Coley Family
November 29, 2006
Our good friend Jeremy Dean, filmmaker and creator of the documentary Dare Not Walk Alone, wrote the following story about the Coley family. Jeremy also designed both t-shirts that are for sale. Helen Coley and her family are a large part of the film, and so Jeremy became close friends with Helen. On October 24th, her house burned down. Profits from these shirt sales will go directly to rebuilding the Coley household. There are other sites following this, and we encourage you to check them out and get involved:
http://darenotwalkalone.com/
http://darenotwalkalone.blogspot.com/
http://cobb.com/dnwa/appeal.html
http://www.ccobb.blogspot.com/
And now, the story in Jeremy's words:
An old newspaper, junk mail, bits of grass and sticks, she crumples them in a pile and feeds them into the mouth of the small cast iron stove resting in the center of the living room. She strikes a match and holds it. The flame wavers as a damp draft from cracks in the wall blows winter though the house. Convinced the match is lit, she touches it to the paper. Steadily the fire takes hold and the dark room is illuminated. The flickering light dances up a fake wood-paneled wall, glinting off plastic gold framing a family photo, then dashes across the sagging ceiling, reflecting off the stain where rain comes in, down a tattered sheet masquerading as a bedroom door and finally, spills across the worn out pieces of carpet where Helen kneels.
She looks at the light and absorbs the growing warmth.
There is a tale of a mythological creature, an immortal bird with golden feathers called the Phoenix. Every five hundred years the Phoenix flies to the desert gathering wood, herbs and spices to build a nest. When the sun is at its brightest it turns it’s face to the light. The magnified reflection off its feathers starts a fire in the nest and the bird uses its wings to fan the flames until it is consumed by the heat. Out of the ashes that remain springs forth the Phoenix now young and strong, who flies off for another five hundred years, resurrected, immortal, and triumphant.
I can remember one of the last times I saw Helen. She sat in a plastic elementary school chair in the dirt lot in front of her house. The plastic had been bright red once but was now faded by sun and rain to a pinkish grey. The weight of her body pushed the rusting chrome legs deep into the soil, and she cried.
Her feet and hands looked enormous, swollen from years of standing while washing dishes. The black dress she wore was the best she had. She must have picked it out special to go see the lawyer, but the holes in the hem did not make the impression she was hoping for. What little spark of life was left in her had been blown out by the news.
"All we can do now is pray," she said over and over.
On that day the front page of the newspaper boasted the capture of four suspects in a murder. One of those was her only son. The details were sketchy, but the facts say he was there. Whether he was at the wrong place at the wrong time or something more, we would not find out for more than a year and he would sit in a cell thinking about his life. All Helen knew was that she had lost another, and it made it hard to breath.
I tried to console her, but what can one man say that will bring comfort.
A few weeks later we organized a tour of her neighborhood in an effort to bring awareness to the housing needs of some members in our community. Elected officials, government agencies, concerned citizens, we all came to Helen’s home. She stood in her kitchen next to the plastic table that held her worn Bible, and invited these strangers to see her naked reality. She let people in believing help would come, and again she cried. She looked straight ahead as proud tears trailed down both cheeks, thanking each guest for stopping by. I stood next to her in a one-armed half hug, telling her it would be ok, things had to get better. I could hear gasps from the few brave enough to come inside, most safely lingering next to the bus, hands in pockets, lips pulled tight, gazes shifting from house to ground.
She had done her best, she was generous with what she had, she was the daughter of southern black sharecroppers, she never saw the seventh grade and she had worked all her life. Years of raising kids and grandkids alone had taken their toll. She was tired.
After everyone left the house I gave her a kiss and told her I would be back. She called me baby and thanked God for my coming. As I walked to the bus, I cried. I could see on the shocked faces of my fellow tourists that no help would come, not today.
And now, months later, the front page of the newspaper reports "A woman raising three grandchildren lost her home of 27 years to fire Tuesday. With it went all of Helen Coley's possessions and those of grandchildren Tip Coley, 18, Precious Coley, 12 and Quinton Coley, 21. Fire Rescue confirmed the fire was caused by a wood-burning stove's small chimney that was loosely connected to the home's larger chimney. The heat leaking from the poor connection caused the wall to catch fire."
