Just this past summer, I lost a dear friend of mine. His name was Justin. He lived outside, had a very unique sense of style, and often made others uncomfortable by sifting through garbage cans for little treasures.
He was a complex figure, as we all are, but his personality was marked by a gleaming naivety, an earnest impulse to treat other people with kindness and to make others smile. No one seemed to understand that. Instead, he was viewed suspiciously and vilified for the often clumsy mistakes he’d make while trying to prove himself helpful and kind.
Justin died on the bike trail just a block away from the benches and patios where we used to sit together and talk. I remember receiving the news, the surprise of hot tears on my face for someone I hadn’t realized I had come to love. They say it was an overdose. But no one really knows, because no one really cared for him anyway.
They do drugs, they want to live outside, they don’t want to work, they’re lazy, they’re perverted, they’re scary, they’re just looking for a handout so they can further poison their bodies with vodka and meth in a slump of grimy dreadlocks and rancid overcoats.
Doesn’t matter why they use drugs, that they take meth to stay awake to protect themselves from theft and violence. That they sleep during the day on the park bench not because they’re lazy but because they’re exhausted from staring out into the darkness all night, praying no one comes to hurt them or take their sleeping bags.
Doesn’t matter why they don’t have any family around that’s willing to help them, that they’re on the streets because they’ve been disowned for their queerness, or discarded because their mental health proved too inconvenient for their parents or their siblings to manage, or because they’ve escaped physically or sexually abusive home environments and thought that anything would be better than continuing to subject themselves to that pain and torment.
No, those narratives are propaganda designed by apologists for idleness and advocates for freeloading, secretly nurturing their own personal contempt for those with money, nice cars, and decent 401k plans. They’re just looking for something to complain about, something to make them feel better about not having made it like we’ve made it.
And so I sit on the bench where I used to share cigarettes with Justin, where we used to talk about God, about a more inclusive world, a kinder and gentler way of building community, and I am cold. The chill of our indifference, even our contempt, for my brother Justin somewhere lifeless in the bushes, for my sisters shivering down on Holt and Gary Avenues. I am cold with the feeling of defeat, as people tell me I should really take it easy on making friends with the hobos.
Enter Sarah White.
I had heard a lot about her passion for the unhoused, her tireless efforts to include and to uplift those that have been discarded or branded as unclean. During my recent visit to Silverton, I knew I needed to meet her.
While the town is not exempt from the socioeconomic inequalities that feed housing instability, there is something different about Silverton, something inspiring and electric happening there that is absent in my hometown. That something is Sheltering Silverton.
Stepping inside their building, you’re hit with a warmth and the competing scents of different breakfast meals, the sounds of dishes being scrubbed, the overlay of laughter, bickering, conversation, people gathered together over different projects, feeding pets, celebrating an art craft someone just finished, someone shouting if anyone’s checked the mail today. It’s the sound of family, it’s the warmth of home, it’s the magic of compassion and connection.
I was led to Sarah’s office, just off the main room, and she was buried in her work, glued to her laptop, surrounded by paperwork. It was like opening the beautifully crafted clock face of the place and locating the heart of its gears quietly and meticulously clicking and turning to make it all possible.
She immediately turned her attention to us, paused the work she was doing, and offered me a chair, smiling warmly and accommodating my mid-morning interruption. As we spoke, she was gracious with her time, thoughtful with her responses, excited and animated in her vision for Silverton.
It was immediately clear to me that this woman was the missing piece. This passion she exuded was present in my own life, but it was coupled with a tenacity for actualization. She was driven and practical and intent on realizing a more beautiful world, a sustainable approach to the local housing crisis, a compassionate and yet accountable approach to inclusivity. I saw the cards that people had written to her, thanking her for all she’s done for them, encouraging her to stay strong through the barrage of criticisms she’s received from some of the more insecure and distrusting members of the community. I saw the cork-board on the wall showing how many people they’ve helped with securing permanent housing so far this year (22, I believe it was).
Spending time with Sarah was like a shot in the arm, a reminder that we can do better. That it isn’t some quixotic pipe dream to form a holistic, compassionate approach to building community for the unseen and unwanted. Sarah doesn’t seem to view herself as anything special, she’s too busy to get caught up in all that self-congratulating nonsense. But she is special. She’s Silverton’s brightest jewel and a testament to the best instincts in our society.
There’s a lot to be done, and a lot to learn, but as I left Silverton I knew that Sarah was the most capable, the most inspiring leader to get the job done. She has shown me that we aren’t fighting windmills, we’re fighting giants.
Brandon Smith
Upland, California
