Articles by Pastor Joseph Costa

October, A Run.....

Sun, 18 Oct 2020 08:40:27 GMT

If you have never witnessed it, it’s difficult to understand equity.
If you never witnessed it, it’s difficult to understand inequity.
And in isolation, would you be able to know the difference?

For the first time in seven months, SHARE went on a Midnight Run. In the folds of my vague memory, I remembered the Run as an ever-evolving, closely woven part of my own tapestry. When we finally decided to start up our outreach once again, I wasn’t very certain it still was. The shock and awe of the pandemic put a screeching halt to the monthly trips into Manhattan that I did with two dozen students and some hearty adults, to bring friendship and food to the homeless street people we had built solid relationships with over the past 33 years. Isolated by the scourge of COVID, we spent the last seven months in earnest effort to provide face masks for as many people as we could. We sewed them. Made calls and found product donors. Built a pipeline of sorts. 30,000 masks later, it was indeed, time to put one foot in front of the other, and to move on, beyond that initiative. It was in place – and so were we. I told the eight students and four adults who went with me that last night ‘s Run was a test balloon of sorts. And this afternoon, as the cobwebs of fatigue began to wear off, I wondered why I was so unsure of what had been second nature for me for decades.

Reassurance surrounded me. The kids had expertly prepared for the night by pre-packaging individual bags by size that contained socks and underwear, toiletries, face masks, a tee shirt and a sweater or hoodie. These kids. What is that Lao Tzu proverb of truth that I seem to always refer to at moments like this? ”When the student is ready, the teacher appears,” and over the past few months, these astounding kids have become my teachers. All that was lost to me, has been found. Gratitude toward these kids isn’t even close to how I feel.

At our third stop, when I finally grew comfortable with the new way of Run behavior - no hugging, no physical contact, very little story-sharing - we saw my friend Salaam rushing down the street to meet us before we loaded up the van and cars to proceed to our next stop. He was in his element, surrounded by these kids, these caring, loving kids, and they showered him – at a distance – with genuine affection and plenty of thick sandwiches to get him through the next few days.

During the worst months of the pandemic, when my deepest fears overtook me, I’d worry about these friends on the street. Salaam was one of the people who would stay in touch and call me once or twice or even three times a week to simply talk about almost nothing. I didn’t care what we talked about. He was a lifeline to the world I discovered three decades ago and was fearful of losing. The pandemic was always a topic. Sometimes we’d talk about mutual friends. I’d ask if he had seen so-and-so and he’d report in. I became obsessed with telling him to wash his hands as often as he could. I wanted to make sure he had face masks. I suggested he not gather in large groups, even if it meant not visiting his mosque. Salaam is 60 years old but became my focus. Before we left him, he reached into one of his many bags and pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. In a carefully written script, it read ‘Happy Birthday, Genie.’ And on the inside, was a beautiful card that he said he got me last March, but we stopped doing the Run with our February date. He carried the card with him since, as a just-in-case.

When I got into the van with Rob to go to our last stop, I opened the card to read it and he signed it, “Sincerely, Salaam, your best friend.”

I’m fine now. The Run was more lovely than I had dreamed possible. The people we saw were as good and as kind as ever, those wonderful students dotted every “I” and crossed every “T” in how they prepared for this first Run in seven months and I have a new best friend.

We’ll return on November 14th, prepared to it all over again.

“… Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.” ~ John Lewis

Thu, 06 Aug 2020 09:08:32 GMT

“Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.”

 ~John Lewis

SHARE the Project has been making “good trouble” for over 32 years..Our face mask initiative and food distribution was one of the most recent ways SHARE responded to the changing needs created when COVID-19 became a reality in our lives.

We need you to help us help others. As with so many other worthy not-for-profits, we ask that you consider SHARE and our 32 year history of making “good trouble.” Please donate below.

With love and thanks,
All of us at SHARE the Project, Inc.

The year’s end…Auld Lang Syne

Fri, 20 Dec 2019 09:22:46 GMT

It’s been quite a year for all of us, and we managed to continue our mission to stay active in the communities we serve, expand ourselves to new problems and their solutions, to grow our Student Board to the largest it has ever been, and to work cohesively to make this year of 2019 the best that SHARE has known. If you practice enough, sometimes you really do get it right.

Our 30th Anniversary Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless – that amazing Grace we call our “Signature Event” – was wonderful. We included new elements, like a magician for our youngest guests and an astounding Mariachi band for ALL of our guests and volunteers. We were honored by New York State’s Senate Majority Leader Andrea Stewart-Cousins whose annual presence at our dinner has always been such a joy. Westchester County honored SHARE as well as our Village of Hastings-on-Hudson, and all with the support and energy from the people whose kindness has kept us afloat for 32 years.

Sadly, we lost a wonderful friend who shared himself, his life in homelessness as well as his victory in being homed, with SHARE for the past three decades. Sleep with the angels, my dear friend Adam, and know that what you gave me and all of us in SHARE was the honor and privilege of your friendship.

The end of each year allows us the time and the season to reflect on where we were and to dream of where we are going. We have much to do in the new year! Our gratitude for your help is genuine and your continued interest in what our students achieve is embraced.

Wishing each and every one of you the very best of what was, with good wishes for a New Year of peace and love everlasting.

Summahtime Fellowship: SHARE’s Summer Run Amid NYC Blackout

Mon, 15 Jul 2019 09:36:41 GMT

Make no mistake: the need for assistance for those who are food insecure isn’t seasonal. It’s 24/7. It’s 365 days a year. And this past Saturday night, SHARE was in New York City on the street, very happy to help – despite a massive power outage that affected the Upper West Side of Manhattan where our stops were located. Despite the deep black abyss that was Manhattan south of 68th Street and Columbus Avenue on Saturday night, people were out and about, enjoying the warm summer night and simply “being,” a far cry from the memories I had of the blackout on July 13th 1977, 42 years earlier, to the day.

Everyone we saw was happy. Spirited. Glad we made it to the city safely. These are my people. My friends. My extended family. They were witness to Rob’s and my wedding last November when we exchanged vows at our annual holiday dinner we host. They are my support, as I am theirs, and we have over three decades, shared love and loss, joy and sorrow together. And so our monthly Saturday night sojourns are far more intimate than what one may think.

We had ample bagged lunches. Rob’s infamous chili and cornbread. Cupcakes to celebrate our youngest volunteer’s 14th birthday. Fresh socks and underwear, tees and tanks and sneakers. Bagged lunches and more than anything else, we had genuine fellowship, a word I am always very careful about using. Summer Runs are a bit different. We’re often met with surprise, as no one really expects us to come into the city; we’re a group that is high school student-centered and we had been following the school calendar for as long as I can remember, with a summer Run or two added to the mix.

We’ll be back, and when we see our street friends again, the summer will have ebbed, school will have started and the chatter will be about our annual Thanksgiving Dinner. These Saturday nights on the street have never grown old or thin for me and honestly, I’m looking forward to the next Run, despite the 32 years that have rapidly passed since the very first Run I ever did…
#DoYouSHARE?

Join Us. March for Our Lives – 3.24.2018

Wed, 07 Mar 2018 15:12:01 GMT

Sign up.

Join SHARE On March 24th as we join the students of Stoneman Douglas High School March on Washington.
SHARE has contracted 5 coach buses. We want to bring 200 students and 50 adults.
Join us.

(Due to lack of internet, electricity and all things storm-related, permission slips will soon be available here on this page to be printed and filled out. Please bear with us).

