tarps, tents, and bridges, Jammie asks for nothing. Maybe a little food sometimes. Once a bra and some socks. She mostly likes to visit. To hang out. She enjoys the company of good people. She likes dressing up. Makeup and jewelry.

Jammie lives a rough life but you wouldn’t know it from her appearance or attitude. When I returned with the shake and some chicken strips she lit up with the familiar smile and attitude. “I’m off hard drugs.” She said. And Jammie can’t lie to us. We know her too well. We know what Jammie looks like when she’s doing drugs. And when she is not. And today Jammie looks good. But tired and hot.

I felt pretty good after talking with Jammie, Andor, and a few others. Jammie smiled and flashed her trademark peace sign as I drove off. I looked back and waved as I almost hit the guy on the purple stingray bike as he swerved around the street making road adjustments.

We expect Jammie to be taken in by a shelter for homeless mothers when her baby girl arrives in October, but she will have many needs. We would like to raise $1800 to help her along with the many things she will need as a new mom.

Funds are used by Facing Homelessness to procure this ask. No funds will go directly to Jammie and no funds go to Facing Homelessness. If there are funds remaining, they will go to another person who is in need.

Georgetown Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello

jeanieMATTERS

PLEASE MEET JEANIE:

Jeanie spoke frantically from her car. My attempts to calm her only increased her frustration. Maybe it was my hokey optimism. Like telling her she matters. She gave me the occasional stink-eye, indicating that I didn’t get it. Then she ripped loose her head bandanna mid-sentence. Her sudden wide eyes popped from her bald head and messed up my trip. Fat tears followed. “This cancer never goes away, right? You can take a lot from a woman. But don’t take her hair. A woman’s hair is who she is…”

Remember Jeanie? Rex introduced her here a year ago. She had recently lost her mother. Mourning her loss while adjusting to homelessness, she lived in a U-Haul where she was mugged and beaten by thugs. Her belongings were dumped on the street and the vehicle re-possessed.

This community responded. Jeanie was grateful. But we recently discovered Jeanie again, living in her car. Now Jeanie is sick with ovarian cancer. She has been through chemotherapy and receives daily radiation treatments. We found shelter for Jeanie in a tiny house. But she drives long distances daily in a vehicle with a failing transmission to receive her treatments.

Though sick, Jeanie speaks with animation and purpose. Her story is a carnival ride of anxiety and joy. Rapid accelerations. Sadness juxtaposed against self-deprecation and dry humor. Spiritual moments, abruptly followed by shocking revelations and salty language. Your emotions can’t respond fast enough to transition correctly before the story takes another tight turn. Tears and laughter flow simultaneously as her busy face and big eyes span a spectrum of emotions. A few of her anecdotes cannot be repeated in this family forum, but left my guts hurting from laughter. Jeanie is a kick in the ass.

She won’t talk your ear off. Jeanie lets you off the ride easy each time with a whisper, “I love you Sweetie.” And we’re left with plenty to think about.

Outside a sick woman with a tragic story wears a bandanna and a shirt that says Only God can Judge. Inside, there’s Jeanie. She’s lonely these days. Needing help but employing every tool in her power to help herself. A woman who should matter. Though the world may have forgotten somehow.

Below is a list of Jeanie’s needs. In addition, we’d like to raise $1500 for gas cards for Jeanie. If you can help, click here: https://www.paypal.com/donate?hosted_button_id=YW973AHMPB5EC

Items may be shipped to: Facing Homelessness c/o Jeanie 4001 9th Ave NE. Funds are used by Facing Homelessness to procure this ask. No funds will go directly to Jeannie and no funds go to Facing Homelessness. If there are funds remaining, they will go to another person who is in need.

Stand Up Walker
Electric Blanket- full size
Boulder Creek Fleece Winter Coat size 5X, Navy Blue or Black
Explorer Plush Fleece Pants, 2 pair, size 5X
Long Sleeve Thermal Long Johns
Cargo Pants- Knock Around Kind size 5X
Sneakers- Lace Up Downforce, size 10 womens
Copper Fit Energy Compression Socks, black, 2 pair

Kent Neighborhood| Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. Thank you.

#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello

alternateFORTUNES

PLEASE MEET HALEY AND MARK:

Rumbling freeway ramps wind above the dirty Seattle thoroughfare. Motorists pass in all directions. Flowing in steady streamlines as the city breathes. A man sits on the curb. His static wiry figure contrasts with the rhythm. His head between his knees, he flicks an expired butt and spits at the pavement cursing his luck. A woman sleeps in the gravel. A dated floral table cloth is her blanket. A bible is her pillow.

Nearby, Mark and Haley share a small tent near an overflowing dumpster. Mark is an unemployed chef. He’s worked in prestigious restaurants and trained under Richard Nixon’s personal chef. He escorts Haley gently from the tent, holding her hand. He speaks of their journey. Ever conscious of her presence, his respect for her runs deep. She speaks softly in the background. Randomly. Out of sequence and context. Mark acknowledges her along the way. Thoughtfully encouraging her participation while respectfully metering her inputs with gentle nods and eye contact. All without breaking dialogue. He speaks of their struggles. Their ongoing recovery from heroin, his love for Haley. Her mental illness, and the constant attention she needs to stay safe. Rioting crows steal rotting garbage from the dumpster.

