Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

I’m hold­ing a bat­tered met­al com­pass in my hand tonight. It says my writ­ing desk faces south­west, and that the cat curls her tail north­ward. It doesn’t say which direc­tion skirts despair, doesn’t guide the path toward hope. Fold­ing it closed, I won­der what good a com­pass actu­al­ly does.

*****

Long­time Hooked read­ers have heard ref­er­ences to my social work­er days. From June 1999 to May 2005, I worked with home­less youth in Seattle’s Uni­ver­si­ty Dis­trict. Though more years have now passed than I actu­al­ly spent there, “the Ave” main­tains a tight grip on my heart.

As fierce­ly as I loved “my kids,” I relied on a few things to car­ry me through. My col­leagues, inspir­ing souls who shared the trench­es as well as intense pas­sion, gal­lows humor, and a devo­tion to harm reduc­tion. Our stand­ing “self-care” date at Flow­ers Bar on Wednes­day nights.  A pri­vate rit­u­al for griev­ing when­ev­er we lost one of our kids.

The day came when these tools were no longer enough. Love wasn’t enough. Real­iz­ing that I wasn’t doing good work any­more – and that I hadn’t been doing good work for far longer than I cared to admit – I felt like I’d been mop­ping the ocean, only to be con­sumed by the undertow.

They say that you shouldn’t try to fight an under­tow, so I let it steal me from the Ave. I gave in to the cur­rent until it released me in the Gulf of Alas­ka, returned to my orig­i­nal home and work­place. As I sought solace in famil­iar moun­tains, guilt and fear tugged at my raw edges. Guilt that I’d aban­doned young peo­ple who’d dared to trust once more, after life­times of betray­al. Fear that I’d nev­er get to know what hap­pened next in their lives.

(If I’m hon­est? Fear that I wouldn’t know when yet anoth­er kid died.)

Back in 2005, I hadn’t envi­sioned a Face­book future. What­ev­er dis­com­fort I have with social media’s ever-grasp­ing ten­ta­cles, it’s been price­less for keep­ing in touch with tran­sient loved ones. I can “like” grad­u­a­tions and fam­i­ly news. I can be a vir­tu­al cheer­leader for sobri­ety, offer con­grat­u­la­tions on a new job, and cel­e­brate the day of their birth.

And I can receive mes­sages like this one:

Hey it’s SR.
B passed away. He went miss­ing 09 – 20. He was found uniden­ti­fi­able on a blan­ket in the far cor­ner of his moth­ers back yard yes­ter­day. She said it might be months til they can iden­ti­fy a cause. We wern’t sure if you knew. Sorry.

*****

After all these years, my Ave death rit­u­al remains the same. Alone in a dark room. One can­dle, craft­ed by an unknown inmate at the Mon­roe State Prison. One song, Leonard Cohen’s grav­el promis­es twin­ing through those dark places that can­dle­light can’t reach.

I will speak no more

I shall abide until

I am spo­ken for,

if it be your will.

When I try to sing through the tears, my voice crum­ples like dis­card­ed news­pa­per. Bet­ter to sit qui­et­ly and remem­ber a young man who was just a tow­head­ed boy when he first arrived on Seattle’s streets.

B came to the Ave as many kids do – gen­tle, ten­der-heart­ed, search­ing. A bru­tal intro­duc­tion to street life stripped the trust from his blue eyes. He tough­ened up fast, forged a crusty exte­ri­or. Yet through all that fol­lowed – every sleep­less night blur­ring into a series of sleep­less days, every “Oi, oi!” hollered down the block and fol­lowed with a hug hearti­er than his increas­ing­ly thin frame seemed capa­ble of, every mug shot gift­ed like a year­book pho­to – the sweet in him still shone through.

I could nev­er antic­i­pate which fresh-faced young­sters would fling them­selves hard­est down the rab­bit hole, but that’s just what B did. He ran his body like it was stolen. His years on the Ave came to a scream­ing halt in 2002, when prison closed steely arms around him. Despite my best inten­tions to be a sup­port­ive pen pal, new faces demand­ed imme­di­ate response to the same crises. I lost track of B.

