“What we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else. It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are . . . because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier . . . for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own . . . ”
Frederick Buechner, Telling Secrets
When I worked with the homeless population in Hollywood, California, one of the first clients on my caseload was a "kid" named Tweeky Dave. Dave was tall, lanky and nearly toothless. He was as fond of heroin and meth as he was of being generous. I once witnessed Dave remove his coat to give it to someone that didn't have one, leaving Dave's shirtless chest out in the cold on Christmas Eve of 1991.
Dave was colorful to say the least. An endearing soul. A foul odor emitted from him that could cause one to gag if you weren't accustomed to it. Dave was a storyteller. A collector of women's coats and a wearer of scarves. From his chest to his stomach, which was almost always exposed, he bore a large scar that changed the landscape of his torso. The scar, he said, was the result of his father shooting him with a shotgun as a teenager. But, he said, that was to be expected when you are the product of a rape inflicted upon your prostitute mother. It was to be expected when your father was a Hell's Angel.
Dave was diagnosed with Hepatitis C during the time he was on my caseload. Due to his lifestyle, it wouldn't take long for the disease to take over and bring an end to his days. I remember when things turned for the worse and I visited Dave in the hospital. A dentist had come in and removed all of his teeth or pieces of his teeth to reduce the risk of infection. I walked in the room and Dave gave me this huge toothless smile. He asked about Echo, his ex-girlfriend but I had not seen her for months. I asked the nurse if I could take Dave for a walk in the courtyard and she got his IV ready so we could do that.
When I called Dave to set up the visit, he said that we were going to have a tough conversation and asked if I could bring a pack of Marlboro reds. I agreed. Dave always wanted me to buy him cigarettes. He didn't need an excuse. We walked through the courtyard and I handed him the cigarettes and some matches. He lit up. "So, what's the tough stuff we need to talk about, Dave," I asked? "I'm dieing", he said. "I don't have much time." I put my arm around Dave and told him how sorry I was and what a blessing his life had been to me. "Well, there's more, Wade, but it's for another time", he said.
Surprisingly, Dave was released from the hospital and showed up at my office teary eyed. He told me that it was time for him to come clean. Dave told me that he had to tell people the truth about his life before he died. He had a twin. His mother was a wonderful lady who prayed all the time and read her bible. Dave's father was a good man and didn't even own a shotgun. Dave was adopted and never abused. The scar on Dave's chest and stomach were from a birth defect involving his stomach. He chose drugs and a street life over his family. I responded to Dave by saying, "whatever the truth is, I still love you."
A few days later, Dave was re-admitted to the hospital. He died the following day. Jim Goldberg, a well known photographer, knew Dave better than most of us. We had a ceremony for Dave at our center and Jim showed up with some of Dave's belongings packed in a suitcase that Dave carried with him most of the time. The photo on the top of this page is one of Dave's jackets and was part of Jim's installation at MOCA called, "Raised by Wolves." We filled a hundred red helium balloons and encouraged Dave's friends to write a note and tie it to the balloon. Then we walked outside and let them go over Hollywood Boulevard.
I don't know the truth about Dave's life. Dave lost track of who he was. He was a myth. But I do know that I want to tell myself what is true. I don't want to lose track of who I really am. I have come clean with things over the past few years. Things I've done that I regret and things that were done to me that hurt me deeply. Truth is freeing. Secrets keep us prisoners. I'll tell my secrets this year, if I still have any.
For now, Wade.
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