What does King Wenceslas and Post-Christmas Sales have in common?? Nothing, really…

Mon, 26 Dec 2016 15:30:01 GMT

It’s December 26th, or in the United Kingdom, it is Boxing Day or a day known in more modern history as Return-The-Gift-I-Received-for-Something-I-Really-Want Day. It is also known as St. Stephen’s Day, named for the very first martyr of Christianity, a deacon who was stoned to death for espousing what was considered blasphemy against his Jewish brethren. And, as the old carol refers, we know that St. Stephen’s Day was when Good King Wenceslas went “round about” in the frigid night of 10th century Bohemia to bring alms to the poor.

Throughout the ages of translations and interpretations, Boxing Day was the day when those who were in service to the wealthy, received a “Christmas box” or present as a gift from their generous employers. Samuel Pepys even made a reference to the tradition of this gift-giving in his diary. But, as is sometimes the sad truth, Boxing Day, which simply coincides with Stephen’s Day in our Western calendar, became return-the-gift day and, for some, the concept of generosity trumping selfishness went flying out the window of time.

I’m with Good King Wenceslas. Let’s take this day, the one that followed the holidays of Christmas and Hanukah this year when so many of us had the simple privilege of being with family and friends to exchange gifts of love and delight, and remember those whose lives have been fraught with the pain of poverty and loneliness, fear and abandonment. Let’s try to channel our inner Wenceslas and forget the small inconveniences or petty disappointments that our lives sometimes have, and let’s make someone who has nothing a shy bit happier if we can. Let’s just simply try to do unto others.

In a perfect world, this holiday week abounding with love and compassion, would last year round. It’s not that hard to do. May this season of giving never become the season of just receiving. Here’s to a new year coming filled with compassion and caring, peace and hope for all.

It’s time! Help us raise the funds for our 27th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless

Fri, 07 Oct 2016 16:16:42 GMT

October, 2016
Autumn greetings from all of us at SHARE!
After a very hectic summer, we are braced for an even busier Fall as we head toward our 29th year here in Hastings. We are fully engaged in our Midnight Run schedule, building and renewing our relationships with those men and women whose lives have been intertwined with ours for nearly three decades. Our students are a pleasant fixture at the weekly Farmers’ Market here in Hastings and the Student Board has been developing our yearlong projects list. And thanks to The Huffington Post, we had a lovely mention as part of a larger coalition we are forming.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/a-magical-dinner-party_us_57e532e4e4b05d3737be5961

As I said last year, I think it’s fair to say that SHARE the Project, Inc. has become a tradition now: a diverse group of very committed school and college age kids and adults whose sole purpose is to help those who are the neediest in our near communities.

Last November, we had the honor of serving over 700 men, women and children from Westchester and all five boroughs of New York City, a Thanksgiving meal that was made with care and abounding love. As Autumn approaches and the nights cool down, we gladly watch the leaves change colors, as we roll up our sleeves to prepare for what will be our 27th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless, hosted at Hastings High School, here in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, a celebratory gathering of the homed and the homeless. Toasting another year together, we will stand, many hundreds strong, and share a few moments of spirit and of grace as the tireless student and community volunteers serve our guests.

You can be part of this. Donate today and know how much your contribution will help. Please see this link:
https://www.gofundme.com/tdfth

If you prefer, checks can be made out to SHARE the Project, Inc. and mailed to:
SHARE the Project, Inc.
161 Broadway
Hastings-on-Hudson, New York 10706

For more information, please contact us at sharetheproject@gmail.comor share your thoughts directly with me at jeanne@sharetheproject.org. We can be reached by phone at (914) 478-1795 if you want to donate your time as a volunteer for this event or any of our other projects throughout the course of the year.

With my deepest thanks and very best wishes for a warm and happy holiday season, from all of us here to all of you there,

Jeanne Newman
Founder and Executive Director
SHARE the Project, Inc.
Hastings-on-Hudson, New York

SHARE the Project, Inc. dba Project SHARE – We are a public charity. Our 501©3 number is 01-0944154.

SHARE the Project, Inc. has offered all of our high school age students in Hastings and surrounding Westchester communities an opportunity to extend themselves to people whom under no other circumstance would they have an opportunity to meet. It is a program of wide range involvement and all we require is the support of the greater community to help keep our valuable programs available. Please help us continue what has become a tradition for the youth in our area. In the words of Dr. Margaret Mead, “Never doubt that a small group of citizens can change the world. Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.”

A Whispered Truth

Mon, 20 Jun 2016 16:28:23 GMT

The presence of her absence is profound.

It’s been nearly a month since my mother died and the depth of pain I feel doesn’t have words that can adequately describe it.

Today, opening the door of her apartment, still filled with her scent, her things, herself in wispy spirit, I remembered reading Sartre’s “L’Etranger” in French class, decades ago, and seeing the opening words: “Aujourdhui, maman est morte.” The words terrified me as I never wanted to see them again, think about them again or say them to myself. I was as old then as my mother was when she lost her own mom: sixteen and barely cooked as a person. But, of course, so many years later, those words whizzed through my tired brain and it seems that they are what I am seeing today in a neon blaze behind my forehead.
Memories are funny things as they can serve as ‘cheat-sheets’ for times long ago that creep slowly into our consciousness, often sparked by something so out of context. It’s been nearly a month since I watched my mother tap her feet in small dance steps, sitting in a chair in the hospital, bolstered by pillows, her head back, a smile on her face, eyes closed with a knowing look that was so very private to her own memories that the Sinatra tune my daughter was playing for her so inspired. A few short hours later, she was gone and I will never see her do that again.

My mother grew up in post-Depression upstate New York, the oldest daughter of six children borne by my grandmother who emigrated from Southern Italy a decade or two earlier. “Mama” was her center, her core, the foundation for all things right and just, a kind woman – judging by the few photographs I have of her – who loved her children dearly. My mother rarely spoke of her father who was an angry, abusive alcoholic who would come and go and go and come without announcement. My mother and her sisters and brothers were raised by Mama and her mother, my Grandma Pape. My grandmother owned a candy store and was a good businesswoman, according to my mom. Life in West Haverstraw was quiet and had a sameness that rural living seems to bring with it. The family pulled up stakes, and headed to Staten Island when my mother was still a child and I suspect the move was initiated by the settling of most of the other members of the Izzo family in New Dorp.
____________
When I began working with the homeless in New York City, I had a vague sensation that I was somehow connected to them, to the experience though I had no idea how or why. I largely ignored this vague feeling until one day, sitting on the fieldstone patio behind our bosom-y old house, my mother blurted out to me that once upon a very long time ago she and her sisters and brothers spent several months in a Volunteers of America orphanage. My grandmother had been taken quite ill and there wasn’t a relative who could take in all six children at once while their mother was hospitalized.
It was a languid summer’s day and I was watching my two year old daughter play with our Golden retriever, admonishing the poor dog for doing something she found offensive. With her chubby little fist and wagging finger in the pup’s face, I recall her saying in toddler-speak, “No Wo-Wo! NO!” I barely heard my mother’s words and my lack of reaction spurned her to say it once again, “Did you know that we were homeless once?” I was wordless and simply turned to her as she spoke. It was one of my mother’s secrets that she courageously held beneath her heart, allowing it to come out at the right time, in the right place…a secret that was one of many she revealed to me over time.
More than twenty five years have passed since that afternoon. Our work with the homeless continues and there isn’t a time I’m not quietly reminded of my own mother’s time spent without a home of her own to return to.