Mark pauses, “Your turn Babe.” But Haley’s voice was weak behind the whine of bus engines and the thunder of passing freight trains. Listening hard, I envisioned darkness. Her confinement in a psychiatric ward. Her father, who abused her as a child. I saw the grim faces of her two children whom she loves, but sadly accepts must be apart from her for now. “I’ll have to leave my body before all this is over,” she said. She spoke of her love for Mark. I could discern no more.

Mark explained that Haley hears voices. She is schizophrenic and exhibits multiple personalities. “She simply cannot be left alone,” he explains. “The women pick on her at the shelters. Men abuse her on the streets. She cannot take care of herself. When we met four years ago, I was struck by her braids. Her tanned skin and tattoos. Her soft voice and smile. My feelings haven’t changed. And though I am unable to care for her and work, Haley is my priority. She is worth more than money.”

Back at the dumpster a stumbling man urinates in the shadows, unfazed by the rat snooping near his bare feet. There’s a dead cat. The stink of diesel exhaust mingles with smoke from a nearby garbage can fire. A shouting match ensues from the tent next door. Then silence. Mark looks at Haley, then at the ground. “I need to get her out of here,” he said softly.

SODO Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#facinghomelessness #justsayhello #kindness #yesinmybackyard #theblockproject 

deconflictingSADNESS

PLEASE MEET BRIANNA:

The glossy photo of Bri I’d promised her sits on the passenger seat. Still awaiting our next chance encounter. She’d asked Debbie to sew her a Hello Kitty mask. It sits on the banister with a post-it attached bearing her name and a small heart. Bri would never receive the mask or photo.

Our friendship with Bri was a journey. A trail steadily gaining elevation, but ending unexpectedly at a precipice. This thought, juxtaposed against the sudden and sheer finality of her death, was sad and conflicting. We were just getting somewhere.

We met Bri a few years back. She lived in a shack of plywood and tarps in the Jungle. It had a wood stove. There was a plastic Santa and a pair of glossy high heels in the mud near the plank walkway outside. In the winter white smoke puffed from the stack. It meant Bri was home.

Bri ran deep but surfaced periodically. Maybe humor and sarcasm disguised deeper issues. I gave her a ride to the store once. When she returned to the car I asked if she got me anything. She said yes. She reached in the bag and handed me a box of tampons.

Bri would lead our conversations, often away from herself or difficult topics. Like the reasons for her homelessness. Or her difficult relationship with her father. I would learn that she valued these encounters more than I knew. But I would never learn the deeper reasons for her homelessness. Or why she lived in surroundings littered with addiction and trash. Crushed human spirits. Mud and rats. Like many living unsheltered, it didn’t make much sense. Perhaps her pride got in the way of discussing these things. Or maybe she didn’t want to drag me down with her problems. Who knows. I guess homelessness and logic are poor bedfellows. So I don’t know why Bri had to die homeless.

At our last visit Bri admitted she was having a rough day. I sensed sadness. Our conversation was notably more real. But when I left, she was happier. That evening I received a text that would be our final communication: “Today my spirit was re-energized. After our visits I always feel stronger. Visible, valuable, viable. Thank you. I wish you knew how it feels to be on the receiving end of our friendship. Love you and appreciate you. -Bri”

Bri’s father is dealing with his own struggles while coping with this loss. We would like to show him that Bri was important and loved by raising $2400 to help with funeral expenses.
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick...

Funds are used by Facing Homelessness to procure this ask. No funds will go directly to Bri’s family and no funds go to Facing Homelessness. If there are funds remaining, they will go to another person who is in need.

Yesler Terrace Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello

manyVOICES

PLEASE MEET DAMIAN:

I want to introduce a longtime friend of Facing Homelessness and a key contributor to this page. Damian Monda grew up in the region, and at a very young age was inspired by his grandfather Joe who lived in Wenatchee. Joe owned a little grocery store, was very active in St. Vincent de Paul and had relationships with many people experiencing homelessness. During his childhood on Beacon Hill, Damian and his brother would explore the abandoned neighborhoods surrounding I-5 construction. This was the 60s. They made friends with the people taking refuge in the boarded-up homes. “We grew up building tree-houses down in that area. Even after we moved, I would return year after year. I never really stopped going down into the Jungle.” Around that young age, Damian began what would become a life-long journey of bringing food and basic essentials to the folks living there, offering his time and friendship.

Damian, and now his wife Debbie, still spend a lot of time doing that. They share the belief that these simple acts are of paramount importance, that living in service of others enriches both their lives and those that they encounter. “The greatest gift you can give is just your time, some respect, and to treat people with dignity.” When I asked how he discovered the importance of this, Damian recalled early days working in Georgetown when he would sometimes walk past, or step over, someone sleeping outside his office. “I would get to my desk and realize, I’ve already missed the most important opportunity of this whole day.” He shared that loving others isn’t complicated. “It’s easy. They’re right there. You don’t have to overthink it. The opportunity to serve others is right in our face.”

