A Man Named James

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was born in 1931. He grew up in Texas and was one of six children. He served in the Vietnam War and lived on 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His name was James A. Barrera. I was assigned to be his escort at Project Homeless Connect. We shared a meal together and I walked him around the convention center stopping at all the free services.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was homeless. He had been for the last 4 years. He carried all of his belongings in a handheld canvas bag. He slept on the corner of 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His story ripped my heart into a million pieces. I forced myself to hold back tears and not pity this man, for he didn't pity himself. I stood there and truly listened and heard God through this man's voice.

James returned from Vietnam to absolutely nothing. He no longer knew his brothers and sisters and his parents had long since left Texas. He took up working odd jobs like picking strawberries down in Riverside. James has been in and out of every shelter imaginable, and did so by choice. He compared shelter life to prison, and for a man of 79 I can only imagine how difficult the sterile walls, locked doors, restricted areas, mandatory programs, and curfews were to deal with.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I left James with Kristen, a high school volunteer who was more than willing to be his escort for the rest of the day. I said goodbye to James, hugged him and wished him well. He left me with this... "If I could, I would buy you a hundred roses. Some day we will take a bus to San Francisco. Taylor, I'll see you in San Francisco."

He winked. I walked away. Broken hearted. Full of joy.

I returned to campus that afternoon for class smelling of solidarity. I hadn't noticed the intense smell of life on the street until I sat down in the CASA office. My hair, my clothes, even my skin smelled of urine and sour milk. I wanted to vomit, but was entirely amazed by how oblivious I was to this smell while I was with James. I forced myself to finish the day wearing the extra large green Project Homeless Connect shirt over my navy USD sweatshirt and my hair in my face. It isn't often that we, the privileged, experience even the slightest bit of what life is like for individuals suffering from immense poverty.

James broke my heart in the best possible way, the way in which I respond by pouring out every last drop of love I have in me. I drove down to 1st and C a few days after I met James so I could give him a jacket and a friend. He wasn't there. In the days that followed I returned time and time again looking for my 5'4" friend. I never saw him again. I pray that he is still alive and thriving on the streets, but in my heart of hearts I don't believe that to be true. 50 unidentified homeless individuals died in San Diego last year. No one was informed of their deaths; rather, a small group of advocates held a ceremony in memory of these 50 men and women whose lives were reduced to living on the streets and ended in the worst of ways.

I have a passion. A passion that continually angers me. Shatters my heart. Destroys my spirit. I will never forget James A. Barrera, the smell of solidarity he left on me, and the promise of reuniting in San Francisco. I will never forget the importance of a simple conversation, the warmth of a hug, and the face of this stranger.

I learned a lesson about life on December 2, 2009 - sometimes we must allow ourselves to be broken in order to love.