A couple decades ago I met my first homeless man. It’s not Lee. Bear with me.
So, I was in a new city at a new job. And after a couple dozen applications, I’d just accepted the only offer I got. I had a photojournalism degree and wanted to be a graphic designer — not troubleshooting in a copy store. Most of my days were filled with church secretaries trying to print bulletins they’d built in Microsoft Word. I was their best shot.
Over the weeks I was there, the commute downtown gave me a lot of time to ruminate. Then, I’d park and walk right around the corner to the door. A man lived on a bench in that short distance. I never addressed him and he never talked to me. One day on my drive in, I was feeling extra desperate. Extra sorry for myself. I thought of that guy. And it hit me. If I saw him as a “normal” person, we would have introduced ourselves to each other long ago. Anyone else in a coffee shop or public transit — see them every day and we have enough in common to engage. That day, I thought he must know something about how I was feeling inside. I grabbed the steering wheel. I’d do something radical. I’d say “hi”.
This interaction started years of connection with hundreds of people on the street. Fascination with the very private lives these folks live in the public eye. There’s so much beauty and honesty — and, of course, pain. Their broken parts may have had older and sharper edges, but the feelings resonate.
So, in 2004, I heard a commentary on NPR. A rich-voiced man talked about the process of losing his mother. About having to care for her in ways he didn’t want to. And then realizing he was not only capable, but willing. The host outro said this man was an author with a new book. No surprise. But then he mentioned he used to be homeless. My mind is blown. As much as I loved our unhoused neighbors, I still had my biases. This guy was so smart. So reflective. Not what I thought homeless people were. I immediately bought Grand Central Winter and devoured it. Then grabbed three friends and Sleepaway School and headed to a couple book signings 8 hours away to meet Lee Stringer.
The first reading was at a library in New Orleans. I got everyone up early so we’d get a good seat. Front row, we’re waiting. A couple other people sat in the back. I’m afraid we’re in the wrong place. Then in comes Lee. He mutters “well, it’s better than no one.” Still, he does the hour justice.
Lucky for me, he had nothing better to do than go to lunch with us. Then dinner. Then walk back to our hostel. Lee stayed late enough talking with us on the front steps he upset the manager.
This wild-grey-haired German came out, took one look at this Black man talking with white kids and yelled at him with a thick accent, “don’t you have a HOME?” I died. Lee was fine.
In the years since then, I’ve tried my best to be useful. I needed to be needed by this community I had not earned a seat in. Because of Lee’s stories about Street News, I co-founded your street newspaper — The Contributor.
People have gotten housing because of millions of connections made and dollars earned — thanks to Lee’s life.
I wanted to be needed by Lee, too, so I tried to ingratiate myself through the tech skills I could offer. We kept in touch. Saw each other most times I’ve visited New York. We’d have occasional phone calls and I’d listen, again, to some stories I love so much. He’d give me advice on whatever was hurting me most at the time.
Then he gets sick. He calls and we cry. He’s optimistic. Tender. (You can read Lee’s publisher, Dan Simon’s narrative on this GoFundMe.)
I grab my husband and we drive 7 hours away so I can spend Christmas in the hospital with Lee Stringer.
During these years, we transition from Author and Fan, to Friends, to Something Else. That visit to Little Rock he lets me in. I’ve not fully processed his vulnerability — it changed me, and continues to. Over hours, our conversation goes from fun, to raw, to profane and holy. The Whole Language.
That weekend, while going through big chemo, he gives me his full humanity. This experience mirrors Lee’s with his mother in the commentary that brought us together years ago. And I realize I’m not only willing, but ready to receive him in his fullness. What a gift to look life squarely in the eye.
My participation in this GoFundMe is no longer an attempt to ingratiate myself, but it is an attempt to serve — to open a window to some of Lee’s needs and release the pressure of being sick in America. Your support has already been so encouraging — and very practically helpful. Do what you can. Then, pass this fundraiser on to others. Thank you for your love and dollars and prayers. Know they fall on warm and unwinding hearts.