Had she known this match would take away what little she had, give her three days in a Red Cross hotel, this match that would once again put her family in the newspaper… but she didn’t. All she knew was that it was cold, and her family needed warmth.
So she sits and looks at the light, and I sit and look for a Phoenix.
http://darenotwalkalone.com/
http://darenotwalkalone.blogspot.com/
http://cobb.com/dnwa/appeal.html
http://www.ccobb.blogspot.com/
And now, the story in Jeremy's words:
An old newspaper, junk mail, bits of grass and sticks, she crumples them in a pile and feeds them into the mouth of the small cast iron stove resting in the center of the living room. She strikes a match and holds it. The flame wavers as a damp draft from cracks in the wall blows winter though the house. Convinced the match is lit, she touches it to the paper. Steadily the fire takes hold and the dark room is illuminated. The flickering light dances up a fake wood-paneled wall, glinting off plastic gold framing a family photo, then dashes across the sagging ceiling, reflecting off the stain where rain comes in, down a tattered sheet masquerading as a bedroom door and finally, spills across the worn out pieces of carpet where Helen kneels.
She looks at the light and absorbs the growing warmth.
There is a tale of a mythological creature, an immortal bird with golden feathers called the Phoenix. Every five hundred years the Phoenix flies to the desert gathering wood, herbs and spices to build a nest. When the sun is at its brightest it turns it’s face to the light. The magnified reflection off its feathers starts a fire in the nest and the bird uses its wings to fan the flames until it is consumed by the heat. Out of the ashes that remain springs forth the Phoenix now young and strong, who flies off for another five hundred years, resurrected, immortal, and triumphant.
I can remember one of the last times I saw Helen. She sat in a plastic elementary school chair in the dirt lot in front of her house. The plastic had been bright red once but was now faded by sun and rain to a pinkish grey. The weight of her body pushed the rusting chrome legs deep into the soil, and she cried.
Her feet and hands looked enormous, swollen from years of standing while washing dishes. The black dress she wore was the best she had. She must have picked it out special to go see the lawyer, but the holes in the hem did not make the impression she was hoping for. What little spark of life was left in her had been blown out by the news.
"All we can do now is pray," she said over and over.
On that day the front page of the newspaper boasted the capture of four suspects in a murder. One of those was her only son. The details were sketchy, but the facts say he was there. Whether he was at the wrong place at the wrong time or something more, we would not find out for more than a year and he would sit in a cell thinking about his life. All Helen knew was that she had lost another, and it made it hard to breath.
I tried to console her, but what can one man say that will bring comfort.
A few weeks later we organized a tour of her neighborhood in an effort to bring awareness to the housing needs of some members in our community. Elected officials, government agencies, concerned citizens, we all came to Helen’s home. She stood in her kitchen next to the plastic table that held her worn Bible, and invited these strangers to see her naked reality. She let people in believing help would come, and again she cried. She looked straight ahead as proud tears trailed down both cheeks, thanking each guest for stopping by. I stood next to her in a one-armed half hug, telling her it would be ok, things had to get better. I could hear gasps from the few brave enough to come inside, most safely lingering next to the bus, hands in pockets, lips pulled tight, gazes shifting from house to ground.
She had done her best, she was generous with what she had, she was the daughter of southern black sharecroppers, she never saw the seventh grade and she had worked all her life. Years of raising kids and grandkids alone had taken their toll. She was tired.
After everyone left the house I gave her a kiss and told her I would be back. She called me baby and thanked God for my coming. As I walked to the bus, I cried. I could see on the shocked faces of my fellow tourists that no help would come, not today.
And now, months later, the front page of the newspaper reports "A woman raising three grandchildren lost her home of 27 years to fire Tuesday. With it went all of Helen Coley's possessions and those of grandchildren Tip Coley, 18, Precious Coley, 12 and Quinton Coley, 21. Fire Rescue confirmed the fire was caused by a wood-burning stove's small chimney that was loosely connected to the home's larger chimney. The heat leaking from the poor connection caused the wall to catch fire."
Had she known this match would take away what little she had, give her three days in a Red Cross hotel, this match that would once again put her family in the newspaper… but she didn’t. All she knew was that it was cold, and her family needed warmth.
So she sits and looks at the light, and I sit and look for a Phoenix.