It’s been nearly a month since my mother has died and I suspect that in time, the craziness of my grief will ebb, replaced with the acquired knowledge of simply learning how to live without her presence, as I gently and simply learn to live with her absence

The Season of Giving

Sun, 20 Dec 2015 23:01:32 GMT

I have not yet climbed aboard the shoppers’ train and joined the throngs that fill the malls, trying to find the perfect gift to give during this season of light and magic and love. And, Christmas – the holiday we celebrate in our home – is but a few days away. My children are accustomed to the gifts of new pajamas and the requisite holiday-inspired underwear that I always seemed to give them, along with the baskets of homemade cookies and hot chocolate we make. But, the Christmases of the past are no longer and I’ve decided to walk the walk that I have talked about for so many years: find a charity of your very own choice to give to. Whether you choose to give here or to another charity, please do so. After all, those boxers with Rudolph’s blinking red nose on them grow pretty old pretty quickly, but the gift of supporting charitable works lives on in the growth and deeds of those who donate.

And, for those who really DO like the traditions of gift-giving, we’re all for that, too! Click here to see all the wonderful stores where you can shop online that help support SHARE!
How ever you celebrate, from our home to yours during this magical season of light and magic and love, we wish you nothing but Joy, Peace, and the Happiest of New Years.

The truth about new york's legendary mole people by Anthony Taille.

Sun, 08 Nov 2015 13:09:04 GMT

During this very task-congested time, these two weeks prior to the Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless, it’s difficult not to think about the many homeless and hungry poor whose lives intersected with mine over the past 28 years. Many of those who survived the crack pandemic of the 90’s were lucky to get themselves off the streets, out of the tunnels, away from the intense uncertainties of survival when the only thing that mattered was having enough money to get that next fix. Many of them, of course, simply died forgotten deaths, particles of dust in the wind, memories erased by the speed of light and life in a very complicated city.

Anthony Taille, a journalist from Montreal, writes eloquently, soulfully and accurately about topics that have long lost their newsworthiness by our 24 hour cable news network standard. His article on the Mole People, in my opinion, harnesses precisely the essence of urban homelessness. He writes with courage and daring, painting a vivid image out of the grayness of homeless living.

Please, read the piece, slowly and deliberately and simply try to imagine. It won’t be easy, I assure you.
Please.
http://narrative.ly/myths-and-misconceptions/the-truth-about-new-yorks-legendary-mole-people/

And so it begins!

Tue, 06 Oct 2015 04:45:23 GMT

Autumn is here and so are we!

Oh, what a wonderful year we’ve had and all because you have helped support our efforts over the past two and a half decades! I think it’s fair to say that SHARE the Project, Inc. has become a tradition now, as a group of very committed high school and college age kids and adults whose sole purpose it to help those who are the neediest in our near communities.

Last November marked our Silver Anniversary Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless where we had the honor of serving 839 men, women and children from Westchester and all five boroughs of New York City, a Thanksgiving meal that was made with care and abounding love. As Autumn approaches and the nights cool down, we gladly watch the leaves change colors, as we roll up our sleeves to prepare for what will be our 26th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless, hosted at Hastings High School, here in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, a celebratory gathering of the homed and the homeless. Toasting another year together, we will stand, many hundreds strong, and share a few moments of spirit and of grace as the tireless student and community volunteers serve our guests.

You can be part of this. Donate today and know how much your contribution will help.

For more information, please contact us at sharetheproject@gmail.com or share your thoughts directly with me at jeanne@sharetheproject.org. We can be reached by phone at (914) 649-5514 if you want to donate your time as a volunteer for this event or any of our other projects throughout the course of the year.

With my deepest thanks and very best wishes for a warm and happy holiday season, from all of us here to all of you there,

Jeanne Newman
Founder and Executive Director
SHARE the Project, Inc.

SHARE the Project, Inc. dba Project SHARE – We are a public charity. Our 501©3 number is 01-0944154.

SHARE the Project, Inc. has offered all of our high school age students in Hastings and surrounding Westchester communities an opportunity to extend themselves to people whom under no other circumstance would they have an opportunity to meet. It is a program of wide range involvement and all we require is the support of the greater community to help keep our valuable programs available. Please help us continue what has become a tradition for the youth in our area. In the words of Dr. Margaret Mead, “Never doubt that a small group of citizens can change the world. Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.”

As summer wanes…

Sun, 09 Aug 2015 04:59:58 GMT

…and the days start their ebb into earlier evenings, the preparations for a new school year – everywhere! – are in sight.

When I was growing up, that meant new school shoes and later on sneakers for gym class. We got new school clothes, too, and for me, that always included a new pleated plaid skirt and maybe a matching sweater. My brothers and I got to pick out a new lunchbox, a pencil case, and a new binder. I remember those days so fondly…I suspect my own children do as well.

For too many children, though, new clothes or sneakers or pencil boxes simply aren’t part of their school preparation list…but even more so, there will be no new books for too many kids who probably have no idea what that new book “feel” is all about.
Let’s change that. We can.

Enter http://www.firstbook.org , a wonderful not-for-profit whose sole goal is to provide books for disadvantaged and disenfranchised children. A literate nation is a strong nation, and so let’s get behind this amazing effort to help those who need the help the most: our nation’s kids.

Please do click on the link below and give…so that one day, these soon-to-be literate kids will fall in love with reading and know what it is to read and to be read to.

From our hearts to yours…

http://tinyurl.com/qg2oluq

Just because it’s summer, doesn’t mean you can’t “do”…….right?

Fri, 24 Jul 2015 05:12:32 GMT

Just a quote...

Tue, 16 Jun 2015 05:18:45 GMT

“Volunteers are the only human beings on the face of the earth who reflect this nation’s compassion,unselfish caring, patience, and just plain loving one another.”
~Erma Bombec

TW3… or That Was the Week That Was…Again

Mon, 09 Mar 2015 05:31:19 GMT

"All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered;

the point is to discover them. ” ~ Galileo Galilei

The winter has worn on and on, devastating the rhythm and well-being of the Northeast and it has become apparent that we have all simply had enough. Lucky us! We’ve been limited to the monotony of home and hearth or the inconveniences of all that snow and slush interfering with our daily commutes! We have spent the last six weeks whining and bitching and moaning to all those who can hear us, our circle of ears growing larger and larger with each single-digit night that passes into well-below freezing days. Pipes freeze and tempers flare. The Sunday Times travel section gets scanned for “deals” on all those faraway places that boast fruity tropical drinks shaded by cute paper umbrellas; these orange sunset places where sand easily replaces snow, our summery memories recalling the images of the waxing and waning surf upon the beach’s edge. Ah, but when reality wakes us, all we see are the piles of winter’s remains sitting mountainous along the sides of roads. Trying to negotiate a solid footing has become an Olympic sport and all of us wonder if the ice and snow will ever,ever go away.

And yet, of course there really are so many who simply don’t have the luxury of bemoaning the inconvenience of winter. Theirs has become a study of tolerance and quick-wittedness, fortitude and determination. They are those faceless folks who don’t have a home to go to. They are those whose homes are whatever shelter they can find to keep them from the deep, deep cold of never really knowing what warmth is, until, of course, the unrelenting heat of summer beats down upon them. They don’t have the luxury of bemoaning anything
.Just saying

.Last night, we gathered once again to make our monthly trip into the city on behalf of the Midnight Run. We had a wonderful group of eighteen teenagers, several who were new to the Run and some whose jobs next year will be to lead the group. We had nine adults, plenty of sandwiches, Rob’s infamous chili, a birthday cake to celebrate birthdays past and present, new sweatpants, new hoodies and plenty of underwear and socks to distribute to the homeless and hungry poor who will greet us without one single complaint whispered from their lips.

