“I found a man dead in front of my school.”
“I found a man dead in front of my school.”
For the last few weeks of my fall 2021 semester at Harvard, that thought kept going through my head. Because … I did. I discovered the body of a deceased unhoused gentleman across the street from my school, Harvard University. And, even though I have lived through many personal traumas, this one shook me to my core in a very different way. It took me a little while to tell this story, but it needs to be heard. Harvard needs to hear it.
The Friday before fall break, I was shooting the final project for my Fundamentals of Photography class. The theme I chose was a glimpse into the daily lives of two subjects on either side of the Harvard gates: a freshman friend of mine who experiences certain privileges on the inside of the gates and a newly engaged and newly sober unhoused couple on the outside of the gates who are seemingly on the opposite end of the privilege spectrum. (The photo project was selected to be featured in a 2022 publication of The Harvard Political Review Spring Covers Issue: “How Are You?”) That particular Friday, I was invited to follow a day in the life of the unhoused couple, a pair I became close with through my volunteer shifts at the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter. At 8:15 a.m., I documented as they began to move their “home,” a mountain of blankets, pillows, and trash bags full of clothes, for the second time in less than three hours. Once packed, a security guard from the bank next to the Harvard Coop came to wake up the other unhoused neighbors who had yet to vacate the area. One gentleman, a pillar of Harvard Square who never takes help when offered, woke and began to pack up, but the other, a gentleman to whom I had just given a warm meal at the shelter a few nights prior, didn’t even flinch when his boot was kicked by the guard.
Disturbed that the guard was kicking this sleeping man, I walked towards the scene and commented that it was not “okay” to kick someone. “He’s not moving,” the guard said. My friend, Jonathan, one half of the couple, ran over and tried to feel for a pulse. He let out a visceral sound of fright and walked away quickly. “There’s no pulse … there’s no pulse,” he mumbled as he paced. I got closer and heard the guard on his phone with 911. “I’m not touching that guy,” he said. I felt a momentary sadness wash over me … how dare he say that? The HPR reached out to Allied Universal, the security company used by the bank, for comment, but did not receive a response.
Having just been CPR trained three weeks before for my new role as a volunteer Overnight Supervisor at HSHS, I knew I had to do something: “Give me your phone. I’ll help him.”
“Do you know how to do chest compressions?” the dispatch asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he on his back?”
“No.”
“Okay, turn him.”
And when I turned him so his back was flat on the ground, I saw his face.
I’ll never forget his face. It was blue — it was frozen in time — he was gone.
Before I could do the first chest compression, the EMTs arrived. They tried everything. But there was no response.
I consoled those around me, and they consoled me, too. The woman in the couple I was photographing, Jillian, told me that his body was the 36th dead body she had seen in her eight years on the street. And, it made me think how easily that could have been me, because six years ago, I was homeless and an alcoholic/addict lost in my own world of pain. It could have been me on the street, laying there for hours, with no one even noticing that I wasn’t breathing.
And what made this terrible situation and loss of life even more heartbreaking is that no one knew who he was. He had no ID. No one in the unhoused community could give me more than a name they thought he had told them: Michael. He was technically a John Doe, though. How could I mourn the loss of a man I didn’t really know? But how could I live with myself if I didn’t try to honor his life in some way?
I had to figure out who he was so we could give him a proper send-off. He was our neighbor after all. I wish I had a proper photo of him to show the world so that someone somewhere who is missing their family member or their friend would know what happened to him. Days, weeks, and then months went by and no one has been able to identify his body. But, the Harvard Square Business Association offered support and resources, and together we were able to put up a tribute to his memory in front of the bank — across the street from my school — where I found him. A wreath, some candles, and a poem I wrote.
That poem, which hangs from the tree in front of Bank of America in the square, reads:
There you slept — many times before. So peaceful you lay by the unopened door. The day you were found — we could not wake you from that sleep. In a dream forever now, is where you shall keep. Your soul, your light — not forgotten by us here. Forever in our hearts your memory shall stay dear. Michael, our neighbor and our new friend. We pray you found peace and light at the end. Rest In Peace.
I truly didn’t think I was going to be able to finish that photo essay. I kept seeing his face every time I closed my eyes. Those ten words kept repeating in my head: “I found a man dead in front of my school.” And I just felt so sorry for him. And, honestly, at times, I didn’t think I was going to be able to finish the fall semester at all after that shock. But with the kind words of great friends, extremely caring professors, and the continued clarity brought on by my steadfast commitment to sobriety, I was able to continue on. I turned my pain into purpose, and that purpose was to stay focused, continue to help others, and honor this man’s life by continuing to live mine to the fullest.
It enrages me that literally across the street from the richest college in the world, people are dying on the street. There are a lot of good people in this town, though, trying their hardest to make a difference and to help others. But those in power, the community leaders, and the school could be doing so much more.
This is why we keep doing what we do at shelters (such as HSHS and Y2Y), local food banks, and various service organizations affiliated with the Phillips Brooks House Association across the city: to try to avoid this unnecessary and incredibly sad loss of life.
You might be asking, “What can I do?” There are many ways that everyone reading this can help. If you are a current Harvard student, stop by PBHA and sign up to volunteer at the shelter or with the nightly street outreach team. If you are a Harvard alumnus or a friend of the university, donate to boots-on-the-ground Harvard organizations making a difference in the lives of our unhoused neighbors. And, if you are a Harvard administrator or someone holding the checkbook of that big Harvard endowment, think about investing some of that money into affordable housing or transitional housing. Ask the students who run HSHS or Y2Y how they would spend a tiny fraction of that endowment to help their clients, and then give them the money to do so.
We’ve gotta do better, Harvard.
To everyone out there, on the streets, in a dorm room, or at home, reading this: Please take care of yourself and your community. We are all in this together.
Image by Clay Banks is licensed under the Unsplash License