Our founder, Rex Hohlbein, crossed paths with Damian in 2016 doing similar work: sharing photos, dispelling myths, and meeting the needs of our unsheltered neighbors. “There was one week where I’d go out to meet someone [living outside,] and Rex would have just been there the same day or the other way around. Finally, we said, “We’ve got to meet.” They did. “We met down in Georgetown outside Zoe’s bus. That was about three years ago.” We are so grateful for the important work Damian does in our community and look forward to more of his contributions on this page.

Facing Homelessness is in a season of growth. You’ve likely noticed this page being more quiet than usual, and we have missed connecting with all of you regularly. In addition to Rex’s departure, COVID-19 has presented challenges to our work of coming closer. Facing Homelessness is also taking this opportunity to examine how we share stories in the most ethical manner that protects and honors the people we are lifting up. We’re excited to grow in the direction of having all our programs more informed by those we serve.

Damian and other staff members will be sharing more stories about our work. This page may look a little different moving forward and that simply reflects the times we are in. Please reach out with any comments/feelings/suggestions. We look forward to seeing you here and continuing our work together! You can also follow our Instagram profile and sign up for our newsletter on our website for regular program updates and events.

With Love and Gratitude,
Barron l Beacon Hill Neighborhood

Barron is an architect, photographer and the Communications Manager at Facing Homelessness

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you’re moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the ‘donate’ button and consider a “monthly recurring” donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello #YesInMyBackyard #theBLOCKproject 

separatePEACE

PLEASE MEET PAIGE:

In the back of my mind I was afraid it was true. It had been a while since I sat with Paige. At the dialysis center. Bright eyes and colors. Metal jewelry. Relentlessly positive. Non-stop and not withstanding grim circumstances. Accentuating absurdities. Mercilessly poking at human nuances. Laughing. At herself and others. Laughing at me. Talking too much. Same ol’ Paige. But weaker now. Her legs and face swollen. She stood shakily after her three hour treatment. Her only regret, “Today is James’ birthday. I couldn’t be there to celebrate with him.”

Much had changed since I posted Paige’s story here a year ago. The wildFLOWER. It spoke to her chronic positivity. Her sarcasm and cheerfulness. Her affection for people and motorcycles. And the way I felt when visiting her camp in the Jungle. A treehouse of timbers and tarps. A separate and peaceful place. Adjacent to, but separated by lightyears from bustling Seattle. There was a calming effect. Even the wildlife understood. Birds sang in the trees and squirrels played in tangled vines. Her cats lounged on a small porch. I felt good there.

In those days Paige played the banjo. She sought a musical partner. But only weeks later she suffered a seizure. Hospitalized for days, she returned with no memory of what happened, or even how she got home. Her memory and cognitive processes would never function correctly again, making it difficult to follow her prescribed methadone routine. A subsequent diagnosis of kidney failure would require dialysis three times a week. Her bouts with confusion and now irregular methadone schedule led to anxiety. Deep frustration and hopelessness. Her ability to stay disciplined with her dialysis treatment waned. All this on top of a devastating heroin addiction and homelessness.

Having had bad experiences trusting street rumors, I called James. In seconds I learned what I already knew. James broke down and convulsed in sorrow. He sobbed, “I’m completely broken. She was my everything. I miss her so f*cking much.” The back of my mind took center stage like a scared kid. Paige was gone.

Paige suffered much in her short life, especially in her final days. But the sicknesses that ravaged Paige’s body could not touch her soul. She spoke no ill. She kept no score. Her eyes stayed loving and bright. Her smile as genuine as her love for life, which life itself did not deserve.

I am grateful for each moment I spent with Paige. Talking at her camp. Sitting in medical offices. Riding to the methadone clinic. Always joyful and full of surprises. A wiseass. A badass. A rose among thorns. A Wild Flower. Rest in eternal peace Paige.

Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello

facingHUNGER

PLEASE MEET OUR COMMUNITY: 

I felt powerful. But vulnerable and unworthy. Carting 20 boxes of pizza through the bowels of the sprawling homeless encampment. The air stunk. There were disheveled huts, hard times and hunger. The afternoon sun warmed the cold March air as the impoverished aftermath of the Great Society set the table for lady luck. Deliverance, short but sweet. I’ve never known hunger in my life.

People emerged from the wreckage. From obscurity and loneliness. Behind junk and garbage. A man climbed hastily from a treehouse. Danny sat in the mud near spent needles, pathetically fumbling to tie his unmatched shoes, afraid he might miss out. He didn’t. It seemed the happiest day of his life.

It went like this; Me, “Hey- how ‘bout some pizza?” Response, “You’re kidding right? Free?” Pizza power. We all know the feeling, right? Not really. I know I don’t. “God bless you,” they spoke in unison. The recurring chorus rung in my head as I lay in bed at night. The eyes. The faces moving across the screen. Haunting. Hungry. The numbers. I never get used to the numbers. Right here in Seattle.

