I know some are wondering why I’m aways out there in that same spot each weekend, rain or shine, in the hottest or coldest weather, standing on my virtual painted X on the ground. To some, at times, I’m looking and sounding like some late-night talk show host standing on his or her big X painted on the stage floor that the camera angle doesn’t allow you to see. I’m there usually at the same time, carrying our message of progress, dignity, and self-sufficiency through the vehicle of my street paper, hoping you’ll join us in this important fight I’ve given 31 years of my life to.
The majority of the people in the crowds who shop at the two special farmers markets, which I’ve been blessed to distribute Street Sense from — Del Ray, Alexandria, for over 17 years, and Takoma Park for 10 — may think it’s boring. At times between donations, I assure you, it can be like watching paint dry, and I start to negotiate my exit strategy in my head. “Well, this is a wash,” or “these people,” “it’s too cold or hot,” you know, when one is looking for a reason to quit this or that. The reality is I’m just like all vendors. No matter how long I’ve been at it, we all have these moments of doubt when we question ourselves, saying, “Tell me again why I’m still doing this?” or “I just don’t have IT today.”
And in the most Random of Acts of Kindness, that’s usually when that special kind of a person, whose life allows them to say exactly what they want, when they want, and feel like, because of their sweetness, authenticity, and naivete, rumbles up the sidewalk with some adult in tow, and, like a bull in a China shop, comes to a full stop in front of me.
Some say nothing, some stand there just watching me interact with this look of “I want to know more” as their handler or handlers try to hurry them along. Some lacking complete command of the language will just point at the stand and sign attached to display my copies of Street Sense and say, “What’s that?” And it’s on as the accompanying adults, God bless them, have this apologetic look on their faces and great patience as I explain the street paper movement to a younger member of the most innocent, honest, and most amazing group I’d ever come in contact with. I’ve had just some of the most thoughtful, genuine interactions doing this with kids of all ages, from toddlers to college students. All have the same caring light in their eyes that no one has insisted they turn off. By giving them the time to explore their curiosity, these parents are taking the opportunity, when time permits, to begin to teach compassion.
My first of many of these close encounters came with Street Vibes Cincinnati with college and high school students, and now in the D.C. area with 23 years at Street Sense, I’m still in constant contact with young people. Now, I get to have different but special interactions in very small windows of contact with kids, the next generation of this paper’s supporters, kinda like a grandparent gets to see their grandkids. And just like that, each one of them brings this big smile to my heart, and like a magic poof, they’re gone, as parents try to maintain the schedule. I’ve hopefully gotten better at understanding the need to balance my involvement with the little person with their schedule by being aware of the Saturday or Sunday family plans and helping the parents out.
In some cases, it was the kid who was interested in the paper first, sometimes even before they could read, as is the case with Mr. Mike at Takoma Park with his girls. He’s the nicest guy, who makes sure they always, as a group, say, “Hi, Mr. Wendell.” I’ve watched him show up with the first one to support the paper himself, then watched as the siblings jockeyed for position to be the one to give the donation or receive it. It’s also fun to watch when he’s late pulling them in their red wagon, grabbing a paper on the run, rushing to meet their mom somewhere, I’ll assume. Always telling them to “say hi to Mr. Wendell,” which they sing out in unison as he dashes by. I’ve watched parents just let their child stand there and talk, as is the case with one young man of about 4, who talks about the places he and dad have traveled since I’ve seen him last. He was there with his grandmother, who, I was convinced, like other parents, uses their child’s attraction to the paper to begin teaching them to read, and just as important, to accept others who are different by showing no fear, panic, or concern for their little bundle of joy who had connected with someone a little different from them. And it gives them a wide range of subjects to talk about, as they start to develop a social consciousness that includes compassion much sooner than most. For those little ones, the parents would make getting the paper the kids’ part of going to the market, giving them the money to make the donation themselves, bringing the paper back, and taking a moment together to breeze through it.
Sometimes, it was the kids’ interest that sold the parents on picking up paper. And years later, a lot of those kids have grown up and gone to other things, like one special Street Sense young lady whose parents are still getting the paper for themselves, mainly her dad. He knows I miss seeing her and recently said, “Adie says hi, and she’ll be by to you soon.” I hear that a lot, and wonder if they even remember me. It’s quite natural that at some point, they get “busy” with life and stop going to the markets. Then one Saturday, out of nowhere, her dad says, “Yeah, Adie is up the street with her friends and says she’s coming down to see you.” Oh no, I go, I don’t look well compared to maybe when she last saw me.
I heard her before I saw her; she was calling my name. I was so happy, I hadn’t laid eyes on her in what seemed like years. They grow so fast. Her hair was green with this hip, funky look. She sounded great, just a more mature version of her already awesome self. Her friends approached, and just like that, the reunion I’d waited for was over. As they left, I think she sensed my sadness and turned and said, “Hey, I’ll be back.” And just then I thought of the Harry Chapin song, “Cat’s in the Cradle,” and I wanted to say, “and we’ll get together then.” My experience has taught me that at her stage of life, chances are we won’t. But I know I had a chance to be a very small part of her life for a few minutes on Saturday, while her dad shopped. As time passes, those, however brief, moments will fade, but for an old vendor, her face will be on my virtual wall of the next generation of caring, compassionate movers and shakers who enjoyed visiting me on those long-ago weekends. She’s now finishing the 10th grade, so in a couple of years, which will go by so quickly, it will her time to graduate high school, and I can’t wait to hear about it.