And in a caravan of cars, we made our way into the night, to our first stop on the Upper West Side. The church whose steps are usually alive with the voices of the hungry poor and homeless, were scaffolded and empty, a maze of orange and white construction cones and fencing. It was empty, save one sleeping soul blanketed and jellyrolled up tightly in an old sleeping bag, in the only remaining clear doorway. The rest of the block was deserted. We left sandwiches for the sleeping person and very quietly retreated, wondering if this was going to be the norm for the evening. We were already halfway through our allotted stops though our over-flowing cars and van still oozed an excess of supplies.

Our next stop was empty at first, unlike what we are accustomed to in the warmer, slower months of Spring and Summer. Two people spotted our van and as soon as they approached, our very willing group of volunteers happened upon them, offering a plethora of food and goods with arms outstretched, as they climbed over the icy banks of snow. Smiles abounded. The night had started, but our strategy needed an overhaul. Where were the people whose needs could be addressed by our generous offering? I always think of Timothy at this stop and miss him here, as he continues his convalescence in a nursing home. The truth of winter lies in its inherent danger. Timothy lost all ten toes to the wrath of last year’s cold and snow. It was something to remember. It was the equilibrium that we needed. How self-righteous we can become sometimes, thinking our efforts may actually be minimized by the sheer force of a cold winter’s night, raining on our parade of generosity. Hmmm.

Our decision to do the third stop before hitting a much larger stop where dozens of people would invariably be, proved to be the smartest decision of the evening. We managed to negotiate the traffic and sidle into the one strip of curbside that would allow all of our caravan to fit snugly in one spot. The people were waiting for us, staying warm inside a bank. As soon as we stopped, people appeared, coming out from all sorts of sheltered spots in this busy midtown location and the first person I saw that I recognized was my old friend, Buddy. I’m not at all certain what it is about Buddy that I genuinely love, but I’m sure it has something to do with his affable nature. He bears a striking resemblance to W.C. Fields, but with a warm smile perpetually across his face. He saw me and with the aid of a cane, walked up to me and gave me a long hug. It was heaven. People began to gather, going from one vehicle to the next, a veritable smorgasbord of offerings in each car. In the van was a well-organized group of girls who handed out the clothing we brought, checking sizes and colors and trying to accommodate the needs of all who waited on line. In the rear of the van, chili and coffee and birthday cake was ready for all who came by. Kids walked around through the crowd, armed with bags of lunches, giving away three or four meals to each person who asked for one. There was an easiness about this stop and all were happy

.And then Buddy began to sing. I adore him and as I stood next to him, he asked me what I wanted to hear. Buddy could sing every aria that Verdi ever wrote. He could sing any love song known to mankind. He could sing all songs patriotic and as the kids gathered around him, that’s what Buddy did, after asking that all who were gathered sing with him. He then turned to me and asked what I wanted to hear, though Buddy knows what I will say. My request was simple: I always ask him to sing “La donna e mobile” from Rigoletto, and he did. Imagine this: Verdi sung by Buddy on a busy Manhattan street at midnight. It doesn’t get better than that. Ever
.This stop was a reunion of sorts. I was about to turn around when a man in layered blankets, sandals and long hair blowing into his blue eyes, gave me a surprise hug. He said, “You don’t remember me, do you?” And of course I did. Hugh is a legend on the street, much like Buddy, and he is something of a prophet who, in warmer weather, was often seen on roller skates, gliding through the crowds on busy New York City streets, spreading the “good news.” Hugh. A sweet man who has aged as we all have over these past 27 years, and whose teachings have softened and mellowed. It was so good to see him once again. He was wonderful with the kids and thanked each of them for their smiles. How often does THAT happen, I wondered?

Daylight Savings Time loomed ahead of us and home we went, the crowd dispersing back into the crevices of the night. It was hard falling asleep, but not for the reasons I usually have after a run. It was difficult because there was palpable joy in the night air, displacing the overstay of winter. I simply wanted it to go on a little longer

That Was the Week That Was: “Alice Through the Looking Glass” Revisited

Mon, 15 Sep 2014 05:43:36 GMT

“There is a place like no other place on earth, a land full of wonder, mystery, and danger!
Some say to survive it, you need to be as mad as a hatter. Luckily, I am.”
~ The Mad Hatter, “Alice Through the Looking Glass”

It’s difficult to recap the week past, let alone make sense out of it, as it started with a week that ended leaving the house in Northern Maine, a remote and distant spot whose fields are red with wild blueberry stems, and whose skyline is a lace-pattern of tall pines and spruce and the changing leaves of birch and oak. It was a quiet week, that one which ended, and I left an armful of wildflowers in a vase on the table that I only remembered when I got home.

There was very little time to transition from the quiet meadows and boggy deep woods outside of Calais to Timothy’s phone call that I got the next day at home. The urgency in his voice was genuine and when he shared the news that our friend Bernard had died, I was stunned. Bernard was a legend on the street, a man who was bigger than Life itself, who made both friends and enemies easily, as he navigated the life of homelessness. His death shocked those who knew him because Bernard had dodged many bullets in his 60 years, taking up residence underground in the Amtrak tunnel that runs for two and a half miles beneath the Upper West Side. He lived down there for ten years or so, beginning in 1985, two years before I began this outreach leg of my own journey.

I met him one night under an overhang where some of my Rotunda guys started to stay. They had the best set-up, tapping into the Amtrak electrical system so they could plug in an old refrigerator one of the guys found on Riverside Drive. Shorty, one of the funniest people I know, would grill chicken on a make-shift barbecue, in a silk smoking jacket he found in the trash on Riverside Drive. There was such a series of strange contrasts here: the homeless poor occupied space discretely, and then underground or between the shadows along the elegant and swank residences of Riverside Drive. So little made sense to me then; perhaps even less makes sense now to me.

Bernard emerged from the darkness and I found him to be affable and articulate, choosing his words very carefully as he spoke and made easy conversation, the hint of a Southern lilt misting over his words. He was a confident man and a very smart one, too, who declared himself the Lord of the Tunnel, only when he was told by an established pack of guys downstairs that he would be charged a tax for settling in down there. This sub-culture of people living underground fascinated me and Bernard became my guide and teacher, bringing me to the tunnel so that I could actually see what he described as his peaceable kingdom.

I didn’t think about it, this near-foray into the tunnel, but followed him, a rat running across my boot when I got there. There were spots where people set up their dwellings and I was offered a cup of tea. I had no idea how anyone could survive in the dank cold of this tunnel. There were murals on the walls, upside down crates and bedding. It was at that moment I realized that I had indeed fallen down the legendary rabbit hole. And, it was at that precise moment I knew I would never come back.

We stayed in touch through the monthly Runs we made into the city and Bernard and I became friends. I’d like to think that we were close friends, as we both managed to confide in each other and care about each other. The upstairs neighbors to the downstairs tunnel folk were evacuated in 1991 and it was the end of the “under-the-West-Side-Highway” congregation as we knew it. So much changed over the next few years and sadly, not for the better. Bernard disappeared for a bit and it was only on occasion that I’d see Timothy, Bernard’s good friend he introduced me to. My own life was taking on different challenges as my kids grew and my marriage soured.

One very rainy night, down at the Visitor’s Center near Columbus Circle, a tall, thin man appeared at our run, dripping with rain, his hood covering all but the bill of his baseball cap. He had a back pack and was fumbling in the dark and cold to retrieve something from it. I saw him come toward me, but I had no idea who he was. The rain was steady, it was very late and we had a nice crowd of people to talk with.
As soon as he flipped the hood off, I saw it was Bernard. He smiled and he hugged me and told me he thought we’d never see each other again and as I think on those words now, I realize what an innocent I was back then. I really had no idea.