Seattle’s homeless state of emergency declared in 2015 seems pretty old news anymore. Sadly dismissed to the back pages of the local news even prior to recent events. And now, with the secondary supply chain eviscerated, the delicate infrastructure is further diminished. The once reliable restaurant dumpsters empty. And ironically, today, even the common man must learn what it feels like to be considered unclean. By those he doesn’t know well enough to mistrust. Or to hate.

Anthony’s cool. The scene’s a rerun. A young man standing back, too proud to ask. Too hungry to resist. His expression screams silent satisfaction. Relief from hunger, even if only briefly.

A few days ago, Rex spoke of Egan Orion and his “Food is Love” initiative to support local restaurants while feeding the poor. Facing Homelessness will be engaging with Egan regularly for the foreseeable future, harmonizing Egan’s leadership and talents with the connection Facing Homelessness has with the front lines of Seattle’s forgotten. Special thanks to Egan and Ian’s Pizza at Pine and Broadway for feeding the hungry. You can support “Food is Love” here: https://www.finding-common-ground.org/foodislove

Facing Homelessness has established a special fund to provide food for those experiencing hunger during these difficult times. Please consider giving: https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=LWXZ2A5XLXF5G&source=url

Your sacrifice will relieve hunger, I assure you. Let’s make a few hundred faces shine. Like Anthony’s. Warming hearts and souls. Like the sun in March.

Yesler Terrace Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/
and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #JustSayHello #FacingHomelessness Crosscut KING 5

newNORMAL

PLEASE MEET OUR COMMUNITY: 

In these times of social-distancing the needs of those experiencing homelessness do not simply go away. In fact, quite the opposite, the needs increase.

Many of the thin bridges that provide essential services have vanished over night. This is were each of us come in with our creative compassionate solutions to help build new bridges.

Take a moment to brainstorm on how you, with your talents and resources, can get involved to make a difference. That is what Egan Orion has done with his 'Food Is Love Project!'

https://www.finding-common-ground.org/foodislove

Egan and friends are feeding people MWF. This last Monday they arranged for Terra Plata to donate (15) cups of soup and Dick's to donate (24) cheeseburgers and chips. Damian and I were asked to pick them up and deliver to those outside, which was easyPEAZY!!

All the food was handed out, keeping 6'-0" away, to an incredibly grateful group of people living in tents under Interstate-5 in the SODO neighborhood, wowWOW!!

A very special THANKS to Terra Planta for the donated soup and to Dick's, whose cheeseburgers I've been eating since I was a little boy, for the burgers and chips!

LOVE to everyone for finding their own creative compassion!

SODO neighborhood | Rex

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #JustSayHello #FacingHomelessness Crosscut KING 5 Dick's Drive In Restaurant Terra Plata Damian Monda Egan Orion

bitterSWEET

PLEASE MEET STRAWBERRY:

(language warning)

“See that girl over there?” The old man pointed to a colorfully dressed woman. She was cooking over a fire near the tracks, feeding a small group. “Now folks might think she’s just a dirty whore.” he said. I studied the young woman’s interactions. A rude woman arrived demanding food. “But you watch,” he said, “That hungry bitch there? She don’t deserve nuthin. But Strawberry will feed her too.”

The scene got a little crazy. An angry man yelled in my face. A nearby couple argued. A man with a disfigured leg hobbled by pushing a broken cart. A troubled woman in a torn up Mumu tried to talk. But our conversation failed as a train passed and the man resumed yelling. As I left, I greeted the young woman. “I enjoy cooking for people.” she said with a hint of a smile, which dropped fast as she aimed a fork at the aggressive man. “Get the fuck BACK!” she yelled. He scowled, but complied.

The memory of the young woman stuck. I wished I’d spent more time with her. I went back but found she didn’t live there. Months later, stuck in traffic, I looked out the window and saw her standing alone holding a bunch of daffodils. I recognized her eyes immediately. I looked again and she was gone. A year later I found her living in the woods.

“I’m mean.” she said. “The street makes you mean. But I’m a good bitch.” Strawberry, whose real name is Ruth Anne, left home at age 14. Her mother was a drug addict. Her life a tale of sordid abuse. She was once confined to her tent for over a year where she was regularly beaten and forced to have sex until she passed out. “I peed on myself and shit in a bucket. He held a knife to my throat saying he’d kill me and hide my body if I left. He said God told him to make me into an angel.” She escaped but struggled afterwards. “I hooked for a while, but I don’t need hands on me anymore. I can take care of myself. I can hustle better than most.”

Perhaps there is more hope to be observed in Ruth Anne’s tears than her words. “I have no plan. I have no idea what I am going to do,” her nose and eyes streaming. “I do meth because it’s the only way I can cope. To handle the memories of my children. Who were taken from me.”

“What can we do?” I asked. Drying her tears she answered, “I could use some food and cooking utensils. I enjoy cooking for people.”

SODO Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #FacingHomelessness #JustSayHello Crosscut KING 5

coldTRAIL

PLEASE MEET SEAN:

Seattle’s Jungle is a splendid forest adorned with vine draped maples. Birds sing high in green canopies. Berries, fruit trees, and mossy foundations speak to earlier times. Mud trails lead to nestled camps. Wandering endlessly through English Ivy. But tangled souls cry pathetically from encampments twisted among the vines and branches. Stuck in a world most can’t conceive. The “Jungle” is a homonym.