Until 2009. A mes­sage appeared – Face­book, again. B wrote with warmth and clar­i­ty, proud to share the gifts in his life. Re-set­tled in his home state across the coun­try, he had a job. A house. A wife and young daughter.

Then and now, I nev­er know if my kids are hon­est about their well-being. Espe­cial­ly in a many-years-gone-by reunion like this. B knew I want­ed to hear he was clean and healthy, and that’s what he want­ed to report. In the end, it doesn’t mat­ter if I’m told The Truth as someone’s liv­ing it, or “the truth” as they wish they were. There are rea­sons we tell the sto­ries we do, and they all boil down to want­i­ng to please and pro­tect. If I hear lies, I hear them told with love.

Some­thing changed. In 2010, B decid­ed to return to Seat­tle. I wor­ried – why dance on quick­sand when you’ve already strug­gled free once? – and wrote over­ly parental lec­tures. This time would be dif­fer­ent, he assured me. “I’m not the same kid I was, Tele. The plan is to be productive.” 

Sto­ries are sub­jec­tive, but I could­n’t mis­read the col­or in B’s skin and fleshy cush­ion over his cheek­bones. His hug was sol­id. Sta­ble. Both of us equal­ly out of place on the block that had once been our uni­verse, we ducked into Pagliacci’s for refuge. I bought him two slices of piz­za that he picked at. We trad­ed sto­ries of our new lives, doing our best to lev­el a rela­tion­ship that’d been built on a steep grade.

At the end of our vis­it, B walked me to the bus stop. Fish­ing in his pants pock­et, he pulled out a bat­tered met­al com­pass and fold­ed it into my hand. “Here.” When I protest­ed, he insist­ed. “No, dude, I want you to have it. So you don’t get lost.”

Two weeks lat­er, B wrote that Seat­tle wasn’t work­ing out as he’d hoped. Once again, he head­ed across the coun­try for his home state. Still searching.

We trad­ed Face­book hel­los here and there. Did I text him a ran­dom good wish this sum­mer, dur­ing one of those rare moments of cell ser­vice at sea? Sounds famil­iar, but now I can’t be sure. Am I recall­ing The Truth that was, or “the truth” I wish had been?

*****

A friend and I used to co-teach “Home­less­ness 101,” train­ing the Uni­ver­si­ty District’s new vol­un­teers. Inevitably, some­one would ask, “How many of these kids actu­al­ly make it out?”

We could recite the answer in our sleep. Most of our pro­gram guests would find their way into health­i­er, more sta­ble lives, but that meant some­thing dif­fer­ent for every­one. The routes out of street life were as var­ied and unique as the peo­ple tak­ing them; there was no cook­ie-cut­ter method for “mak­ing it out.”

But tonight, dark­ness folds around me, bro­ken by the shud­der­ing breath of can­dle­light, and my faith is shak­en. Squeez­ing B’s final gift, I feel the met­al bite my palm. The place­ment of my desk, the angle of the cat’s tail, the posi­tion of north, south, east, west… All irrel­e­vant. So many of us are lost, search­ing for hope, peace, pur­pose. A sense of self-worth, and the strength to sur­pass what we’ve been told about our­selves. Those direc­tions — where do you find them?

I thought you’d found your way, B sweet­ie – I thought you’d made it out. If you’d held onto your com­pass, would that have helped?

Let your mer­cy spill

On all these burn­ing hearts in hell

If it be your will

To make us well.

B’s death leaves a gap­ing hole in a lot of hearts, and my thoughts are with you all. As you grieve, please ask for help if you’re think­ing of hurt­ing your­self. Con­tact Seat­tle’s 24-hour Cri­sis Clin­ic line at 1 – 866-4CRISIS, or the Nation­al Sui­cide Pre­ven­tion Life­line at 1.800.784.2433. Take care of your­selves, sweet­ies, and each other.