Annette (Part 1)
In all my writing about the homeless crisis, writing about a certain homeless 50-year-old woman I knew from my past feels like the most agonizing undertaking possible. I've avoided it for a couple of years, but no longer can because the story compels me to publicize it to the larger world, even though she will never read it.
No, the woman is not dead. Something perhaps worse.
Annette L and I met in 1989 when I began my first year of teaching at a suburban high school south of Portland. She landed in my American Government and Beginning Psychology courses as a sophomore. She quickly distinguished herself as a vocal, excellent student who demonstrated passion for humanitarian causes. I'll never forget her performance in a debate advocating for the progressive income tax. It was an intense one-on-one affair against an Ayn Rand-styled conservative and Annette dismantled her opponent with crisp economic logic and an emotional appeal to fairness and making American society more equitable.
It was during this time that I ran into Annette before a REM concert in the Memorial Coliseum. It was the band's Green tour and I took a date with me on a school night. Annette was there with a boy I didn't recognize from school. She was utterly shocked to see her teacher at such an event, and said so, laughing the whole time. I laughed at the insinuation that I wasn't cool enough to attend a rock show.
I quit at the end of that first year and traveled to Mexico in attempt to become a writer (which failed). Annette transferred to another high school in the Portland area after I left, a much more academically challenging institution.
We ran into each other a couple years later when I was living in downtown Portland and teaching social studies at a suburban high school. She and a friend were in the lobby of an art house theater. I was alone. We were all there to see Europa, Europa, an acclaimed European film about a young refugee boy trying to survive the hellscape of Germany during WW II. Annette was shocked and happy to see me and after the movie, we all went for coffee to discuss this remarkable and harrowing movie.
After that unexpected meeting, we occasionally met to catch up on our lives. Annette was restless and wanted adventures away from Oregon, but the time wasn't right.
Then we lost touch.
Several years later, for reasons I no longer recall, Annette and I got back in contact and began corresponding, mostly when I was abroad, still trying (unsuccessfully) to become a writer. She was attending Boston University and majoring in political science and global affairs. Her plan was to become a diplomat of some kind or work for an international humanitarian agency. She was already fluent in Spanish because of her Panamanian heritage: her father had served in the US military, stationed in the Canal Zone, and had met Annette's mother, a Panamanian native. I never did learn how they ended up in Oregon.
Annette and I met again in 1996 when she returned to Oregon after graduating from Boston University and living in New England where she worked at various communication jobs and also did modeling on the side. I was teaching at a suburban high west of Portland. By then, I had transitioned out of social studies and into English, journalism and creative writing. I still hadn't got the writing going and began wondering if I ever would.
What prompted this reunion had a unique origin: one day at school I received a message that Annette's mother had called the school and asked me to call her. This was very odd. I had never met the mother. I returned the call immediately and her mother informed me that Annette was experiencing early symptoms of schizophrenia and refusing to take them seriously. Annette's mom knew I had acted as a mentor to her daughter and that Annette respected my opinions. She might listen to me. Would I meet her and perhaps nudge her toward taking the diagnosis of early stage schizophrenia more seriously?
I said yes, but was utterly and obviously out of my depth. The mother gave me Annette's number and told me not to tell Annette that she had called me about her condition. Apparently, Annette was highly sensitive about it.
Annette was now in her early 20s. Our reunion took place in a pub and it was grand as we recounted our various lives, including my adventures while teaching English in Turkey. She was in Portland for an indefinite amount of time so we agreed to meet again. In our initial meeting I didn't mention anything about schizophrenia. I saw no obvious changes in her except, of course, that she was older and exuded a definite adult bearing.
She wanted to come visit me in my classroom and I said that was fine. She hung out for half a day and even participated in some of the writing activities.
Later that week we met again and I broached the subject of her mental health and mentioned her mother's call and concern. Yes, I violated the mother's confidence. In the moment, there was no other choice.
Annette reacted with extreme anger with her mother and me for bringing up the mental health issue. It was a private matter. She felt manipulated and suggested our friendship was fake, staged. She was sick of her mother's meddling. I was truly surprised at the level of her anger. I had no previous experience with anyone suffering a mental health crisis. I didn't know what I was doing but I cared about Annette's well being so I went on instinct.
We parted on good terms, but didn't get back in touch again for almost a decade.
By then, the internet had emerged.