I passed Sean’s camp regularly. There was a tent, a firepit and a small patio. He’d greet me with a smile and nod each time, appearing satisfied to see an outsider with good intentions. He invited me over once. We grabbed a couple chairs and sat for a while. It was cold. But the fire and conversation were warm. I immediately like this guy.

“It’s a continuous struggle,” he said. “I worry constantly. I have many sleepless nights. We’re always on our guard.” He tossed a chunk of broken pallet on the fire. Looking into the flame he said, “I’ve always longed for the structure of a family. To be a husband and a father.”

Sean grew up a latchkey kid. His mom worked graveyard. His dad abandoned them early before serving a long prison sentence. He died soon after. Sean worked the docks of Tokeland, WA packing ice and working crab boats. He is an experienced hiker and climber. But as a young man, Sean committed a crime. It would cost him a 13 year prison sentence and any substantial chance at housing or stable employment. Sean has been homeless most of his life. “Each time I find an open door it gets slammed in my face. I feel I’m stuck.”

As I departed he said, “Tell people not to honk when they see us. Some of us cannot function safely without sleep. Tell them we are human just like you. Each of us is doing our best to get out of this hell.”

As I walked the mud path outbound a memory surfaced. As a young kid I once trespassed across a muddy lot. The mud got deeper. Clutching and emitting suction sounds with each step. My right shoe was sucked off my foot. Then the left. I felt helpless and physically drained. I was cold. I panicked. I could see where I needed to go. I could see people who could help me. But they were busy. They couldn’t see me. Or hear me over the noise.

Georgetown Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
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aleutianLIGHT

PLEASE MEET SHERYL:

Exploring homelessness inevitably leads to pondering solutions. In conversations and thought processes. It’s the normal progression. But constraints and ideas get quickly tangled in tedious frustration.

Kind of like social long division. Answers are elusive as a seemingly infinite solution domain abuts the empty set.

Tired common denominators stagnate beneath an endless sequence of irrational numerators. Each quotient being as unique as a human soul. But only by engaging the souls do we begin to abate the confusion and complexity. And learn reasons, if not solutions.

Sheryl lives in a small tent in the woods with her dog Two Paws. I didn’t know her. “I’m an open book,” She said. “I have no secrets.” Her stories are choreographed with structure and sequence, peppered with humor and blunt honesty. Echoing ancient influences. This woman has soul.

Sheryl is a descendant of the Northern Aleut tribe. Her people inhabited the Aleutian Islands in the Bering Sea for thousands of years. She speaks of traditions from her native heritage and Russian Orthodox upbringing. “In the ocean we fished and hunted seals, ducks, sea lion, and octopus. From the cliffs we gathered sea gull eggs. In the mountains we hunted Ptarmigan. We ate salmon eggs, sea urchins and fermented seal flippers.” Her favorite food? Her eyes widened, “Octopus with seal oil and salt!”

In sixth grade Sheryl helped organize the Native Olympics in her small town. She participated, excelling at events like the Seal Hop, Kneel Jump, One Armed Reach and others. “I almost won the women’s One Foot High Kick.” This entailed kicking a 92 inch high suspended seal fur ball and landing on her feet. In the winter Sheryl enjoyed church traditions including “Staring” where the community walked from house to house carrying a large star, bringing food to needy neighbors and singing traditional songs.

Sheryl is 51 now. She was married for 34 years and worked front desk jobs. She loves people and animals. She has struggled with drugs and alcohol since childhood. She was clean and sober for 5 years, but the death of a close friend and subsequent divorce left her challenged, homeless, and back to alcohol and substance abuse. She makes no excuses. She clearly states her personal solution in simple terms, free of complexities or confusion, “I need to pull my head out of my ass and get on with my life.”

Getting to know Sheryl, you see though the eyes of an old soul. Stitching yesterday to today. Her dark eyes offer light, and speak to insights engrained from ancestors and experience. Ushering an honest and direct path into a beautiful soul.

SODO Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
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hardTIME

PLEASE MEET WOLF:

I was looking for someone, inquiring around the woods above Georgetown. A robust bald man with suspenders and a large beard sat scraping mud from his boots with a butcher knife. He hollered and pointed with the knife, “He’s over there. At Wolf’s place.”

Nearby was a sprawling camp, a patchwork of worn tarps and a wooden substructure. The site was clean. The framework square. A plank walkway led through the mud to a back entrance. There was a quiet man outside cooking over a fire. I proceeded towards the back. Two cats darted, knocking over a bottle. A man with a stubble beard appeared suddenly. I was startled and fumbled as I explained my presence. He smiled genuinely. “No problem. I’ve seen you around.” I shook his strong hand. He looked at me squarely. “My name is Wolf.”

