Forty Acres and a Mule.

It’s been a while since I’ve written. At certain times this year I’ve felt like I’ve had a lot to say and at other times I’ve needed to sit back and wait for the bigger picture to emerge.

The other week I went and visited another JV in Sacramento on my day off and we went to her agency, also a homeless drop-in facility. I was helping hand out tickets for their dining room when I recognized a familiar face--it was a client at St. Vincent de Paul who hadn’t been around in a couple of months.

The man--in his late 50s with graying dreadlocks--let out a guttural laugh and said, “Hey, boy!” as he often called me. “You move up here, too?”

“I’m just visiting for the day,” I said.

“Well you should. There’s nothing but trouble in Oakland,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. We talked a little more and he asked, “You still got the book?”

The book is Forty Acres and a Mule. It’s missing its cover, it’s water damaged and I think it was taken from the Oakland Library at some point. While I was managing the men’s center there was hardly a day he wouldn’t pop into my office and talk about the book. For the most part I’d just nod and smile, but I always enjoyed hearing him talk about it. He’d tell me about how he was going to head down to Louisiana and homestead himself up a little farm complete with cows, chickens and horses. He’d say things like, “You think I’m going to end up like the rest of these dopes? Nope, I’m going to get me some land. You better believe I’m going to get me some land.”

“Still got it,” I said as I handed him his lunch ticket.

His eyes lit up and he said, “Yeah, that’s right. I’m still going to do it, boy. I’m going to get a big ol’ place in Louisiana and I’ll let you help me farm it.

“That’s a deal,” I said.

Later in the afternoon he came back to the counter I was working at and asked to get change for a dollar so he could use the vending machine. I gave him ten dimes in return and he left sixty cents on the counter so I could buy myself a soda. I told him I was okay, but he insisted that I take the money whether I wanted something to drink or not. “Boy,” he said, walking away, “these pockets are full of money.”

I felt bad taking his money. I wasn’t quite sure what I should do, but I didn’t want to belittle his generosity so I went over and inserted the sixty cents into the machine and drank a soda while I talked with my former client a little longer.

After not seeing the man for a couple of months, I have to admit I secretly hoped he'd really moved to Louisiana and was hoeing up some craggy piece of swamp land. But mostly I was happy to know he was doing okay.

In reality, I’m fairly certain he never will homestead a piece of land in Louisiana or anywhere else. Though, maybe the dream or fantasy of setting up a little rural farm is the glimmer of hope that gets him by each day, and if that’s the case, I hope he never stops believing it’s possible.

Later on in the day after the homeless facility in Sacramento had shut down we were walking back to the JV house and along the way I spotted the man again. He was slouched on a bench, sort of staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. When he was living in Oakland I saw him around town a couple of times, and like many of our clients I see outside of St. Vincent de Paul, he never had quite the same smile, and he seemed lost in the world, lacking the confidence, or maybe bravado is a more apt description, that he exuded while in the men’s center.

We’d snagged a bunch of Girl Scout cookies from the homeless facility’s warehouse, so I jay-walked across the street and gave him a box of Samoas. He thanked me, but once again he seemed unsure of himself, demeanor completely changed. I told him it was nice seeing him again and that maybe I’d be back later on in the year. He simply nodded and forced a bit of a smile.

It was a reminder of the barriers that exist between “us and them” and how difficult it is to create lasting change. But I thought about it for a while, and maybe that’s okay. Perhaps making one man’s world a little better, slightly more bearable, for one day, or one hour, or even one minute is enough.




“The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment and feeling truly alive.” -Thich Nhat Hanh