When Friends Become Family

Almost 25 years ago, after previously working at Hennepin County Library, which I found to be the most corrupt place I had ever worked at, I interviewed and transferred to the Hennepin County Chemical Health Division. While I soon learned that corruption and bad managers also existed at the new job, I was destined to receive an education about poverty, addiction, good and evil, and even a bit of the supernatural—within the walls of 1800 Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis. At that time, there were a lot of accusations about racism, and it was a card being used to win, over truth and logic. That’s why I’m not surprised to see people still using it now; because true or not, it usually worked.

Regardless of the stress, violence and heartbreak I witnessed there, I made some great friends, and a couple of nemeses. But the friends, were special. Occasionally, someone might make a friend at a job who they stay in touch with. But most often, the friendship dies when one or the other leaves the employer. But at 1800, I made five friends who I kept in contact with for life.

Wendell left us in 2007. Being an elderly African-American—and I was still young and light skinned, those who would continue to perpetuate the idea that different races can’t get along, might be surprised to know that we were good friends. I have a photo of Wendell, talking on the phone. It was given to me by my friend Mike. Mike said Wendell was talking to me, when I was living in Rhode Island (which is another story). I talked with Wendell about every subject imaginable, including racism, real vs that being used to stir up trouble. When telling a story about some adventure big or small, Wendell summed it all up by saying, “… and I’m telling you, what a time we had!”

As of today, Mike is one of only two, of my five friends who is still living. He’s now a model train enthusiast. The other, is another Mike. He was a security guard at the chemical health center. He is large, strong and a gifted speaker. His words could diffuse a situation as well as his brawn could. A deep thinker, he became another lifelong friend.

Yesterday, I received a call from my friend Kaikaik (Joe). Only it wasn’t Joe. His wife Angie called to let me know he had crossed over the day before. I had called and talked to him only six days prior. I knew he had been ill, and wanted to check on him. Back in the day, I had asked him about his Ojibwe culture while we were celebrating American Indian culture at an event at work. He asked me to go for coffee after work, and we became friends and spirit brothers. No matter how long the time between seeing him, we picked up exactly where we left off. Our last words to each other were, “I love you brother.”

Recently I had noticed that Beverly, my first supervisor at 1800 Chicago, who had become a friend, was no longer “liking” things on my Facebook. I meant to look her up to see how she was. After the news of Joe, I did just that, and found she had passed late in May. She was an artist and deep thinker, and while I knew she too, was suffering from age, I was saddened to see the tributes that informed me of her passing. I was remiss in not checking on her sooner, but my own father began his journey toward the end in June, and I was preoccupied.

These people were more than friends. They had become family. All of us had met in that old building at 1800 Chicago Avenue. It was often a difficult and sad place. And yet, the friendships were a gift. One that left me changed forever.

-Kevin J. Curtis - 20240710