He handed me a book, carefully enclosed in a plastic bag from Gristede’s and told me to wait till I got home to read it. I promised I would and when I did finally get home, before I took off my wet windbreaker, I took the book out of my bag. It was a copy of Margaret Morton’s book, “The Tunnel” and there he was, on the cover, this powerful black and white portrait, a shaft of light illuminating him, Bernard in his peaceable kingdom. Inscribed inside, a note from Margaret and one from Bernard: “God Bless you, Jeannie Newman. Bernard Monte Isaac, The Lord of the Tunnel.”

Weeks come and go and start and end and mine was capped last night when we did our first Run of the academic year. The news of Bernard’s death spread on the street and all of a sudden, in the small crowds we saw, one or two or three of the old guys appeared. They stopped by as they heard we were coming down. They heard Bernard had died and they said they wanted to know more. They, like me, wanted to process it.
There will be a service now that his family has been contacted and Bernard will finally rest in peace, his ashes to be sprinkled by his older brother across a favorite creek of theirs that they played and swam in as boys in Florida. Until then, there will be a moment or two to try to make sense of this journey altogether, I suspect, one jagged puzzle piece at a time.

Thinking of you, Sheldon

Wed, 27 Aug 2014 06:20:17 GMT

What will your verse be?

Mon, 05 May 2014 06:29:30 GMT

For those whose words and thoughts develop on their iPhone or iPad or MacBook, you are very aware of Apple’s most recent catch phrase:

“What will your verse be?” And yet, those whose hearts were left a little bit broken or quietly aching with the news of Robin Williams’ tragic and oh-too-soon passing, will clearly remember the phrase from one of his memorable films, “Dead Poet’s Society,” a film I recently revisited, many years after its release.

His role in this film is as English teacher, John Keating. And quickly into the film, we see him with his students, a group of boys in a toney, New England prep school, who simply seem so familiar. He gathers his students around and squats down to their eye level. And, he quietly explains to them why we read and write poetry.

And so, what will YOUR verse be? What contribution to this life will you make? Clearly, there are times when we wonder what our purpose in this world must be…what could just “one” person? What will your verse be? It appears to me that in our frantic desire to excel and climb over each other to achieve and compete, we may have lost the focus and purpose of this one life we’ve been given. How do we balance achievement and success with calculated competition in order to do one good deed? Whatever happened to the unspoken kindness the Hebrews refer to as a mitzvah? Must everything we do and say become so public so as to trump what the other guy has done? Life, to me, ought to be far less cutthroat than this. What will your verse be?

I recall those who influenced my own life along the way, and none of those people knowingly pushed their ideologies upon me. Their greatness, to me, was measured in the silence of their goodness. I was the beneficiary of all of those people who, if they only knew now, would be quite surprised at how their gentle lives impacted mine. What will your verse be?

There is newness in the change of seasons: summer wanes and autumn casts its shortened shadows upon us. School has started and all I can think of is how good those fresh starts in all of our lives are. Are we even marginally aware of the many fresh starts and new beginnings we are given? How about this morning’s fresh start? And so, when all is pondered, said, and done, what will your verse be?

March Comes in Like a Lion…….and goes out like one, too

Thu, 27 Mar 2014 06:36:48 GMT

There has been so much chatter about the extended winter we have had, the unremitting cold that simply doesn’t want to loosen its grip on us here in New York. At this point, at March’s end when pansies would otherwise be braving the chill while crocuses punctuate the winter-weary ground, the weather has become the focus of every conversation along the East Coast. From family dinner tables to board rooms, from Facebook to Twitter, the cold and snow are center stage to other more noteworthy news.

For the most part, we are impatient with the weather, anxious to feel the warmth of the sun and the soft carpet of new grass beneath our feet, but for those whose homes are sheets of cardboard over a subway grate or the huddled, shadowed corner of a stone-cold step of an urban church, Spring and all it’s renewed beauty may as well be another year away. Cold is cold when shelter is absent and the city streets at night won’t feel warm until the depth of summer envelopes us.

It is, of course, a relative matter and we are, after all, only human in our crankiness. I merely offer this: as we seethe over extended heating bills that we will see into the month of April, as we roll our eyes at the thought of wearing those cold-weather clothes we’re so anxious to shed, it may do us all a bit of good to be grateful for all that we DO have. The weather will warm, the flowers will emerge and when the heat index goes well into the humid 90’s, we will complain about the excessive temperatures as well.

There really ARE so many – too many – who simply don’t have the luxury of complaining, as they just hold on and hope for even the slightest improvement. For them, life hangs precariously in the balance. For us, we really ought to remember that.
ASIDE

“You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself.“ ~ Alan Alda

November is the beginning of the busy months. Holidays rapidly descend upon us, starting with my favorite holiday of all: Thanksgiving. Our group of twenty high school kids accompanied by four hearty adults made our way into the city last night, to reach out to the homeless men and women who, after 25 years, have become part of the fabric of our lives, and who we’ll see again soon at our 24th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless. It’s become tradition. It’s become anticipated. It has been the focus of conversation among so many of our street friends from our first Run in September to the later, colder winter Runs when so many will reminisce about the food and the friendship they felt in November when the iconic school buses picked hundreds of them up so they, too, could enjoy a homemade holiday meal.

It cannot be easy, accepting the kindness of strangers. And yet, over the many years, these forged relationships between the teenagers and the homeless poor of New York City have created a deep and lasting bond of trust, of compassion, of love. Watching this crew of 20 students last night engage in animated conversation, sharing their anticipation of the Thanksgiving party they’ve worked so hard on, was nothing short of sheer joy.

It was the third stop on our list of five that touched me in that way that only happens on a Run. While speaking to a woman I had never seen before, I heard my name being called with a request to come over to the back of the truck where the kids were dishing out cups of Rob’s steaming hot chili and cubes of sweet cornbread in the shadows of the park.

Timothy was here, and I was genuinely happy to see him. In his clipped but polite cadence, he spoke as if life was one run-on sentence:

“Hello Mrs. Newman. How are you, Mrs. Newman? And I’m so glad to see you, Mrs. Newman. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you to let you know I was coming to the Run, but I’m working hard on my life, Mrs. Newman…”

And then something changed. What I had always perceived as a demeanor guided by the antipsychotic drugs he was taking to combat his mental illness shifted. Timothy’s steady, flatline voice became animated and engaged as he told me about the program he was chosen for—a program sponsored by Fordham University that was studying homelessness in the city.

He explained how, at his age, he had never had his own place, and that now, with the help of the Fordham crew, he was working with case workers on getting his own home. He told me, with life in his eyes, that he’s going back to school to complete his degree. I had no idea he had attended college! He’s enrolled at City College, where he will major in writing in January, and he shared how much he is looking forward to having a normal life, a normal job, and a perspective that felt more like a fog lifting—revealing a whole world of truth and clarity.

Timothy, for every intent and purpose, has found himself. And while he spoke in this authentic manner, free of the robotic disposition I had grown accustomed to, I felt the tears well in my eyes. The pressures of planning our homeless Thanksgiving dinner dissipated, and I found myself hugging this sweet man who slew his share of demons in the twenty-five years I have called him my friend.

Timothy, like so many other men and women I have met whose lives were shattered and splintered by opportunities missed, has found himself and knows now what freedom really feels like, tastes like, and he’s embracing it.

And on the way home, while the chatter in the van eased and the quiet of the early morning hours blanketed the group, I heard only this in my head, as I thought of Timothy’s self discovery, a verse from the one song that our Thanksgiving guests sing, year after year:
“I once was lost but now I’m found, ‘Twas blind but now I see.”

