2024 IOAD: Shoes, Crayons, and Human Connection
Human Stories That Will Touch Your Soul |
The stories you are about to read are true. To protect the privacy of the people mentioned, names and identifying details have been changed. This may include, gender, age and race.
Port Alberni Community Action Team’s (IOAD) International Overdose Awareness Day
This year, I had the privilege of participating in the Port
Alberni Community Action Team's International Overdose Awareness Day (IOAD). As
I stood amidst the crowd gathered in front of our small, makeshift tents, I
felt a mix of emotions—hope, empathy, and a profound sense of responsibility. The
day was dedicated to raising awareness of the overdose crisis, honouring those
lost to it, and, most importantly, connecting with those who have been
overlooked and forgotten by society.
The atmosphere buzzed with a unique kind of energy, a mixture of gratitude and
struggle. People with substance use disorders, mental health challenges,
homelessness, or just in need were all welcome here. Everyone had a story, and
each story mattered.
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Angel's Smile: A Silent Language of Gratitude
One of the first people I met was Angel, a young First Nations woman with a
gentle demeanour that belied the harshness of her circumstances.
Angel had somehow slipped through the cracks of every support system designed to help people like her. She was homeless and in desperate straits, yet she greeted everyone with a radiant smile that seemed to light up her entire face. As we handed out small care packages—basic necessities like socks, toothpaste, and snacks—I saw Angel’s hands tremble as she reached for one. I extended my hand to help, and she looked up at me with a smile so genuine, so full of gratitude, that it brought tears to my eyes.
Throughout the day, Angel remained near, observing everything with keen eyes, nodding or smiling at anyone who made eye contact. A few times, I caught her helping to pick up discarded wrappers or quietly holding a water bottle out to someone in need. She couldn’t speak, but her actions spoke louder than words.
Despite her situation, Angel was the most grateful and kind person I encountered that day. As I watched her, I felt a deep sadness mixed with admiration. How had the system failed someone so profoundly human? How could we as a society allow her to be so invisible? Angel didn’t have the means to advocate for herself, yet her smile and the silent language of her gratitude told me everything I needed to know.
Sam's Fist Bump: A Moment of Joy Amidst the Struggle
Then there was Sam. I noticed him from afar, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a cautious manner. He lingered at the edge of the crowd, seeming uncertain whether he was welcome or not. I walked over, extending a small package of toiletries and snacks.
"Hey, would you like one?" I asked, trying to make my voice as warm and welcoming as possible.
His face softened into a smile, and he accepted the gift with a nod. "Thank you," he murmured. I noticed he seemed to struggle to maintain eye contact, as though he feared judgment even in this space where everyone was supposed to feel safe.
I didn't want him to feel any different from anyone else. "You know, we're just glad you're here," I added.
For a moment, he looked taken aback, as if he hadn't heard those words in a long time—or maybe ever. Then, without warning, he extended his fist toward me, a gesture that caught me off guard but immediately made me smile. I returned the fist bump, and he grinned widely. His smile was infectious, and suddenly, we were both laughing.
It was a small moment, insignificant to anyone watching, but to me, it was everything. In that simple gesture—a fist bump exchanged between two strangers—there was a bridge built. Sam and I felt the power of human connection, and it made the entire day worthwhile.
Under the Tree: A Quiet Act of Recognition
As the day went on, I noticed a small group sitting under a tree, away from the bustling crowd. They looked weary, their faces etched with the lines of hardship, but they also seemed to be at ease in each other's company. I decided to approach them, carrying some food and water bottles.
“Hey there,” I called softly, not wanting to startle them. “Are you all doing okay? Need anything else?”
They looked up, slightly surprised, but a few nodded, accepting the food with quiet gratitude. I could tell from their expressions that they were used to being ignored, to being passed by as if they were invisible. For a few moments, we just talked—about the weather, the day's events, nothing heavy or profound, just simple human conversation.
One of them, a woman with a tattered blanket draped around her shoulders, approached me after a while. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice filled with a raw emotion that made me pause. “So many people walk by us as though we don’t exist. Today, you made me feel like I matter. Thank you.”
Her words struck me hard. It was a simple statement, but it spoke to the core of what this day was about. In that moment, I realized that for many of the people here, it wasn’t just about the food or the gifts—it was about being seen, acknowledged, and treated with dignity.
David: The Man with the Tattered Notebook
Later, I met David, an older man with deep lines on his face that told of years of hardship. He carried a small, worn-out notebook that he clutched tightly as if it were a lifeline. David had a quiet, introspective air about him, and I soon learned that he had been writing poetry in that tattered notebook for years—a way, he said, to make sense of the chaos in his mind.
"Would you like to share one of your poems with me?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He hesitated, his eyes darting around nervously, but then nodded. He opened his notebook, and in a voice that was both shaky and strong, began to read a poem about loss and longing, about dreams that had slipped through his fingers like sand. The words were raw, beautiful, and painfully honest.
When he finished, there was a brief silence, and then a ripple of appreciation from those who had gathered around. David looked up, his eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, he seemed transformed.
"Thank you," he whispered. "I haven't shared my poetry with anyone in years. I thought... I thought nobody cared."
And there it was again—that yearning to be seen, to matter. David had been writing poetry in the margins of society for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to have his voice heard.
Ann's Longing: A Pair of Shoes and a Moment of Dignity
Amidst the bustle of the day, I noticed Ann standing at a distance, her gaze fixed on the table of brand-new shoes we had set up. She stood there for a long time, her body language hesitant, almost frozen in place. I watched as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes darting between the shoes and the ground. Her shoes, I noticed, were worn out, the soles peeling away, and her toes peeking through the fabric.
