Month: November 2024

Naming Names: A list you wouldn’t want to be on

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

We stood in the cathedral courtyard, some hundred or more of us holding small lighted candles  that flickered in the November night. The bell above rang a solemn funeral toll. One by one the names were read of 410 homeless people who have died in Seattle over the past year.

“Clifford … David … William … Roberto … Fernando … Brian … Melissa … Matthew … Nabil … Shawna … Sukhwinder … Isaias … Edward … Hyshyn … Sirisopha …”

We were observing the annual “Mass in Remembrance of the Deceased Homeless of Seattle,” offered by St. James Cathedral. Inside the cathedral, we had sung, prayed, heard scripture and sermon, communed, and prayed some more. Finally the mournful tones of a bagpipe led us outside. We processed along the street and into the courtyard, where a sculpture of Madonna, cuddling the Child, presides.

“Santos … Noel … Sonny … Timothy … Thomas … Sean … Liem … Hector … Tracy … Jesse … Pedro … Mark … Arnold … Gustavo … Michelle … Nathan … Carlos … Sharleen …”

The rumble of planes overhead made us strain a bit to hear the names. Only a few hours earlier, I’d been aboard one of those planes, flying across the state after a brief visit to Spokane. Officials in Washington’s second largest city report a decline in homelessness, but that is of little comfort to the two thousand-or-so folks sleeping on or under cardboard while I nestled in my hotel bed.

“Martin … Isaac … Kathy … Gary … Tina … Logan … Martha … Phetsamone … Nimo …”

It’d been a gloriously clear day to fly. The fertile fields of eastern Washington spread quilt-like below. The Columbia River and its tributaries embroidered meandering designs in brilliant blue threads. 

“Wayne … Brad … Adam … Earl … Kim … Paul … Randy … Esteban … Steven … Matthew … Alexia … Cassandra … Ross … Henry … Leslie … Christopher … Katherine … Ernest …”

The Columbia River defines the southern border of Okanogan County, where I lived for forty-five years before returning to Seattle last year. I recalled the homeless individuals I’d met while volunteering at a shelter in Okanogan. Each was unique, their stories fascinating, more often than not carrying a common thread: the struggle to stay “clean and sober.” Homeless people died on the streets and under the bridges in the Okanogan Valley, too. There was no mass to honor their lives, but we spoke their names regretfully, in sorrow. What more could we’ve done?

“Vuong … Violet … Collin … Teo … James … Gary … Charles … Kebereseb … Mohammed … William … Patrick … Maria … Justin … Cheryl … Jennifer … Jameelah … Larry …”

The wail of a passing ambulance sounded as a counterpoint to the tolling bell. The reading of names had become a chant, a rhythm that matched my breathing. A dozen names, a dozen breaths, each minute. I list only first names here but full names were intoned, including middle names, if known. A few of the names stopped my breath.

“Baby Boy Smith … Baby Boy Green … Unidentified Remains … Male Unidentified …”

I focussed on the Madonna sculpture, pondering the miracle of birth that she represents. At birth, all of us were “created equal.” That’s what our nation’s founders proclaimed. With hands over heart, we pledge that we are a nation with “liberty and justice for all.” Both statements are more aspirational than reality. The signs of inequality, beginning from birth, are all around us, when we care to look. 

“Ivan … Anthony … Jason … Travis … Jennifer … Terry … Cynthia … Sean … Sompheth … Doreen … Krista … Eric … Faisal … Randolph … Sandra …”

Our candles burned to nubbins, then sputtered out. Still the names continued. I recalled the verse from John’s Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.”

“Olivia … Michael … Charles … Shannon.” At last we’d heard all 408 names and two Unknowns. The bell stopped tolling; the bagpipe played “Taps.” A reception followed, but I couldn’t do that. I walked home in silence, oblivious to the noise of city traffic. As a student, I strived to be on the honor roll, the dean’s list. My name likely won’t appear on this list of homelessness. I’m grateful, humbled. For this list, the roll has been “called up yonder.” These too are names, people, lives to be honored.

A 50-50 Split? Hey! It’s Only Fair

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Every once in a while a random thought presents itself: Why do I have it so good? The thought occurs not when I’m in church or at times like Thanksgiving, but on more mundane occasions, like this morning. It’s rainy, chilly outside. I’m dry and warm in my small, snug apartment as I contemplate my refrigerator and its variety of breakfast options. I consider not only what I feel like eating but what will fit nutritionally with my lunch and dinner plans. I happen to know where my next meal is coming from, and the next, and the next.

Who gets to live this sumptuously? Most of the people I know — family, friends, neighbors, probably you, dear reader. In fact, most Americans. So why are so many of us so angry — especially when we consider the plight of innocents around the globe. Or do we consider them?

I can’t ignore the plight of those who do not share my abundant lifestyle. They’re huddled on sidewalks not far from my building. Worldwide, the gap between “haves” and “have nots” is so deep and broad it seems unbridgeable. How can the average American shopping for groceries complain about prices for an abundance and variety of food my Depression era grandparents could never imagine?

Especially in this election season, this time when we’re offered choices, I’m mystified by the depth of cynicism and resentment among those of us who are free and economically secure. 

How can citizens sneer that only scoundrels, egomaniacs, and incompetents run for public office? I look at my ballot, especially further down, and marvel at local, well-qualified candidates in both parties. How incredible that they’re willing to go to work for me, willing to put in long hours for pay that doesn’t come close to what they could get in the private sector.

I ponder the ballot measures that would tax me and others. I see not financial burden but opportunity to join my neighbors building better infrastructure, schools, social programs. Or, I may see an inadequate proposal, a boondoggle. I have the freedom to say no. 

Is it — as the late, great journalist Molly Ivins described — that for many people, “too much is not enough?” Are we so brainwashed by our materialistic culture, by commercials that declare we “deserve” more and better, that we feel cheated?

Many people are anxious, even fearful, as election day draws near. My own retirement community issued a memo discounting the likelihood of civil disturbance. But just in case, be prepared to … etc., etc. 

One religious leader noted that no matter the election results, half the population will be celebrating and the other half distressed. If we really are as equally divided as polls suggest, I challenge the word pundits use: “polarization.” I think back to my childhood when a 50-50 split had a different meaning. It represented fairness. We shared fairly. One cookie, two kids. One kid would break the cookie as evenly as possible, giving the other kid first choice. 

I’m not naive. I recognize the stakes in this election are higher than ever in my lifetime. The cookie we’re splitting is giant. Yet no matter on which side my — and your — vote lands, we’ll still have a share. May we savor our share of the cookie, protect its deliciousness, allow its sweetness to energize us, and not begrudge others their share. 

Cookie look good enough to eat? Sorry, it was “baked” by AI. Thanks to Ray Shrewsberry for serving it up on Pixabay