By Lynne Rappaport

The young man sat hunched over on the West Portal Avenue sidewalk.  Faceless.  Nameless.  Knees pulled up to his chest, he was covered with a tattered blanket and had a handwritten sign resting against him: “Pray that I can conquer my demons.”  Words that seemed to invite passersby in as congregants who could feel his plight and care.

I was there running errands, as I often am – banking, the library, maybe a stop at the bakery on senior discount day.  Seeing those words stopped me, curious to know more.  I felt a maternal urge to crouch down and try to connect, but really, what could I offer? 

He was quiet, folded into himself, possibly not reachable at all.  He was lost somewhere inside the abyss of his poor tortured mind.  Yet he was out in public on an autumn afternoon in San Francisco in an upscale neighborhood bordering St. Francis Wood.  If he wanted help, why was there nothing next to him to leave some cash in?

This was not the Tenderloin, where I recently dropped off a toiletries donation at St. Anthony’s, and was in tears at the misery and chaos I witnessed from the safety of my car.  It was like being dropped into a disaster zone, like nothing I would ever witness in my own quiet city neighborhood a few miles away.  The overcrowded street could have buckled from the weight of poverty, disabilities, drug use, overall instability.  November 1st was looming—in just a few days, SNAP benefits would be cut by the ongoing government shutdown, and where were these folks supposed to turn to for their next meal?  

No, this was West Portal, and he stood out among the Starbucks patrons, Schwab investors, bookstore browsers, nail salon regulars, parklet loungers, and restaurant and bakery customers (everything from sushi, artisanal donuts and pizza to lattes and croissants).  A steady stream of people of all ages strolling on the Avenue, more than comfortable, and presumably not plagued by demons.  

This man deserves some of these goodies too.  But first, his demons have to be wrestled and quieted.  How long will he stay there before being told to leave?  Where will he go?  Or will someone summon the police?  

I thought about letting a psychologist friend know.  She has a private practice in a cozy office near UC Medical Center.  What could she do for him here?  Did he need to be in the psych ward, held in a 5150, diagnosed and medicated?  Was he on drugs?  A bad LSD trip?  These days it’s all about fentanyl or taking something laced with fentanyl.  

In Zimbabwe, an innovative psychiatrist, Dr. Dixon Chibanda, dreamed up a way to cope with the acute shortage of mental health workers in that country: enlist the grandmothers, give them some training, teach them to recognize red flags requiring referral to a professional, and send them out to simply sit on a designated “friendship bench” and listen to someone pour out their personal story and share their troubles. 

Chibanda had lost a patient to suicide in 2005, a young woman whose family couldn’t afford the bus ride to his office.  He was one of only 10 psychiatrists serving 13 million people.  Galvanized by that loss, he turned to the natural resource that already existed: the grandmothers, trusted elders from the community, who as volunteers, could offer a listening ear and human connection.  They were blessed with innate compassion and understanding, the wisdom that comes from living a long life.  Together they discovered that using words in their own language that everyone would recognize, replacing clinical terms like anxiety and depression, helped remove the stigma and allowed for the comfort level necessary to open up to a “stranger.”

I’ve seen darkness like this in my own family and know it can get better.  It’s temporary, we hope, and can respond to treatment and loving kindness.  I have momentarily forgotten my errands, continuing to watch him and wonder: Where is your caring relative, friend, well-meaning teacher, minister?  Where are the Mother Teresa’s, Pope Francis’s, to wash your feet and lift you up?  Where are the angels to conquer the demons?  Where is a Friendship Bench?

Lynne Rappaport is a Sunset District resident.