Who is “Bobby”?

https://abigailyork.bandcamp.com/track/bobby

Three afternoons a week, I leave my job at Panera in downtown Nashville and drive across the Cumberland River into East Nashville to babysit. The other day I looked up at the name of the bridge–the Korean War Veterans Memorial Bridge–and was struck by the irony. Here, like in so many major cities, we have a grand monument to our nation’s veterans. Yet how many of those veterans are homeless, struggling to maintain material provisions? How many did I pass on the street today? Do they ever walk across that bridge on their way to find a cool spot to avoid the heat of the day?

According to the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, there are nearly 58,000 homeless veterans in the US on any given night. The reasons are varied, but as the NCHV explains, symptoms of PTSD and substance abuse partnered with a lack of family or other support often contribute to the situation.

Robert Franklin was one of those 57,849 men and women. Let me be the first to say: I am not qualified to tell you Robert Franklin’s story. To be honest, there might not be anyone who really knew his whole story, but I am probably the last person who deserves to tell you about Robert. I can only tell you about my interactions with him, and I can only relay my limited knowledge of his situation.

From September of 2013 to July of 2014, I lived in Houston, TX and served with a program called Mission Year. I, along with my 7 teammates, volunteered full time with a community center and a church. The church was called Ecclesia and it originally met at 2115 Taft St. Taft St. was home to a lovely coffee shop, as well as an art gallery, small tattoo parlor, offices, and worship space. In a city as hot as Houston, Taft was a miniature oasis for a variety of people, including a pretty regular group of homeless friends.

Robert would sit in Taft, drink his coffee, and work on art many days. I don’t know how long he’d been an integral part of the fabric of life at Ecclesia by the time I met him, but it was always clear that he was recognized, known, beloved in this community.

On Fridays, my team mates and I had our “sabbath” day–a day to rest in whatever sense we needed. This meant no scheduled work, no scheduled team activities, and a little freedom to explore the city if needed. My sabbaths early in the year often let me to Taft St., despite the lengthy bus ride, because the atmosphere was deliciously reminiscent of Nashville. It was there that I occasionally interacted with Robert. I remember him trying to sell me a piece of his art, once. It was a beautiful, intricate pen drawing, but I certainly couldn’t afford it. When I told him that, he said he’d draw me something else for a price I could afford. So for $5, I received a simple, abstract pen drawing that is now priceless. Some days, Robert was a shrewd salesman.

I also remember him approaching me one Friday to talk. It seemed, though, that he couldn’t find his voice. I think he wanted a cup of coffee, but it took a long time for any words to come out. Several of the people at Taft knew him much better and could tell, without many words, what he wanted to communicate. I smiled politely, not fully understanding what Robert wanted to say, but someone else interceded and asked him what kind of coffee he wanted. Some days, Robert was slow to speak.

Around Thanksgiving, Ecclesia held a feast at Taft and bussed in homeless neighbors from across the city to enjoy a buffet of home cooked food, shared around tables with other members of the church. Robert was, predictably, present at Taft that day (when didn’t I see him there?). I went outside to watch two men play chess and saw that Robert seemed very agitated. Someone who knew him better (probably Manuel) was talking to him and trying to figure out why he was angry, trying to calm him down. But Robert was clearly upset and, at one point, threw something sharp a few feet across the patio. A few men who cared for Robert stepped in to de-escalate the situation, but I know this is the one time I felt afraid of Robert. I never saw that side of him on any other day. But some days, Robert was angry.

I remember hearing stories from my friends in Houston that one very common Robert-ism was for him to make certain… off-color remarks or jokes. Many an Ecclesian later laughed fondly at some unrepeatable story he had told on this day or that. Given my newborn-deer-esque awkwardness, I’m halfway glad I never met this version of Robert, but a part of me will always wonder just exactly what things he said to make people blush as they recalled it. Some days, Robert talked like a sailor.

In February of 2013, Robert passed away. If I remember correctly, he collapsed one evening at Taft and was taken to the hospital immediately. His stay was brief, but full of visits from the many people who considered him family. I remember hearing that our friend Cameron was, if not at the moment of his passing then near to it, by his side singing hymns as he rested in the hospital.

Though I didn’t know him well, Robert’s passing affected everyone in our community in a mysterious and heavy way. No one was left untouched by his life or death, and it was only natural for me to take this abstract but dense feeling into song. I imagined Robert in heaven, the place where our earthly bodies are made whole and our true selves are restored as God intended us to be. What would that mean for Robert? I had encountered so many different versions of him in my brief time in Houston that I couldn’t tell what his whole, perfect, restored self would be like. Would he be more normal, more average, more like me? Or would he have all of his many faces, like a heavenly Picasso, simply strengthened and made bolder in the perfect iteration of each ‘personality’? “Bobby” is my attempt to explore that idea, and an avenue through which I processed the grief of his passing.

Scott the Painter made a beautiful portrait of Robert for his memorial service, and you can see it here. It is the second picture in the 2013 collection on this page: http://scottericksonart.com/studio/#!lightbox%5Bgroup%5D/1/

You can also view photos of Robert at https://www.facebook.com/rememberrobertfranklin. If you knew him, I dare you not to cry looking at these fantastic pictures. If you didn’t know him, I assure you the depth and beauty these photos show will make you wish you’d had an opportunity to meet him.