His Name is Michael
Sometimes before walking in the woods, I pack two granola bars. I bring them to Michael, who lives in the woods. Once or twice, a passerby has stopped me, sharing that they, too, leave money or food for Michael, or have called someone in the county from Human Services to see how they can help him. Today, as I left the area where Michael lives, I met someone and had a different conversation.
”He shits all over the place, you know.”
”Excuse me?”
”He shits all over. Here, there, all over. It’s despicable.”
”Oh. Well, I like to bring him food. And water.”
”He can’t stay here. Some of the neighbors are talking about what can be done.”
”His name is Michael.”
{Ever-so-brief silence.}
“Well, he can’t stay here. The police won’t do anything.”
”What do you suggest?”
”He needs to go to a shelter or something. He’ll be gone soon hopefully.”
He turned and left, anger and righteousness fueling his every step. I pondered the conversation, playing it over in my mind for the rest of my walk.
Dehumanization. It’s everywhere. Have we forgotten, in the words of Mother Teresa, that we belong to one another? As I was reminded today in the woods, dehumanization can be found in the words we use to speak about people. I can attest to the dehumanization in the various industries I have worked in over the past decade:
Acting: Overheard at a “cattle call” audition, on repeat: “Next!”
Health Education, particularly with regard to communication skills: “Headache in room 2. Drug seeker in 5.”
Hospice: “54-year old female, diffuse metastatic disease…”
A simple remedy is to use someone’s name. Our names, the first gift from our parents, are important. They identify us; they bring us back to ourselves.
His name is Michael.
I remember when our son was born, we hadn’t picked out his name by the time he was sliced out of my abdomen. Even though we settled on his name within a few hours, he was stuck with “Baby Boy” in the name field of his medical bracelet. I wanted his name proudly typed up on his first memento, but instead we came home with a generic “Baby Boy” bracelet that could have belonged to any number of babies born that night.
Likewise, in recovery and in the post-partem wing, all of the nurses came in the room (at all hours) and called me “Mama.” At first, it was endearing and a source of pride. Then I caught on: this was their shortcut to reduce the oh-so-long amount of time it would take to learn my name before entering the room, or even as they walked in, since it was written on the dry-erase board along with my vitals. Every woman on the unit was “Mama” to them; it was easy, generic, and a time-saver. And dehumanizing.
His name is Michael.
It’s one of the many reasons why we need to #saytheirnames. Ahmaud was someone’s son; George was someone’s daddy; so was Tyre. They are human beings who have died at the hands of others. We say their names to keep their memory alive, after their story has been replaced in the headlines by a new tragedy.
I don’t know why that man was so angry about Michael. I have tried to look at the situation from his perspective. Maybe Michael represents an inconvenience, a perceived lack of safety, or a decline in his property value. Not-in-my-backyard was alive and well for him and the band of neighbors who were trying to figure out “what can be done.”
I just want them to know: his name is Michael.