Wolf’s childhood was a disaster. His parents were chronic alcoholics. They were both killed in suspicious incidents when he was very young. Wolf believes they were murdered. He was raised by his grandmother. “I grew up as a kid who couldn’t express himself.” At age 18 Wolf committed a crime that cost him nearly 20 years in prison. “I was an angry kid. I didn’t know how to react. I’d handle things differently today.”

Wolf left prison in his late 30’s with few basic living skills. He then met the love of his life. “She fell from the sky. She helped me get my life back. She had a nail business. I didn’t even know how to write a check,” he laughed, “She even did my nails and gave me pedicures, something I never thought I’d appreciate.”

Wolf found employment working construction and driving a wrecking truck. Things improved. But his son’s death from a traffic collision changed everything. And sadly, his angel from heaven would die the following year. Wolf was devastated. He turned to meth. Homelessness followed. Wolf speaks honestly with humility, fully owning the results of his actions. “I’ve learned you can jab a needle in your arm, you can climb inside a bottle. But you cannot hide from what lies within your heart.”

The day we spoke was Wolf’s 51 st birthday. “It’s been a long road. I’m tired. I can’t stand the dirt anymore. It’s like a dog chasing his tail. I know what I need to do but don’t know how.” I asked how he copes anymore. He smiled, “Laughter is the key to happiness. Negativity begets negativity.”

The very next day Wolf’s entire dwelling burned to the ground in a massive fire, destroying everything he owned.

Georgetown Neighborhood | Damian

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taggingTOMORROW

PLEASE MEET ROBYN :

Robyn’s tent sat high on a concrete shelf under a bridge. Near a bulkhead adorned with lichen and green slime. And graffiti tags. It’s a dank place with wide views of Seattle. Expanding across your vision, the city hums. There’s energy, effervescence and affluence. But here the steel beams rumble overhead, dripping dirty water. Streaming off the tents into the mud. It’s a lonely place with strangers and shadows. Darkness’ territory. Robyn never got over being scared out here at night.

Robyn asked with weak anticipation “Any good news?” As I answered, her big eyes lit up. A bed and shelter waited a few blocks away. She clinched her fists and jumped like a school girl. “YES! When can we leave? ” “Right now” I said. “Did you bring my guitar?” she asked. We had been storing it for her. She was packed in 5 minutes. Robyn hates being homeless.

I met Robyn in the Jungle during the summer of 2018. Fast forward a year when Rex profiled her here. She had no plan. No vision for tomorrow. She spoke of her dearly deceased grandmother, and her love for playing guitar. She wanted to get off the streets. But that was last summer. What took so long?

Robyn came to Seattle in 2011. Her grandma’s passing devastated her. She sought a new start after difficult circumstances. The subsequent death of her boyfriend in 2013 hit her hard, unraveling her life incrementally, eventually leading to homelessness. “I lived in the Jungle because I was alone and scared. People looked after me there. My family doesn’t know I’m out here. My grandma would roll over in her grave. Now I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t seen. I know things I wish I didn’t.”

Robyn’s eyes speak volumes. Sometimes pools of sadness. Sometimes the sun peeks through the clouds. When she’s happy they shine like a National guitar. But they mist up when she speaks of her grandma.

Many roads lead to homelessness. Few lead outbound. And to understand homelessness one must experience it, which I have not. But with homelessness, tomorrow can be a long time. Robyn’s journey has been fraught with failures and false starts. But today there is cause for celebration. “My grandma sends good people my way to help me.” Her vision now includes an apartment, a job, and a dog. Today it’s Robyn’s day. Because tomorrow is her territory. We love you Robyn.

South Seattle Neighborhood | Damian

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communalSOUL

PLEASE MEET WENDY :

I’d been searching for a young woman who had recently been evicted from a shelter. I’d heard she had been distraught and sick. I called out under a dirty bridge in south Seattle. A voice nearby replied, “She’s over here. With me.” The tent unzipped. She was there with Wendy. Sobbing and cursing her situation.
Cursing her homelessness. She cried as Wendy comforted her. I had not met Wendy. But she consoled the young woman with a silent and powerful compassion I had not seen before.

Wendy cares about her people. “They come to me for everything. Food, blankets, hygiene items, clean needles. I’m so sad when I can’t help them.” She keeps her small encampment village clean, complete with sharp containers. A small stool sits near her door. Like Lucy’s psychiatry booth in the Peanuts cartoon. The doc is usually IN. People come for companionship and consolation. Sometimes they come for help shooting up safely. In an earlier life, Wendy was a medical student and paramedic.

Wendy grew up on the Eastside in an affluent environment. She participated in high school and college sports including basketball, soccer, and swimming. A spiritual person, she avoided drugs, even alcohol. She attended Juanita High School, then Duke University. She attended medical school before contracting leukemia, which she beat. A career change led to further affluence as an account executive at a
mortgage company. But in 2016 Wendy was struck by a texting driver and suffered a head injury. She became addicted to pain meds which led to her heroin addiction. “They cut off my meds. But heroin was cheap and available.” Heroin would lead to Wendy’s rapid spiral from wealthy account executive to
homelessness.