I could see the longing in her eyes, but she wouldn’t move closer. She wouldn't even touch them. She just stood there, staring, as if the shoes were some kind of forbidden treasure. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Ann took a tentative step forward. She still hesitated, her hand hovering over a pair of sturdy sneakers. She glanced up at me for just a moment, her expression filled with uncertainty.
"Do I have to buy them?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "I don’t have much money."
In that instant, my heart broke a little. Her voice was so small, so full of hesitation and fear. I could feel the weight of her worries, the shame that comes from wanting something so basic and yet feeling unworthy of it.
In a wavering voice, I managed to say, "These are for you, my dear. Free, just for you. Find the pair you love, and they are yours."
For a moment, she looked at me, her eyes widening in disbelief. She blinked rapidly as if trying to hold back tears, and then slowly, carefully, she reached out and touched a pair she had been admiring. Her hands trembled as she picked them up, holding them close to her chest. A soft, almost childlike smile broke across her face, a smile that seemed to take years off her weathered features.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you so much.”
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat, realizing once again how profound an impact a small act of kindness could have. To Ann, those shoes weren't just shoes—they were a symbol of dignity, of being seen and valued. They were a reminder that she was worthy of care and that someone cared enough to give her something new and beautiful.
The Children: Innocence in a Harsh World
Not far from Ann, three small children had gathered around another table. They were staring intently at the stack of colouring books and boxes of crayons we had to give away. They seemed mesmerized by the bright colours and illustrations on the covers, but they wouldn't even touch them. They just stood there, wide-eyed, glancing back and forth between the books and me, as if waiting for permission.
I watched them for a moment, noticing their clothes were worn, their shoes too big, clearly hand-me-downs from older siblings. Their faces were smudged, their hair a little tangled, but there was a spark in their eyes—a mix of curiosity and quiet hope.
I got down on one knee so I was at their level and picked up one of the coloring books. I flipped through its pages, slowly revealing the wonders inside: princesses, superheroes, animals, and fantastical worlds waiting to be brought to life with colour.
"Look at this," I said gently, holding the book open. "Wouldn’t it be fun to colour these pages? You could make them any colour you want."
They watched me closely, their eyes following every movement of my hands. I could see they desperately wanted the books, but they still held back, their tiny fingers hovering near the edge of the table, as if afraid they might get in trouble for touching something that wasn’t theirs.
I smiled warmly and asked, “Could I please give you these gifts?”
For a moment, they looked at each other, silently communicating in the way only siblings do. Then, finally, the oldest—a boy who couldn’t have been more than eight—nodded ever so slightly. With trembling hands, he reached out and took the colouring book from me, his grip tentative at first, as if it might be snatched away.
The other two quickly followed his lead, grabbing the crayons and other books. Their hands were still shaking, but their faces lit up with shy smiles. I watched them walk away, still unsure and unbelieving of the wonders they had received, glancing back at me as if to make sure it was really okay.
As they walked away, I felt a warmth spread through my chest. In a world that had likely been harsh and unforgiving to them, these small, simple gifts were a beacon of light. They were a reminder that there could be joy, even in small things.
A Day of Human Connection
Throughout the day, I was reminded again and again of the power of human connection. From Angel’s radiant smile to Sam’s joyous fist bump, from the quiet appreciation of the group under the tree to the tearful gratitude in Ann’s eyes, I realized how much these moments mattered.
And the children—they were a reminder of innocence in a world that often feels anything but. They showed me that even in the harshest of circumstances, there is still room for joy, for imagination, and for the simple pleasure of colouring a page in bright, beautiful hues.
As I stood there, watching them disappear into the crowd, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the chance to connect, to offer something—no matter how small—that made someone feel seen, valued, and loved.
I and all those helping out had come to the International Overdose Awareness Day hoping to make a difference. In the end, it was the people we met who made the difference for us. They reminded us of the importance of empathy, of kindness, and of seeing people for who they truly are—human beings deserving of love and respect.
This day, and these people, will stay with me forever. Their stories are not just their own; they are part of our larger, shared human story. A story that reminds us all of our capacity for compassion, for connection, and for kindness.
Closing Reflections: A Day That Changed Us All
As the day drew to a close, I felt a profound sense of
gratitude for the people I had met, for the stories they had shared, and for
the lessons they had unknowingly taught me. I had come to IOAD thinking I was
there to help, to give something to others. But in truth, I received far more
than I could ever give.
I saw firsthand how deeply human it is to need connection, to be acknowledged,
to be made to feel that you matter. I learned that no matter what someone's
circumstances may be, we all share a common need for dignity, for respect, and
for kindness.
There were so many stories from that day—stories of hardship, resilience, and
quiet courage. All of us who helped felt honoured and privileged to have been a
part of their lives, even if only for a brief moment. These were people who,
despite everything, still found reasons to smile, still extended kindness to
others, still held onto their humanity.
The experience reminded me that the most important thing we can offer each
other isn't always tangible. Sometimes, it’s just a moment of recognition, a
smile, a simple fist bump that says, "I see you."
And that, I believe, is the beginning of true change.
The Author: Ron Merk – Ron advocates for people and families experiencing concurrent disorders.
So beautiful, tender & understanding. Thankyou for sharing. It was inspiring because so often I feel so helpless, when I see such loss & need.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful words well crafted to describe a wonderful day!
ReplyDeleteVery touching and lovely to read. In stark contrast to the comments from a Port Alberni visitor we had yesterday. She told us the addicts are everywhere, there's no escaping them...that the town is unsafe, ugly and scary now. Your perspective casts a far different light. Addicts - or homeless folks with no addiction issues - are the vulnerable and hated by many. Sad.
ReplyDelete"I see you " a moment of recognition....made me weep. I've been there.
ReplyDeleteAbsolutely love this mini podcast episode! Such powerful stories
ReplyDelete