Good for you, Timothy! Good for you and your proven tenacity, your steadfast commitment to your own growth and your ability to overcome so many obstacles in your path. I’ll look for those Timberland boots you asked for, my friend, with the hope that they’ll continue to guide you out of your self-imposed darkness and into the Light.

ASIDE SHOP AMAZON and help SHARE!!

Holiday shopping is always easier on Amazon.com – now, if you click on our link, you’ll be supporting our charity at the same time!
Click here : http://smile.amazon.com/ch/01-0944154
It costs YOU nothing beyond what you spend at Amazon! They do the donating!
Help us help others. Please pass along our link to your friends and family who shop at AMAZON.com ! Every little bit helps!

“Take the time…SHARE the experience!”

Saying goodbye to an old friend... rest gently with the angels, Ronald...

Tue, 01 Oct 2013 06:42:24 GMT

As we rounded the corner to 80th Street last evening, a large congregation of people were gathering outside of All Angels Church, a mainstay for the less privileged in this Upper West Side community for many, many years. We parked the car and joined them, as we were all gathered to say goodbye to our friend, Ronald, the other half of what was always known as the inseparable “Ron-and-Diane” couple. In their younger days, Ron and Diane occupied a spot in one of a few tunnels in Riverside Park, or downstairs in the Rotunda, contributed by Robert Moses, New York City’s master builder of the mid-20th century.

They were homeless then, but happy and judging by the stories told at yesterday’s service, tales shared by those who occupied the same sleeping spots, theirs was a tight community of friendship and a vision clouded by crack, in a city that had no idea what to do with the burgeoning numbers of people in poverty.

So many of my friends here had moved on to leave the cardboard pallets and rotting sleeping bags behind. So many made the efforts to get beyond the dope before it got too bad. As I listened to the testimonials and declarations of friendship and love they had for Ron and his wife and children, I went back in time to twenty five years ago when I first met these friends of mine, in the deep shadows of the night, gathered around the cars we drove down down to the city, filled with clothing and food and blankets.

What started as a volunteer opportunity for me and hundreds of my students, my own young children and my friends, became a distinct and deliberate part of my life: the third Saturday night of every month, of every year, for twenty five of them was reserved to do this homeless outreach. The reality for me truly was far less antiseptic. Those Saturday nights were reserved to be with a group of people who accepted me – us – into their lives as friends. Genuinely and sincerely, they allowed us in.

And so, we sat in the front pew of All Angels Church yesterday because Diane, Ron’s widow, escorted us there, saying,”You’ll sit here, Jeanne, because you’re my family.” As I type this out, the tears of two decades suddenly find their way down my cheeks; tears I have not wanted to shed, fearing that if I do, I’ll lose effectiveness and objectivity. Tears of joy and sorrow, rivulets of hope lost and hope found, are now breaking the dam that held them in for so many years.

There was passion and deep belief within this strong community of mourners yesterday that is strikingly absent in my life, I noticed. The barefooted Indian priest asked, “Can I hear an Amen?” and I found myself responding. The service and my memories of Ronald poured over me, and I was right there in the moment, watching the joy in celebrating this fallen angel’s life spread throughout this room, upstairs in the church on the Upper West Side.

Ronald’s ashes were strewn across the water of the Hudson, Diane told me when she called me very late last night to see if we had gotten home safely. She was checking in with me because her too-filled heart has always been that way. We will see each other again soon, she said. She and her sons will share Thanksgiving Dinner with us again when we have our annual dinner in November and although Ron is somewhere else, his presence as her forever partner will be there.

The day moves forward. There are chores to do and tasks to complete. But, as I go through this day and perhaps the next few, the images of my old friend Ron will make an appearance as he rests gently and in peace.

SHARE ad

Fri, 27 Sep 2013 06:51:51 GMT

http://snd.sc/10lxYA7
Many thanks to Jeremy Newman and Raymond Fagan for their collaborative effort!
Take the time…SHARE the experience!

It's in The Air

Fri, 20 Sep 2013 06:46:40 GMT

Autumn arrives on the day we have our first Midnight Run of the season. What began as an uninformed but sincerely well-meaning group of high school kids with their teacher, has turned into a legitimate not-for-profit whose reputation precedes itself, after almost twenty six years of working with the homeless and the hungry poor.

Almost twenty six years.

Well, there’s more. Much more. Part of that journey has been our annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless which was a natural progression from our monthly homeless outreach runs. Why NOT gather everyone together, for a warm holiday meal, an evening of joy, of love, of family? Why not? And this, too, grew as the years passed to include men, women and children not just from Manhattan but from all five boroughs, as well as our own Westchester County. At last year’s dinner, where we happily returned to Hastings High School our original home, we served 648 folks and provided enough dinner for seconds with even more leftovers to take home, wherever home happens to be.
And so, as Autumn approaches and the nights cool down, we gladly watch the leaves change colors, as we roll up our sleeves to prepare for what will be our 24th annual gathering of the homed and the homeless. Toasting another year together, we will stand, often many hundreds strong, and share a few moments of spirit and of grace as the tireless student and community volunteers serve our guests.

You can be part of this. Donate today and know how much your contribution will help.

Please see this link:
http://www.gofundme.com/4ds3uo

With my deepest thanks, from all of us here to all of you there,

Jeanne

SHARE ad

Thu, 27 Jun 2013 14:54:02 GMT

http://snd.sc/10lxYA7
Many thanks to Jeremy Newman and Raymond Fagan for their collaborative effort!
Take the time…SHARE the experience!

Commitment That Changes Lives

Tue, 21 May 2013 06:57:39 GMT

“Commitment unlocks the doors of imagination, allows vision and gives us the “right stuff” to turn our dreams into reality.” ~ James Womack

This fleeting weekend appeared to be steeped in and oozing with the ideals of commitment. It certainly didn’t start out that way with this commitment “thing” being the core and focus of the two days that oddly whisked right by, but so be it. It was.
I hadn’t started thinking about it – commitment – until I received a frantic phone call from one of the kids who signed up to attend last night’s Midnight Run. She was exasperated that kids were dropping out with strange excuses from what has always been such a highlight of our many months that go by: homeless outreach in the center of New York City’s west side, late at night, extending ourselves to people who, under no other circumstance would we ever meet.

And yes, that last line is something I hear myself say time after time to the kids as I brief them before each Run so they have a clear understanding of what it is we do when we head downtown, cars and a van laden with hot chili and coffee, clothing and blankets, toiletry items and eager teenage volunteers…this is what we do, I tell them. We extend ourselves to people who under no other circumstances would we meet. And they change our lives. Forever.

My volunteer, a young girl with a passion and intensity I don’t often see, was on the phone with me, frantic about this thing we discuss, this “commitment” we make to participating in the monthly homeless outreach, “What will we do if we don’t have enough sandwiches or volunteers?” Her panic was contagious and I found myself growing disappointed and angered by the idea of someone putting their name on a list to volunteer and then, at the 11th hour, dismissing it all as okay to bail, when it never is okay to simply walk away from a commitment and not honor it in some positive way. Perhaps, it’s me, I think. Perhaps I forget that not everyone sees commitment as I do…my bad, I guess.

But, I started this process of wondering what would have happened this weekend if Rob decided to not make a 7 a.m. plane from California to get back to New York in time to make the chili that we bring on our Runs for the men and women who are hungry and waiting for us? And, I keep wondering, what if I decided to just chuck the idea of showing up at the photo shoot I had at 5 in the afternoon yesterday before the Run, dismissing the family that hired me to photograph their patriarch on his 75th birthday? What if Jeremy and Bridget and Christina said “screw it all, it’s raining and we’d rather stay up in Quincy, Massachusetts than get into the car and drive for four hours and then do the Run? And what if all the volunteers in all of the groups that take part in the Midnight Run just shrugged their shoulders and blew it all off? Then where would we be, beyond the Run and then some?

