Street roots., June 22, 2018, Page 9, Image 9

Page 10
Street Roots • June 22-28, 2018
Commentary
I carry you all with me
carry with me my mom. She passed on
her passion, her love of reading and gave
me the gift of my little sister. I see Mom
in my sister’s eyes. Mom also passed on the
abuse she suffered from her Jim Smith, her
stepdad. I give her the gift of grace and
carry on the message of peace and
nonviolence in her memory.
I carry with me my dad. He’s the only
person who’s been there my whole life and
he’s still with me today. He taught me to
love movies as a child and even wrote a
screenplay that’s in the Library of Congress.
Dad, you carry my whole life story in your
heart. So, I give you the gift of a blank page
and a co-writer for your next screenplay.
Let’s create together.
I carry with me
pastors and teachers.
Ron Stump taught me
heaven has challenges,
like mountains to
climb and rivers to
swim, and that no
human goes to hell.
Ron Clark awoke in
me the call to social
justice balanced with
social grace.
I carry with me
“The Archangel,
Kevin” and “Junie B.
Jones.” Kevin was my
ethics professor. He
taught me to
constantly refine my
This series is a first­
behavior and character
hand account of the
to be consistent with
struggles and
my ultimate goal. June
successes of
was my academic
overcoming trauma,
advisor, my first
mental illness,
counselor and the first
addiction,
person with whom I
homelessness and
shared everything. I
more.
give them both the
verse and prophecy:
gift of a well-lived life;
Every moment is a memory.
a life of reconciliation
Every memory is a lesson.
with God, other people, the non-human
world and, finally, with myself.
I carry with me drunks, liars and thieves.
I carry with me poets and prophets. I
In 1996, an anonymous thief gave me a way
carry with me Jeremiah, who stood on the
out of addiction. I was in jail at 17, facing
walls of Jerusalem and mourned its fall; “a
robbery charges. That brother set me on the
man of constant sorrow” whose hope lay in
path to freedom.
the restoration of his city. I, too, mourn my
And in 2012,1 faced burglary charges.
city and pray the epidemic of addiction in
While in jail, I met a Jewish skinhead, a
Portland will end soon. And Rumi, who
Russian anarchist and a Texas heroin addict.
wrote, “You suppose you are the trouble but
Chops was a S.H.A.R.P. (Skinhead Against
you are the cure.” Rumi, you are both poet
Racial Prejudice). He taught me strength
and prophet. I give you the gift of my own
isn’t in muscles alone but also in my mind
a crucifix. S., who recycles everything for
more than its original worth, you’re a
Dumpster-diving Einstein. Show us how to
cancel the apocalypse. C., keep calm, carry
on and never surrender to pessimism or
addiction. J., sparkle on, Sparkly Bitch, and
never apologize for who you are; you are
beautiful. J., keep making bold moves on the
chessboard and in your hustle (a legitimate
hustle this time). J.2., speak up against
oppression; even if you talk quietly, your
voice will echo louder and louder over time.
T., hug your kids the next chance you get
and you’ll make a little memory that makes
a big impression. C., let go of the life you
expect and take hold of the life God put in
front of you. J., tear down the walls of your
prison and use the pieces to build your
heaven.
L., you took me in and locked my
nightmare out. I carry your example of
motherhood in recovery; the one I never got
when I was a child. Thank you for passing
on your grace and for nurturing tolerance in
the next generation. B., I carry your
fearlessness. I give you the gift of the can I
propped on my doorknob to alert me to
danger. D., you advocated evidence-based
practice and never compromised with
addiction. I., because of you, I carry an ever-
opening mind and live one breath at a time.
Dr. Judy, I carry with me many griefs and
I
A crooked
path forward
By Dustin
Dandliker
you let m e lay them all down in your office.
IL L U S T R A T IO N B Y K A T D A V IS
and in my writing. To Chops, I give the gift
of shabbat shalom. S. taught me peace is an
anarchist’s best friend. From him, I carry
the gift of order out of chaos. J., the Texas
heroin addict, taught me sorrow inevitably
gives way to joy if I’m willing to wait for it.
To him, I give the gift of a second chance at
recovery - and a third, fourth or even 77th
chance. Whatever it takes.
I carry with me the staff and peers of my
treatment center. First, my brothers in
recovery. R., Dios te bendiga y gracias por
su sabiduría. Z., thank you for reminding me
that the pentagram often disguises itself as
D., I carry the dreams you gave me of a
future in education and service in the Peace
Corps. J.G., I carry my grand-sponsor’s and
my great-grand-sponsor’s numbers, just in
case. J., thanks for your overtime and double
shifts. M., thanks for talking to my dad
about the Catskills. He really needed a
friend while I was away. I carry your relapse
prevention techniques.
I carry you all with me: Mom and Dad,
pastors and teachers, poets and prophets,
drunks, liars, and thieves, staff and peers.
Thank you. Because I carry you with me, I
have strong shoulders and a full heart.
Carry me with you, too. Carry my love
and reason. Carry my wisdom. Carry my
quotes and poems. Carry every memory of
me. And if I stumble, help me up and we’ll
all carry on together.
Now, those reading this who are willing to
do so, please think of the ones you carry
with you. Your life is what it is because of
them.