My Brother's Keeper

All too often, families helplessly witness the struggles of loved ones who are homeless. We are faced with the dilemma of wanting to help, but needing to keep ourselves safe. HRC’s Gloria Dickerson reflects on her own family’s struggles after attending a local Homeless Memorial Day event.

On a very cold day in Boston, the day after the longest night of the year, people streamed into St. Joseph’s Cathedral to honor the memory of those who died on the streets. They came from all backgrounds and experiences. It was a somber, heartfelt tribute. It made me think about how homelessness has touched my own family and how I have repeatedly failed to help my brother get and maintain housing. Each failure has added to my feelings of guilt. I search within myself and wonder what more I could and should do.

Since adolescence, my brother has been trying to recover from mental illness, substance use and trauma. Growing up in the South, we all witnessed mob violence and murder. In our own family, we endured physical and sexual abuse, alcoholism, and lives of chaos and fear at the hands of our parents who struggled with their own trauma histories.

My brother survived physically, but the recurrent traumatic events took their toll on his ability to manage the stresses of family and work. He married and lived in our mother’s house with his wife and children for several years. Eventually, he and his family moved into an apartment but the internal stress overcame him when his marriage ended in divorce. His alcoholism escalated and the full force of his early years of pain and suffering overwhelmed his capacity to cope. For years my brother lived doubled-up in relatives’ homes and eventually settled for life on the streets and in shelters. After 35 years of homelessness, he finally got an apartment. For a while he did alright, but living in a home without a job is virtually impossible. Soon, he faced despair and relapse. Now he is seldom sober. Again, he is living on the streets.

At this Homeless Memorial Day Service, I thought again about inviting my brother into my home. I don’t want his name added to the list of those who have died on the streets. Yet I don’t want to jeopardize my own safety either. The difficulty of living safely with someone who is using drugs stops me cold. I am left with tremendous guilt every time I think about his situation. It is hard for me to move forward in my own recovery while leaving him behind. My dilemma is rooted in my love for him, my personal limitations, and my dreams and hopes for myself and for him.

In my job and my life, I work to promote recovery-oriented homeless services, yet I find myself powerless to help one man – my brother - who is struggling with homelessness. Suddenly, I was struck with the thought that I could end up a helpless witness to my brother’s death on the streets. Next year or the year after that, his name might be included among those we sought to acknowledge and mourn on this day.

For a moment, I felt helpless in this notion. Then I felt myself energized by the urgency to end homelessness. The thought of my brother lying on the street or on a cot in a shelter with no family or friends at his side was overwhelming. I realized that as long as homelessness persists, there will be new names read at this event every year. This is a reality that I cannot accept. Everyday, I push myself forward, struggle through my own pain, and try to make a difference through my work. We all can make a difference everyday.

Publication Date: 
2009
Location: 
Rockville, MD, USA