Commitment to the Run is rarely an issue. Am I cavalier enough to believe that kids no longer need to be taught accountability? I always felt that the Pied Piper nature of our Run helped bring kids into the fold, so that they could learn the responsibility of caring for something well beyond their own needs.

Imagine my complete shock and awe when we met up with the hearty group last night who chose to go! There they all were, minus only two who blithely bailed, without foresight, leaving us without the required 15 bagged lunches apiece. But those kids who came made up for those who didn’t in their desire to make right what was wrong. We took our chili and our sandwiches, our blankets and our bagged lunches and toiletries, our collected clothes and ourselves and ended up having one of the better runs of a long time. We saw folks I hadn’t seen in ten or more years. We made new friends with those “just passing through.” I witnessed story-telling between the homeless and our kids and best of all, I watched as new friends hugged each other, with the well-wishes of those we came to serve, asking that we stay safe in those darkest hours of the early morning.

It’s good, this sense of commitment those who attend have. It’s part of the journey that will last with them for a lifetime. I know this to be true: I had the pleasure of bumping into a former student last week who is now a mother of a lovely 8 year old boy. Her first thoughts were about the Run and how the folks on the street were. She told me that she recently saw a man she had met years ago at our Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless and although she wasn’t certain he’d remember her, she went up to say hello to him. Not only did he remember her, he pulled out of his pocket an old, worn wallet and pulled out an equally old, worn photograph. It was of he and she at that Thanksgiving Dinner many years ago. How’s that for memory-making?

Hard not to think of that memory not being given the chance to exist, if this woman chose not to honor her commitment to volunteer, isn’t it?

Thank you’s, transitions and where we are now…or “That Was The Week That Was”

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 07:01:27 GMT

Last Sunday, we started what can only be described as a blitzkrieg clothing collection for those people in the outer boroughs of New York City and New Jersey whose lives were completely turned upside down by Hurricane Sandy…Sandy came and went and in her wake, left hundreds of thousands of people stranded and paralyzed in a wave of destruction I certainly had never seen the likes of. Can any of us imagine what would have happened if the storm had been a Category 4 or 5? She came and she left and so many of us were completely taken off guard by what would ensue over the next twelve days.

No one was prepared for the destruction. No one was prepared for the prolonged loss of power. And truly, no one was prepared for the ground swell of kindness and generosity that followed. Our clothing collection spread from our group to others, a word of mouth event that resulted in the collection, sizing and sorting of hundreds and hundreds of bags of clothing for babies and children and ‘tweens and teens and adults in all sizes and age groups. People who had lost power, too, counted themselves lucky that the roof over their heads was still intact. They went through their closets and gave. They stood on long lines at COSTCO and bought diapers and formula, wipes and batteries. They gave. They responded to Facebook pleas from us here in New York and they sent their contributions through the mail from places as far away as California and Wisconsin, Arizona and Massachusetts. They gave.

Our living room filled with bags and boxes. Our front porch was always filled by the end of each day of gifts from the anonymous donor who simply responded to the call within themselves to help.

Apartments in Manhattan became dropoffs. Last Sunday, in an effort to turn the disappointment of many who had trained to run the New York City marathon and couldn’t because of the storm, this “small group of committed citizens” held a fundraiser instead and brought clothing and goods and we filled up more space.

The collections continued. We knew it was for a limited time, but we gave it our all and yesterday, in all the boroughs and here in Westchester, we took what you had selflessly given us and distributed those gifts. A miracle was created.

You did it. You gave from your hearts and you gave silent thanks that your family and friends are safe. And from that very same place in my own heart, I humbly offer my thanks and continue the process of planning for our 23rd Annual Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless that we will hold here in Hastings-on-Hudson on Tuesday, November 20th.

When you sit around your Thanksgiving table in 10 days or so, I highly suspect that what you will be feeling on that day will be an unparalleled gratitude. Go with it. You earned it.

My deepest thanks.

Jeanne Newman
SHARE the Project, Inc.

SHARE Responds: Clothing Drive After Sandy

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 07:03:37 GMT

“Take the time…share the experience”

November 3, 2012
It’s a chilly Saturday and many of us in New York, New Jersey and beyond are waking up to the new normal of no power, no heat and limited access to the outside world. Many of us are waking up to strange surroundings as we realize our homes have been damaged or destroyed and life as we had known it, has changed extensively.

Despite the loss, the shock and the awe of this devastation, we are a tough group, we New Yorkers, and at SHARE the Project, we decided to simply roll up our sleeves and help make the coming days a little easier for those who lost so much. Ours is an organization that has been a student-driven group since its inception in 1988.Many of the members who grew up as tireless volunteers in high school have stayed with us into their adulthood. And so all of us – kids and adults alike – are joining hands in this most recent project.

As we prepare for our annual flagship event, a Thanksgiving feast for over 500 homeless men, women and children, we are taking on another, more urgent need: a clothing collection for the residents of Breezy Point and the Far Rockaways and Staten Island. We are doing it because we can. It’s that simple. We are joining countless other New Yorkers in this effort to lend a hand in a quick and meaningful way. Won’t you please become part of the growing tradition that SHARE has exemplified for nearly 25 years?

If you have clean winter clothing for infants, toddlers, children and adults, you can drop them off or mail them to:
SHARE the Project, Inc.
161 Broadway
Hastings-on-Hudson, NY 10706

There will be drop-off locations in Manhattan as well and they will be posted on this site.
https://sharingtheproject.wordpress.com

And please accept our deepest thanks, from our hearts to yours.

Sincerely,
Jeanne Newman

founder and Executive Director

Family, Outreach, and Lessons from the Street

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 07:11:17 GMT

" I once was lost but now am found, Was blind, but now, I see…”
I sat in the kitchen, the gathering place for many a dialogue and intimate conversation in my lifetime, and shared stories with Bridget, my son Jeremy’s lovely girlfriend who was going on her very first homeless outreach with us last night. In an effort to explain this ”down the rabbit hole” experience that helps define the bulk of my adult life, I was the storyteller once again, talking about my three children, my family, and the influences in their lives, the people who boldly touched their souls. She had mentioned how much my son Jeremy spoke of the run to her and I wanted her to know why. Jeremy was only 9 years old when he went on his first Midnight Run outreach and I recall with genuine pride, how moved I was watching him hand out cups of hot coffee to the people of street, from the back of a van, saying, “I’m Jeremy, would you like some coffee?”

As Rob’s infamous chili bubbled on the stove, I spoke about the encampment under the West Side Highway, who I referred to as the Mole People’s upstairs neighbors. The names of those who lived in this section of Riverside Park read like a version of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” There was Shorty, the Captain, Papa Doc and the Professor, Larry and Leon and the women Marianne and Nikki, whose dog was better cared for than the people he lived with. I told her about Papa Doc, a former Herald Tribune newspaper man back in the day, who took a liking to Jeremy and how this particular person impacted my family’s life.

One early spring night on an outreach run, Papa Doc asked Jeremy what he was going to do over the upcoming spring break from school and Jeremy responded as any child of two working parents would. “Oh, nothing,” he said. ”My father’s working and my mom will probably go down to school to work. We’re not doing anything…” And it was then that Papa Doc crouched down to be level with my son and gently asked him, ”Jeremy, have I ever told you the story of the man who had no shoes? Well, he complained to everyone he met about this dilemma of his…until he met a man who had no feet.”

