Photo courtesy of the author. Left to right: Henry Fountain (author's brother), their father, Theo Fountain (author).
By: Theo Fountain
A few years ago, a stranger laid a gift beside my head. It was outside Christmas Village in Center City on a dirty December sidewalk, where I dreamt of a softer holiday. I’d returned to being nine years old, seated in the backseat of my dad’s Buick, listening to him sing “We Three Kings.” Beside me my little brother stared out his window, enthralled by our town’s holiday lights. What had been our familiar, colorless neighborhood was entirely aglow, brightly draped in spectacular decoration. I fought sleep as the warmth of the car and my father’s voice gently overwhelmed me.
It’s then that freezing wind rushes through my clothes, jostling me awake. Cardboard slips beneath me. I plant a swollen hand on the ground, the concrete cold and unyielding.
Over a decade of miserable memories flood my brain. Dad is dead. My younger brother, now in his mid-twenties, cried the last time we saw each other. The dream is gone—I’m an adult, addicted and unhoused.
I curl up on the cardboard trying to trap in body heat. Mournful and shivering, I sing to myself, “We three kings of Orient are... bearing gifts we traverse afar...”
Unhoused people experience periods of unconsciousness, but to call them sleep is generous. Sleep is refreshing.
The concerned voice of a young woman interrupts my unconscious moment. “Excuse me, could I bring you a blanket?” I felt a tinge of embarrassment at being acknowledged. Grateful for the jacket obscuring my face, I choked out a squeaky “Yes.” Her footsteps dwindled into silence. She returned with a wonderful present, set it down beside me, then disappeared.
"I am now housed and in recovery, but I think about that woman and her gift every time I pass Christmas Village."
The blanket was warm like it had been freshly pulled from the dryer. Fluffy and clean, it still held a discernible warmth that comes from indoors, like it had just been in a caring and happy home. I smelled fabric softener as I cocooned myself inside it, completely forgetting about the wind and concrete.
I am now housed and in recovery, but I think about that woman and her gift every time I pass Christmas Village. I wonder if we’ve passed each other since then, if she remembers. I want to explain what it meant to me: how tired and cold I was, the relief I felt finally getting warm. How a thousand people passed by me—not that I expected their attention or pity, but how it felt knowing I wasn’t one of them. I was a piece of scenery, blurry and ignorable.
"I want to be more like that woman, like the people who were kind when I had nothing."
Whenever a person like her reached out to help, it had a profound and lasting effect on me. Together, these kind gestures make up a bright constellation in my life. They’ve been lifesaving for me, not only inspiring a reclaimed faith in humanity, but also providing direction. I want to be more like that woman, like the people who were kind when I had nothing. I want to be a good neighbor like her.
There were no conditions that came with that woman’s gift; she simply provided warmth to someone in the cold. Had that been my last night on earth, I'd at least have been warm. Plenty of people like me died in donated clothing. It’s the bitter reality of living on the street. But that doesn't make kind gestures meaningless—if anything it makes them more significant, a glimpse of compassion in the face of widespread suffering.
Simple, immediate actions you can take to help people living outside this season include donating to organizations like Prevention Point Philadelphia, looking for local organizations hosting coat drives, or even giving a blanket to a stranger. It may seem futile buying a person in crisis a cup of coffee, but it’s better than doing nothing. The truth is that people often don’t receive anything. Any help is a gift.