COMMUNITY PROFILE Street Stories FROM DALE SAWIN THE THIRD TIME I WENT OUT, I wasn’t sure I was going to keep doing this. I knew people were hungry, and I knew people were living on the streets, but I didn’t know people were actually starving, ya know? So, the third time I went out, I went out through Confluence Park, and I got right to where the creek and river meet, right there by that little hill, and I was walking through. A guy was sitting in the grass, sitting in the sun, he felt blah, just kind of there. So, I walked by, and I said, “Hey, Man, do you need anything, are you hungry?” He didn’t answer the first time, and he looked up, and he said, “What did you say?” I said, “Are you hungry? I have sandwiches CREDIT: PAULA BARD and water.” And he looked at me and just started crying. He was just crying non-stop, and I thought he was kind of crazy at first. I was like,“Hey, Man, are you all right?” And he was like, “Dude, I can’t even tell you how hungry I am right now.” He was just crying, like non-stop. “I rode the train from Kansas City to here, I don’t know anybody here. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know where the shelters are, and I haven’t eaten in three days. I am so hungry you wouldn’t believe it.” And he was crying. Because he was so hungry, he was crying. I didn’t realize there were actually people in the streets that were starving. There must have been a hundred people CREDIT: PAULA BARD CREDIT: PAULA BARD GROWING UP ON DENVER’S WEST SIDE. Sawin went to Alameda High School. Once a painter with an art degree, he now works at Jefferson County Open Space. Earlier, his life followed the predictable pattern; married and two kids within a secure Baptist community and family. Uncles and cousins were Southern Baptist ministers. He had an affinity for “old Denver,” which he loved to document. He played a record player for the elderly at the Barth Hotel, downtown. Still does. But at some point, his life fractured, and he found himself in a painful divorce, while around him, his secure Baptist life broke open and let in the sharp light of doubt. Sawin’s life faltered. And then, he resurrected himself; created a new path. And thus, the name of his wagon train was etched: Atheist Alley. WHEN I STARTED QUESTIONING, I REALIZED I JUST DIDN’T BELIEVE ANY OF IT ANYMORE. “There was a lot of hypocrisy going on. I just didn’t believe the whole thing of it.” I was like, ‘this is not real.’ That was cool; I felt free all of a sudden. But it was frightening because when you give up religion, you give up everything with it.” Although Sawin welcomed a new level of accountability, it came with added responsibility. He worried that at the end of his life he would look back and say, “Ya know, I lived a full life, and I did the best I could. I have no regrets. What does that mean for me…? I gotta do something with my life, more than I’m doing now.” His answer to those deeply human and unsettling questions was to hook up a wagon full of homemade sandwiches and make his way downtown. He made direct contact with troubled folks and brought sustenance. “If I only have one life, I’ve got to make the most of it. What can I do to make the world a better place? I didn’t know. I don’t have any way, you know? But I knew I could make a few sandwiches and walk them out to those kids on ‘Stoner Hill.” Stoner Hill sits just west of Confluence Park, and unsheltered kids began making it their home back about seven years ago. “And that’s what I did. That first day I took ‘em out I was like, ‘oh my god, this is something. It’s a little thing. But man, it’s something better than just going to work, and being a dad, and being a good son, and a good employee. It’s something more than that.’ That’s when I started doing it.” The wagon train was born. Sawin now looks for the few people off by themselves to contact, and he offers food, conversation, and warmth. “Because, you know, that the people in the camps are going to share everything they’ve got, or they can make it to the shelters. Or, they can show up for dinners at the places that provide them. But, there’s always the people that are more isolationist, or by themselves. That’s why I always start at the far-off places like down by the river, or at Confluence, to hit those guys that are by themselves, but then I work my way to the camps, too.” ■ walking by him; nobody knew this guy was sitting there. Just in total isolation, in the middle of this huge city, starving. He was the same age as me, so at the time, late 40s. But he was so desperate, he didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know where to go. I gave him a bunch of food and told him where the shelters were. THE HUMANITY BETWEEN THEM I was walking down 16th Street with one sandwich left. And this guy walks by and says, “Is that food? Oh my god, I’m so hungry.” And he just took the bag and started eating it, like right there. He ate the sandwich, and he ate the chips, and he was standing right there, right in the middle of the mall, just eating everything as fast as he could. And this other guy walks by and asks if we have any sandwiches left. I’m like, “No, Man. This guy just got the last one.” And the homeless guy, who just ate the sandwich, says, “Oh wait, there’s still a candy bar left here. You can have it.” I was like, “Holy shit! You know people sitting in a restaurant aren’t going to say, ‘Hey, I’m not going to eat this, do you want it? You eat it.’” How they share everything. They seem more giving, more human, than the majority of the world. From those few sandwiches for kids out on Stoner Hill to reaching out to the hundreds of marginalized and unseen folks on Denver’s harsh streets, Sawin’s epiphany brings a touch of kindness to those among us who need it the most. ■ January 2021 DENVER VOICE 9
10 Publizr Home