Wendy is no longer interested in money or career advancement. She wants to help others now. “I used
to turn my nose up at homeless people. I thought homeless people were disgusting. Until I became one. Now it’s cold and I miss my family.” Wendy spoke her next words through tears: “Tell people homelessness is not contagious. Neither is drug use. It’s ok to stop and say hi to us. I know there are terrible people out here. People with no souls at all,” she wiped her eyes and sniffled, “but there are beautiful souls out here too.”

Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
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evisceratingEXPECTATIONS

PLEASE MEET JEFF AND BRANDY :

Homelessness carries visions of cartoonish characters. Outlaws and bogeymen. Demons and danger. As a kid, dangerous places taunted me. Woods, bridges, abandoned buildings. But if danger is your deal, you may find homeless encampments boring. Because, with notable exceptions, in an encampment you’re more likely to encounter Ned Flanders than Vincent Price. Doris Day than Cruella de Ville. The Jefferson’s rather than the Adam’s Family. If homelessness were TV drama, Jeff and Brandy are the couple next door in a 70’s sitcom. Quirky, witty, engaging. Sometimes outshining the main characters.

Brandy is a jovial soul with flowing red hair. She enjoys company and conversation. A genuine woman, she laughs often, but speaks with conviction. She’s delightful but don’t mess with her. She yields no quarter to trouble makers. A neighbor fellow was recently evicted for harassing women. “If he was on fire I wouldn’t piss on him,” she laughs, pulling back her long red hair. Brandy was a competition roller skater. Her eyes catch fire when she talks about it. She’s tough. But also enjoys drawing and has an insatiable appetite for homemade cheese cake.

Today there’s tension. An upcoming sweep has them agitated. Brandy is packing up. In frustration, she’s tossing belongings into bags with a vengeance. Pontificating passionately about the city’s failed policies. Still yapping, she grabs a stick deodorant and vigorously applies it under her sweatshirt before tossing it at an open suitcase where it bounces and hits the floor. All without breaking verbal stride. Brandy will always crack you up. Jeff keeps a low profile in these instances.

Jeff is quieter. He works hard. Roaming alleys nightly, collecting recyclables. He returns after sunrise. “We survive on the money from the cans. But you’d be surprised at what people toss in dumpsters. Tools, valuables, even money.” He points at 4 large sacks of fresh food discarded from a Starbucks. He smiles, “These will feed our entire camp today.” Jeff is a framer and general woodworker but has had trouble staying employed. “School never worked for me. But I learn well on the job.”

Jeff and Brandy have been homeless and in love together a long time. But why are they homeless? Having known them for 3 years I can only say it’s not a lifestyle they choose. But knowing Jeff and Brandy, one can’t help but conclude that, by stereotypical expectations, these two simply don’t look or act homeless. But on the stage that is poverty, Jeff and Brandy reside in the wings. Behind crooked props. Out of view of the critics. Defying audience expectations.

Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
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instantDISASSEMBLY

PLEASE MEET JT:

With encampment sweeps up this year I did some research to understand why. I searched city websites and policy pages. Not much on the effectiveness of sweeps. In fact, the city makes scant reference to its encampment “removals”. A statement by the mayor clarifies: “We must be accountable to Seattle taxpayers about the investments we are making, what is working, and where we need to innovate.”

Meanwhile, across the tracks, tangled in the trees and nestled in the nooks. Between the bushes, beneath the bridges, the downtrodden and displaced simply seek peace and dignity. Tolerating winter, rejection, exposure and sweeps over bureaucracy, bed bugs and bullies at the crowded shelters. There’s social wreckage and souls. Gregory, Bear, Leah, Jamie, Cheryl, Blandy, Sean, Chris, Mike, Van, and JT. In a nearby clearing a disturbed woman disrobes in the cold. Clutching soap and a rag.

There’s a neatly organized collection of bike frames and parts. We’d not seen JT since the Georgetown sweeps last winter. He crawled from his tent on painful knees. He looked up. He looked older. “The DOT was here yesterday. But we haven’t been tagged yet.” His eyes weary. His smile gentle.” JT builds bikes. “I give them to people who need them. I’ve never sold one.” There’s a partially assembled frame clamped to a work stand. “This one here’s coming along.” He points to another. “This one’s my baby. It took months to assemble.”

JT was a diesel mechanic for 30 years. A gentle man who speaks Cummins and Massey Fergusson. Compression ratios and compassion. Happily married to his wife whom he loved, they raised 3 sons in a home they owned. He was a scout leader for many years. His oldest son was an Eagle Scout. “The boys loved fishing, camping, and dirt bikes. We fished and camped everywhere. Lakes, streams, the ocean.”

JT moves slowly now. It’s been two years since his second struggle with prostate cancer. Surviving chemo and radiation treatments, it was his third brush with death. “I’m ok 11 months of the year.” He looks away sadly, his voice cracks. “But December is hard for me. I don’t like Christmas anymore. I don’t understand why He took them and not me.” On Christmas day 2012 JT’s family was struck by a drunk driver killing his wife of 25 years and twin 15 year old boys.

Back at the clearing the woman finishes her sponge bath and dresses. A passing hungry man asks for food. Near the tracks a white DOT pickup arrives. A man with a clipboard gets out.

