When did the Cookieman become invisible?

I knew that face. We called him Cookieman, but I don’t recall why – maybe he had the habit of asking for cookies.

I also forget the details of the bus stop fight from middle school. I only remember Cookieman won, and my friend, who was two years older and should have won, lost.

But as is common for young boys, the fight meant little to our futures, and we were all cool for the years that followed. Not so cool that I would call him my friend, but cool enough so that when I saw him many years later at a downtown gas station in bad shape, I wanted to help. I didn’t really know how, but he said he needed a job, so I promised to meet him at the Employment Development Department the next day and help him navigate the process.

I was a few minutes late. There’s a chance he was early, didn’t see me and left thinking I wouldn’t show. Chances are it was he who didn’t show.

Prior to that, I remember exchanging phone numbers with Cookieman on the street and he would later call asking for help paying his light bill. I couldn’t help. He apologized for asking.

A decade would pass before seeing Cookieman again. I ran into him at the War Memorial downtown six weeks ago. He was dirty and depressed. But I knew that face. And we were cool enough to exchange numbers again, and I promised to connect him with resources to get him on his feet.

I was excited thinking about Focus on Prevention and how its many programs exist to help people just like Cookieman. He went to shake my hand as we parted ways, and I went to give him a fist bump. He was dirty. He was depressed. I was ashamed.

I was only able to get a card to pass on to Cookieman, but told him to call the number and they would meet him where he was to connect him to services. I offered to meet him, too, for support. I wouldn’t hear from him again until two weeks later, when I saw a Black man walking oddly jubilant towards me on the street. I knew that face. He was dirty, but not depressed. I asked Cookieman if he ever connected with the contact I forwarded, but his phone had been stolen, so he lost the message. We tried again and this time he got the message.

The next time I saw Cookieman was when his mugshot appeared in my Twitter feed. I had heard of the assault at the Downtown parking garage the night before. I knew that face. He was dirty. He was sad. Maybe, a little angry. Maybe, I was projecting.

Had I failed him on our numerous encounters? Had the system failed him on theirs? Had his family, or church, or school failed him? Had he failed himself?

In the midst of all the hate aimed at Cookieman, and the sympathy pouring out for Karl Whitehead and his family, councilwoman Kristi Ah You’s call spoke loudest to me – she hoped we do everything in our power to honor Karl’s memory.

My hope is the same. I hope that we leave flowers and speak of the wonderful things Karl did.

I also hope that we all realize we know that face. It was Cookieman’s this time.

There will also be a story behind the next one. Only in acknowledging their humanity will it be possible to prevent the one after that. I believe that is the most powerful thing we could do to honor Karl’s memory.

While it’s true that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved, it’s also true you can’t save someone you don’t see.

This story was originally published November 18, 2017 at 5:52 PM with the headline "When did the Cookieman become invisible?."