The sheer force of this story on my son, I told Bridget, was something palpable and lasting. Whether he remembers that moment or not, I couldn’t say, but I recall the look of clarity and astonishment on my young son’s face. Catie, my youngest, grew up, from the time she was an infant, in the culture of this commitment to the disenfranchised, the disempowered. My recollections match those of some of our oldest street friends when they ask about her now and are stunned to learn that she will be 24 years old in less than a month. There have been sweet conversations about how she was passed from one person to another as a baby on the Run, these strangers who became our friends over the many years our lives intersected. And it was Catie who first introduced me to Sam, our ancient Japanese-American friend. She was eight years old then, and very comfortable on these monthly runs into the city. She had discovered him sitting on a small hillside in Riverside Park near the Boat Basin, where we were stopped, on the street above the below-ground Rotunda and she came to me begging for a blanket to cover his swollen arthritic knees.

Sam became her ally and confidante, a friendly grandfather who made her and her two brothers origami toys and ornaments out of papers he recycled from MacDonald’s and the area grocery stores. Sam wasted nothing and created beauty out of everything. When Catie had become sick with a very stubborn infection in high school, missing several Runs, Sam folded 1,000 inch-long cranes for her, making a mobile out of them. Upon their completion, he made a wish to the gods that her health be restored, as the legend goes. Indeed, a week later, she was much better and on her way to recovery. The mobile, which she placed by her window in her bedroom is still there.

And although I am writing this a day after the run, it didn’t occur to me how coincidental life can be until the conversation I had last night with long-time friend Bernard Isaac, under the leafy branches of the huge trees in front of an entrance to Central Park. I told him about the article in the Times last week about Chris Pape, the graffiti artist who recreated famous masterpieces on the walls of the old Amtrak tunnel where Bernard and his crew lived. The murals were painted using spray paint and when I saw them, I knew I was in the presence of some surreal genius. We chatted about the old days of the Tunnel and the Boat Basin, of Riverside Drive and our mutual friends. It was then that Bernard shared the news of Leon’s death. The significance of this for me is twofold: I had just been speaking of Leon to Bridget just a few hours earlier and it was Leon who was my son Gabe’s connection, the gentle, quiet man who helped ease Gabe’s discomfort as a 9 year old on his first homeless outreach. It was Leon who asked Gabe about the lanyard he was making and it was Leon who walked away with a new lanyard, the skill in making another for himself after Gabe showed him how, and a new friend in my young son. It was Leon who helped Gabe overcome his shyness that evening in the park. My sadness over his death is real: I have never grown used to the loss of any of these fragile folks on the street. I doubt I ever will.

The weekend of family and friends, the Midnight Run and Rob’s chili, is coming to a close. While last month’s run may have been labeled “perfect”, this month’s run, for me, became all about the families I have: my own as well as those street people who impacted the lives of my kids as well as mine – and now Rob’s – in their simplicity and generosity of spirit.
While Rob napped, Jeremy called and told me he and Bridget arrived safely in Boston. Catie stopped by earlier and after I know Gabe is home from work, I’ll call him and we’ll have an opportunity to catch up. Family is defined in countless ways and I’m certain that despite my confusion over many other things in this life, family is something I have never lost sight or clarity of, near or far…homed or homeless. Somehow, none of that seems to matter really.

ASIDESHARE the Project, Inc.
dba Project S.H.A.R.E.
“Take the time…SHARE the experience”
September 28, 2011
Project SHARE’s 22nd Anniversary

Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless

For over 20 years, Project SHARE has helped guide high school and college students toward a clearer understanding of the social responsibilities required to ensure a brighter tomorrow for everyone. By transforming community service into social activism and by changing the idea of service “requirement” to “choice”, we lay the foundation for a culture and a society that is richer in understanding and acceptance of the disenfranchised, the dis-empowered and the poor.

Among the many service choices we offer, Project SHARE has been actively involved with outreach volunteer work within the homeless communities of both Westchester County and New York City, partnering with the Midnight Run, Inc. Our largest endeavor has been hosting an annual “family style” Thanksgiving Dinner for 500 men, women and children in the New York metro area. Approximately 300 students are involved every year in our holiday celebration. We do the event preparation and cooking ourselves, we provide buses to transport our guests, entertainment for all and babysitting for the children who come to share our feast, thus involving many within the community. This year’s dinner will take place on Tuesday, November 22nd at Congregation Kol Ami, 252 Soundview Avenue, White Plains, New York.

Last September, SHARE received its not-for-profit status and we are now a public charity. We rely heavily upon the contributions made by our friends to keep us afloat. This year, we have begun using the website http://www.indiegogo.com/Thanksgiving-Dinner-for-the-Homeless-1?a=146689&i=addr as a means of fundraising and it has been successful. 100% of the collected funds donated through this site goes to Project S.H.A.R.E. Please consider making a donation and then send this link along to 10 of your friends. It is really a simple way to make a donation that will help those in need.

Many thanks in advance,

Jeanne Newman
Executive Director and founder,
SHARE the Project, Inc. dba Project S.H.A.R.E.
See us on You Tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXOdhMZ8rhI
SHARE the Project, Inc. is A PUBLIC CHARITY – Tax Exempt #01-0944154

Our 20th Anniversary Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 07:14:15 GMT

Our 20th Anniversary Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless

There is a strange comfort in knowing that as a group, we have all done the best we could to bring our guests and volunteers together for yet another family-style Thanksgiving feast. Donations are heartfelt, but not plentiful. Vendors have turned us away. We have more guests than ever, but somehow we will make this lean year as meaningful as those fuller, more substantial years when we had enough food to serve our guests with plenty to spare.

We had a midnight run this evening, too, and the chatter was all about the dinner. “Can I come, please? I missed the last two years and I really want to come back. Please can I come, too?” We heard a lot of that this cold night on the streets of Manhattan. We’re close to 500 guests now but we’ll make it work. I know we will.

And Sam is coming…somehow seeing Sam waiting for us to sign him up for the dinner, after being absent from our runs for 8 months or more, is another one of those comforts. Sam will be there and it makes the world entire seem happier and more inviting.
The dinner will be wonderful. We may have fruit baskets. We may not. I won’t know until later today, Sunday. The kids will come through as will the adult volunteers and the guests will embrace another evening created solely for them. I have a good feeling about this one. I just do.
And to those reading this, from all of us to all of you, have a warm and meaningful and very Happy Thanksgiving!

UPDATE :
The dinner was an enormous success and we filled the banquet room at Congregation Kol Ami in White Plains, New York with lots of love. We have been invited back for next year. We’ve already started planning.

Home

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 07:24:38 GMT

Social justice , a noun, is defined as ‘the distribution of advantages and disadvantages within a society. My definition of social justice is illustrated by a phone call I received several months ago from my old friend Eddie, a formerly homeless man. The last time I saw him was in late February 2007, in Columbia-Presbyterian’s cardiac unit. He had dodged yet another metaphoric bullet surviving congestive heart failure. Today he called to tell me that after many years of homelessness and illness, he was finally home in Georgia, reunited with his wife, his children and continuing his ministry as he calls it, to help the poor and disenfranchised. “It’s the least I can do, Jeanne after what Project S.H.A.R.E. and all your kids have done for me and so many others.” Yes, a perfect example of social justice.

The teenagers who have been part of this community of givers have all contributed to helping right what is often a topsy-turvy world of injustice and inequity. Their efforts have been long-lasting and memorable.

This site is dedicated to all those who gave of themselves and to all those who received their many kindnesses.
Be safe. Be well. Be happy.

~ Jeanne Newman