Gerogetown neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#Kindness #JustSayHello #FacingHomelessness

mommaJYPSY

PLEASE MEET JYPSY:

Some call her the foundation of her tribe. “God gave me the special gift of understanding my people and their needs.” Her voice is gravelly. Her message solid. “She’s our cornerstone. She’s the mortar that binds us together,” her people say. Indeed, Jypsy is well pegged with parlance from the masonry industry. She is a rock. A pillar. Her spirit immovable. Her integrity a slab of concrete.

Under a dirty bridge in Seattle I met Jypsy 3 years ago. It was a dark place. Near a cement factory. An encampment tangled with tents and troubled souls. Jypsy’s people. Bordered by a railroad spur and indifference. Switch engines basted powerful horns, rolling slowly only feet away. Disturbing. Shaking the ground. Shaking guts and conscience. I passed a smoky fire. In the darkness a woman roasted meat chunks skewered on a long knife. I was startled and kept walking the mud path. On to Jypsy’s tent. Her presence contrasted. Like sunlight splashing on graffiti. Her wit and humor soothed above the industrial noise. Like pebbles rolling under a stream. “I’m Jypsy.” she said. I shook her strong hand, “I know, I’ve heard of you.”

They call her Momma. Jypsy is a leader and a mother to her band of souls living in poverty. These days her health is poor, but she is cared for by her people. She carries portable oxygen and struggles to breath. She coughs. Her respiratory system challenged further by her frequent laughter.

Jypsy speaks of her influences. Her grandmother was loving and kind. Her mother destructive and mean. “She beat me. But I had the insight to recognize the sorrow and confusion that tore her from within. I love her and forgive her.” Jypsy was abducted at age 9. She was drugged and sexually abused. She feels anxiety still. I asked how she remains positive. “We’re all taken care of. In God’s hands we will be fine. We start with this each day, and our problems are minor. “ Jypsy speaks of accountability. Acceptance. Love. Her eyes are warm, but sometimes fierce. Her laughter punctuated with fat tears.

Jypsy’s life is a spiritual journey. “I’m not perfect. I often wonder what the F I’m doing.” I ask her what we should know. “We must not be subservient to ourselves. We must be accepting of others. We must be accepting of all. We must never be bound to our own.”

As I departed a train blocked my path trapping me near the woman by the fire. She pointed her knife at me, offering me the piece of meat on the tip.

SODO Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
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payingATTENTION

PLEASE MEET JEAN:

Out of mind but not sight. The corner of Rainier and Dearborn. Any corner. On any street- another soul, another sign. Another sign of the times. She’s there. Pulling at our peripheral vision. But we focus ahead. At a red light. Then she’s gone. Like a lamp post. Or a fire hydrant. When we don’t pay attention.

Jean’s feet hurt. Another full day on the pavement. She’s tired. Normally all smiles, today she worries about her partner. His aggressive brain cancer is approaching advanced stages. “I’m living a nightmare. He’s not the same. He gets confused. He’s verbally abusive sometimes. He leaves and I don’t know where he goes. I’m worried.” There’s tears. But soon enough, smiles and more conversation. Jean smiles a lot.

Jean grew up in Seattle on Capital Hill. Raised in a family with a house and parents. She attended St Joseph Catholic School and Holy Names Academy, an all girls private school. She loved it. And the nuns taught her well. To pay attention. She got caught smoking cigarettes once. But the nuns liked her too much to punish her. Her father ran a janitorial business where she eventually worked. But a few years back some things went wrong. Jean lost her job and Jim became sick. They have had trouble staying sheltered. They’ve lived in motels and rental spaces. Always struggling anymore. “I’ve lived very comfortably most of my life. I’m not used to living this way. It’s scary and unnerving.”

Currently Jean and Jim are holding on to their small room, but barely. Jean is overwhelmed with financial pressures, doctor logistics and other problems related to Jim’s illness. She is entirely focused on supporting Jim in what will likely be his final days. Jim has been a good partner to Jean. Jean is there for him 200%.

Jean loves interacting. A regular passer-by honks and waves. “Most people are friendly. When they aren’t I just blow them a raspberry.” Jean provides a loud audio example, which got my attention.

What would she like most? “Some peace and quiet. Some time to deal with my own thoughts.” When asked what she wants other people to know, she said, “Don’t sneer. Don’t just drive by. Stop and listen. Pay attention. Pay attention.”

If you are in the neighborhood, consider paying a little attention to Jean. You won’t regret it. Maybe Just Say Hello. There is easy parking off Dearborn. Jean also needs sturdy shoes, maybe even light boots with good internal support, size 8.5. Warm socks, and size 12 petite stretchy pants. If you can help, please dropOFF or shipTO: Facing Homelessness c/o Jean, 4001 9th Ave NE, Seattle WA 98105.

Judkins Park Neighborhood | Damian

A QUIET THOUGHT - If you're moved by the goodness of this community, please visit http://www.facinghomelessness.org/ and click on the 'donate' button and consider a "monthly recurring" donation of just $5 in support of the work. THANK YOU!
#JustSayHello #Kindness #FacingHomelessness