My Christmas Tradition

Recently while walking the streets of downtown Raleigh and seeing the large numbers of homeless calling places like Moore Square home, I was reminded of a Christmas tradition my family had started, but has now since disbanded. Every year, as a family, we would create little bags of items to be handed out to the local homeless. It wasn't much, a sandwich, fruit, knit cap, new socks, and a cup of hot chocolate. I carried on this tradition for a few years after moving here to North Carolina, but circumstances have since changed. I had the opportunity as a young child and college student to meet a wide breadth of people, struggling everyday to get by. No home to call their own, except a tree, or park bench where they spent the night. Out of all the people I met, I remember two the most—Julius and Danielle.

I first met Julius on Christmas Eve, 1995. My family made the journey to nearby Williamsport, Pennsylvania, about thirty minutes away. As my siblings and I climbed out of our Oldsmobile Silhouette, I saw Julius. An older black man, with his leg amputated just below the knee, Julius made his encampment under the protective boughs of three hemlock trees closely lumped together. The thing I remember most about Julius was his bright smile. As a 12 year-old boy, I was less interested in delivering the food, than getting home and opening my Christmas presents, as my family did on years my Dad had to work on Christmas Day. Julius was the only person I gave a parcel to that year. As I hurriedly extended the gift to him, Julius’s smile quickly changed. He was no longer smiling back at me. Tears welled in his eyes and quickly began to stream down his face. In a hushed voiced destroyed by years of smoking cigarettes, Julius said, “Thank you. Thank you.”

I don’t know what it was, but he intrigued me. Taking a place on his blanket next to the wheel chair he occupied, I chatted with Julius as the rest of my family doled out their gifts. Our conversation first focused on the items in the bag. Julius commented that he only needed on sock and didn’t know what to do with the other one. Soon, I learned that Julius didn’t really need the physical items I had given him; he just wanted someone to talk to. He told me of his childhood growing up in Philadelphia and how at age 20 he joined the Army to fight in Korea, where he lost his leg. But there was something more on Julius’s mind. He choked up when he told me of his daughter, a daughter he hadn’t seen in 20 years. Unable to work because of his disability, Julius turned to the bottle. An alcoholic for all of his adult life, Julius told me of how in a fit of alcohol induced rage, he beat his wife. It was the last night he ever saw his daughter. She didn’t show up to court, never once visited him while in prison. He had lost his child and his will. Once out of prison, Julius attempted to find work, but the lure of the bottle had taken complete control.

I saw Julius again the next year. His years of smoking and drinking were making his body worse. His hands were shaking and his voice was rough. As we talked, Julius asked if I could do him a favor. In my hand, he placed a hand written note to his daughter, Danielle. She lived somewhere in Williamsport, but refused to see him. I took Julius’s note, tucked it into my pocket and promised him I would find her. I tried at first, but with wrestling practice, school, and the life as a young teenager, I soon forgot about the note. That was until mid-May while cleaning my room, I came across it. With renewed spirit, I once again began the search for his daughter. Once I found her address, I convinced my mother to drive me to Danielle’s home. I gave her the note, never expecting to see her again.

The months passed and soon it was Christmas Eve. That year I had made a special package for Julius. It had all the usual items, but this year I included cream for his leg and cushion for his wheel chair. But I didn’t find Julius that year. I was never going to find him again. That year I found Danielle gathering up her father’s items. Julius died the morning of Christmas Eve, 1997. Danielle and I hugged and cried together as we remembered the man who had just recently returned to her life and the man who will forever be a part of mine.

I tell you this story; because our streets are filled with Juliuses. They are in Moore Square, on Franklin Street. We have a chance this year to help them; together we can make their Christmas one that they'll remember always and it is an opportunity for us to meet someone who will make an even greater impact on our lives. So please do all you can to help.

It is also because of my interaction with Julius and Danielle that I support a man who I know will help each and every one of our homeless. I used to think "Anyone but Hillary," but I am here today to tell you that we have an opportunity to do more. America deserves more; Julius and his family deserved more. I guess you can take this as my statement of support for John Edwards. It is not for me that I support Edwards, but for Julius and the millions of Americans who find themselves on the street. I support John Edwards because he will do right and help all Americans no matter their background or family history.