And then there was my buddy Jose, whose mom had a bakery up a few blocks from the Del Ray market. They sold fresh-baked treats delivered straight from the oven while Jose manned a fold-up table. Their empanadas were a big hit, selling as many as she could bake. While Jose would be waiting for a new batch, he would come talk, and he started getting a paper. That’s when I found out how young he was. Newly arrived from Bolivia, he’d talk of his dream of providing housing in his community by buying and then renting to others just like him and his mom. We spent every Saturday side by side until the pandemic left his mom with no other choice than to shut down the market stand, and he went to work at the bakery. But from time to time, he’d stop by for a paper. So last week I stopped at the bakery. He had finished school and now manages the bakery. He’s saved and bought that first house, rented it for a while as planned, and just recently sold it and got married. From boys to men, I’ve seen it with Street Sense kids.
There was one Street Sense kid who took on a whole city. Sorry, I don’t recall his name, but he was also in high school and understood the reasons for the racist name of Alexandria’s only high school. This kid, with all the people opposed to changing the name, put a simple sign in his front yard saying, “Change the name.” After decades of back and forth, you know, tradition versus progress, the ball quickly rolled toward change. Who knows, reading Street Sense might have inspired him. He was only a sophomore.
Everything has not gone completely well with all the Street Sense kids. One, whom I just love to death, grew up too fast a few years back. No matter how hard his mom tried, it got worse. I could see it because he lived in a house converted to apartments right next to the Alexandria market, and we’d spend 20 to 30 minutes together every Saturday while he “helped me” with the papers. Now I hardly see him. The other day, I even wore the shoes I bought at Potomac Yards when we went shopping one Saturday, and he recommended I update my look.
One day, sadly, his mom stopped by, knowing what kind of work I do, and told me what was happening and asked for suggestions. He was lost in the worst way imaginable. We all, his sister included, prayed and put our heads together, and I shared with them every potential solution I knew to work for other kids. But he was lost and not ready; years went by. One day, I put those shoes on and had to call his mom. And wonderful news awaited me. He was three years sober, married with a daughter, working, and living in San Diego. And based on the obstacles he faced and how far he had come back from, I couldn’t be prouder of a Street Sense kid.
Now, there are some of these weekend mornings I think maybe I should stay in bed because my legs are saying, “yeah, I’m done.” And then I remember all the possibilities that await me through contact with the people, and that includes the special opportunities to interact with their kids. And as time goes by, I interact with them more through the parents, who are blown away I still remember their child’s name. How could I not? Or I’ll say they are this old now, and that they should be in this grade, or what college did they choose? It’s a skill I work on based on my experience as a kid, who was amazed by some carny with The James E. Strates Shows. The carnival came to the RFK park every summer when I was a kid, and I absolutely went nuts over these guys who would guess your weight and age. Each summer, I’d study them and those doing the same thing in Atlantic City on family vacations. But it was watching the old children’s show, “Kids are People Too,” that I got it and learned from the Amazing Kreskin, a mentalist, on how to store names and remember things. And although my skills are fading, in most cases, parents are happy to see that I get at least one out of the two correct. I can’t reveal my secrets, or the magician’s union may come after me. But ask me at the market, and I’ll tell you one-on-one. I think this “skill” may have endeared me to some.
In a lot of cases, I get up and go out so as not to miss my next class of graduates from grade school, high school, or college. In their own way, the Street Sense kids are a substitute for my relationship with my ever-faster-growing grandkids living a little less than 700 miles away, with the added distance of a break right now between my daughter and I. They’re now 4 and just about 7 years old.
If I would have stayed in bed on one particular cold, wet Sunday morning, I would have missed some of the most special of benefits. The compassionate ones who were simply raised by a parent who insisted they be that light in a world that can seem not to care about their fellow man.
This is why RAOK is so powerful and even more powerful when it’s kids doing them. It was so long ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I needed extra money desperately and decided to go to a 7 a.m. mass in front of a Catholic church in Old Town Alexandria. While in the city’s new shelter, I remembered seeing a plaque on the lobby wall thanking this parish. So I went to see what kind of reception the paper would get. This one particular family, on their way into mass, stopped. Her two small kids wanted to donate, got a paper, and said we’ll see you on our way out. In this weather, let’s just say I was underdressed for the conditions. I was already sick and nose running from living in my car when I came down with something. As the crowds filed out of mass and families rode away, I stood there wondering if I’d missed that family that was so nice.
And it happened as it almost always does, when I least expect it, humanity shows up and performs this RAOK on my behalf, and it’s one I’ll remember. For the rest of my days, I’ll be sharing this as a testimony to the power of teaching kindness. The streets are empty now, and one lonely car comes rolling down the street. A car door opens, and two tots jump out, Mary Kate with a jug of orange juice and little brother Brady holding a bag with cold meds, wipes, and cough drops, simply saying, “Here, we hope you feel better.” They jump back in the car, and before they can drive away, I shout a thanks to their mom. She says, “No it was their idea.” It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between us for years as they supported the paper, even stopping by when they were with their dad. Then, getting sober again, I stopped going to the church, lost phones, and lost touch. At the time, they were in the 4th and 6th grades at the parish school.
A month ago, at the Del Ray market, I could not believe my eyes when I saw what I thought was their mother manning a political election table. I ran up and started to guess ages and grades. Time has not been so gracious to the Amazing Wendell, and I got both wrong. Brady is a sophomore, and Mary Kate is a graduating senior later this month from the University of Dayton. It’s the alma mater of their mom, Marianne, the site of my first radio job, my late sister-in-law’s alma mater, and home to many of my friends.
This article originally appeared in Street Sense’s June 17, 2026 edition.
