Washington is not Florida.
In fact, it is as far away as I can go from our Melbourne office and still be in the continental United States. If we lived in any era except for this one, then I likely never would have visited this place that now feels so much like home, or at least a place where I, and we, feel so welcomed.
This was our third year at the Sasquatch! Festival. It’s four days and it’s camping and it’s face paint and it’s laughter. But it’s also questions, the obvious change of pace in walking when folks hold up to read our mission statement. It’s hugs and it’s sign language.
Out in the Gorge in Quincy, Washington you laugh yourself to sleep from the irony that you’re freezing your ass off in the nighttime high desert. You are kept warm by the coals of a melody, coaxed to life by the thousands of strangers singing your favorite song along with you. Those coals become your snowman’s smile in your winters. Those coals will one day be pressed into diamonds, resting on the fingers or chest or wrist or ears of someone quite dear to you, forever a testament that good people still exist and many of them would love you if they were given the chance, simply because one night late in May we were part of the same choir.
I shared all of this with 27,499 people each day. The number seems more real than if it was rounded to the nearest hundred. Numbers get more significant when they are less neat. Somehow saying that I gave 27 hugs yesterday feels more significant than if I said 100 hugs. I think it’s because then I hold myself accountable to remember every face tied to each individual embrace.
That one individual means something so much different than a multitude. That one allows more weight per word. That one allows the memory of a person to stretch out in my mind, get comfortable in my heart, so I can remember them with fondness rather than work-time-tedium.
Here is a sampling from those “ones.” These are stories I carry with me both to and from Florida. Every story has two parts – the storyteller and the audience. The audience bears witness to the story, bringing a reality and gravity to the telling, and this was perhaps the most real week of life.
—Eloise started off Saturday by bringing her three sons to get hoodies. Her sons are mostly too young to understand what we do, but she loves us. This is the third year I’ve seen her, and I am convinced she is just looking for an excuse to invest in us. Her family is a highlight to the Gorge every year.
—John and Beth both celebrated two years of sobriety last month from opiates. I welcomed them back for a impromptu “meeting” the day after I met them, just to celebrate. Beth can double-dutch with the best of them.
—Jane has been sober four years now. This was her first sober Sasquatch. She came by just to hug us and tell us that us being here makes the “drug nostalgia” easier.
—Elizabeth was with her soon-to-be husband Ronnie this weekend. She was one year clean from heroine on Saturday. Ronnie used to be her dealer, and he is now drug-free as well. Sasquatch is their bachelor/bachelorette/pre-honeymoon party. They both wear bracelets in honor of each other.
—Laura had never heard of us before. The hoodies pulled her in to our table because she was cold, even though she was already wearing a hoodie. She asked what we were about, and upon mentioning the word suicide in the mission statement, she immediately pulled off the left arm of her sweatshirt to show a beautiful tattoo of her brother who had died by suicide. She said she supports us with all of her heart now. She stuck around a little while longer, and I asked her how she was doing. She was in tears before I finished the question and said, “They all lie . . . it doesn’t get any easier. I still miss him. Every single year is just as hard as the last.” She told me that this is the first time she has really cried since the funeral. We hugged, and I told her that we are fighting for her, for her family, and for the memory of her brother. She thanked us and walked away, only to return 45 minutes later for another hug.
—Helen is in dental school and has opted to be open with her peers about her struggles with depression. She has no regrets of coming clean about her battles and medication despite stigma-affirming advice from her mentors and professors.
—Molly and Michelle took a lot of pictures of the booth. Michelle works for a local Seattle recovery line. Her heart is with the LBGT community. I told her we are brothers and sisters.
—Hazel is in school in Portland. Her arms have memories that her brain wishes she could forget. She lost a $20 bill somewhere, so I gave her a free shirt. She said it made her day. She later came back to give us $5 she found back at her campsite.
—Carolyn was working for the venue at the Artist Merch booth. She came by twice today on her breaks. She wrote down her fears and dreams and said that she’s normally the one helping her friends, but she is aware that she might need someone to talk to. She took a card and said she would look into seeking help for herself. The third time she passed the booth was when she was off work. She was wearing our Versus shirt and cheered as she skipped by us. Twenty yards off, she began talking to a friend, showing off the shirt, and pointing to our tent. I don’t know what was said, but their conversation ended with a hug, which made me smile.
—Donna and Felicia are from Canada. They were curious about the name. They were very intrigued by the “how” of what we do. Donna lost her boyfriend to suicide in January. She signed “thank you” in between tears. She left the rest of her French fries for us.
—A few years ago, Eduardo almost died in Brazil in a robbery attempt. Since then he has carried a Polaroid camera collecting photos with people writing what they want to do before they die. His dream is to give back to his orphanage in Peru.
—Jennifer is 8 months sober. Her “birthday” is September 5th. She gave me her meditation that she printed out for the last day of the festival from her AA group. That was an honor.
—Christina bought a shirt in honor of her brother Joel who struggled with depression. He found hope and help through our website and is now married and a soon-to-be a father.
—Meredith serves in the Navy. Her fear is that the troops she led and helped in NA will forget her and how far they have come. Her dream is to live a normal life and not be trapped in anger. She goes back to Afghanistan in December.
—David is a big body. He is a clinician with sky eyes and cloud hair. He stopped by over the weekend to take a card. He came back the next day to exchange a $100 check for two shirts. He says love is the best medication we have. He calls his patients on off weeks to show them unconditional positive regard. The folks he treats struggle just as his daughter does, with diagnosed clinical depression. He showed his support in an unexpected hug.
—Sarah’s niece is currently at an inpatient mental health facility. She planned to give her niece a bracelet and shirt when she sees her.
—Teresa is four years injury-free. Sasquatch is a sort of anniversary for her. She finds peace in music and sunshine.
—I met Alex and Mary Grace on the first day of the festival. They passed by again as we packed up, encouraging us to make infant clothes and saying that they look forward to celebrating two years sobriety with us next year.
This is why we do what we do. It’s all an excuse to get out here and hug people. My business card reads “Music/Events,” but perhaps it should be something more like “Cardiac Carrier Pigeon.” You see, I carry hearts for a living and for the living. I carry yours with me out here, and I plan on returning more back to Florida. It’s a wearying honor, but one I am proud to fulfill.
In closing, I want to say a few thank yous. Thank you to Devon and Ashley and Grace for your hearts and time in volunteering this weekend—you are the embodiment of our mission. Thanks to Mayuri for helping us on the logistics side of year three at the Gorge, and thank you to Lynn for setting all this up and taking a chance on us being out here. Thank you beyond words to Heather—without her we never would have stepped foot on Sasquatch soil. We are beyond indebted to you and so so very thankful for your friendship and servant heart. Lastly, thank you to everyone who wrote their fears and dreams and came by just to chat. This was all for you. We celebrate your life. We are glad that you were there with us. Your story is important. We mean it.
—Chad
*All names changed to honor and respect the privacy of the storyteller.