Friends,
About this time last year, my keys went missing from my office. It was a hectic day at The Village, as the community was getting set to close down for the holidays. But for people in crisis or struggling, those painfully human aspects of life, holiday shutdowns can make for dark days.
Once the volunteers had closed up the storefront for the day, community members were still coming to the back door, for food or just to check in for some reassurance. One person came in – along with the others – who was having an exceptionally difficult day. They are one of our many community members who live precariously and also navigates the intersections of many issues, every day. And in the flurry of their crisis in The Village that winter’s day, my keys disappeared from my desk.
For as disorganized as I am, I am also a creature of habit. Each day I arrive to The Village, unlock my office and throw my keys on my desk. So when things eventually calmed down and I gathered my workbag to head home, I was surprised I couldn’t find my keys. The surprise soon morphed into frustration, as I began looking through garbage cans and in every corner.
A sinking feeling set in as I replayed my day, trying to retrace my steps and locate the lanyard that held the keys to my life; my car fob, my house key, The Village keys, etc. Nausea took over my body when my mind slowly realized that, in the busyness of assisting the gent in crisis, someone else present took my keys.
At first I was angry. Angry at myself and angry at the person whom I now assumed had stolen from me. It felt very personal. “Why would they do this to me?” I wondered, as I dialed the OPP to report the theft. It came as no surprise that there was little the OPP could do, not for any other reason than there was no evidence of who could’ve taken my keys. I sat in my office, feeling disheartened. Powerless. So… violated. This crime was maybe nothing to the thief but for me, it created many issues.
I could not afford to replace my key fob for my car. The Village would’ve had to incur the expense of changing locks, and then there was my home security, too. But mostly I was angry at myself for letting my guard down. At a loss for what else to do, I turned to the community and put the word out to everyone I could think of and asked for help to locate my keys. No questions asked – I just needed them back. I hoped, in my desperation, that people were invested enough in The Village that this theft crossed a line that even the most prolific property crimes offenders on our streets would shun.
And on New Year’s Eve, as I sat snuggled up with popcorn and Netflix, my phone went off. “Hey,” the message read. “I think I found your keys. Can you meet me right now?” I was out the door, in my car and soon had my lanyard back in my hands. The keys had been located, and I asked no questions about the method – in the coat pocket of the person who had been in my office for help on the day they went missing.
I drove home thinking of a suitable recourse; a way to hold this person accountable when no charges could be laid. My soul understood that this person needed to be banned from The Village for a time, but it also knew that this situation needed to be humanized; that there were emotions, community expectations and respect involved.
When The Village reopened in January, I contracted COVID. That frustrated me, but what bothered me even more was that I could not be present to speak with this person when they came in and explain why they could not attend at The Village for a period of time. I asked volunteers to call me if they came in and to ask them to take the phone.
Eventually, they called and we spoke. “I have to tell you something and it is very difficult for me,” I explained. “My keys went missing in December and you were one of the two people in my office that day.” They quickly interrupted. “I DID NOT steal your keys. You have no proof it was me!” they blurted into the phone. “You are correct,” I replied. “I have no proof it was you. But I would like to share with you how those actions effected me. I felt… angry, that someone would steal from The Village. From me. I was embarrassed to have to tell my board members that I left my keys on my desk and someone stole them. And I felt scared, for myself and my daughter, who live in my house, knowing someone had my –” Click. They had hung up. Volunteers later explained to me that they bolted out of the store.
A few months later, this person came into The Village to speak with me. There was a silence between us, both knowing of things unfinished. They shuffled uncomfortably and then began to speak. “I needed to tell you I stole your keys that day,” he said. I nodded silently and they continued. “I know I’m not supposed to be here but I just needed to tell you that it was me. And I don’t even know why I did it, honestly. They were just on your desk and you stepped out of your office and I grabbed them. I knew I shouldn’t have done it and I wanted to put them back but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. And when you told me on the phone that day, how what I did affected you, I couldn’t handle it. I’m sorry.”
That was a profoundly raw and human moment. It was about humanity, conscience and ownership. That day they took my keys there was nothing personal about their actions. It was an opportunity and they impulsively seized it. Eventually, they taught me that the “high” they get from stealing is quite like the high someone gets from using substances. They also explained that once you “screw up” in a small town you learn not to care anymore. Their words weren’t meant to garner sympathy but rather to express – I believe, anyway – how easy it had become to offend in a community of which they felt no responsibility for.
They shared that in their mind, they had no reason to want for anything better in their life, so why bother?
And after they left The Village that day and I thought the experience through, I understood that with proper leadership and guidance, the effects of crime in our communities needed to be personal. That’s not to promote a vigilante model that encourages the age-old “eye for an eye” solution to stealing from thy neighbour. But I do believe bringing people together in safe and supportive arenas is a powerful tool for accountability and change. Communities, together with law enforcement, counsel, mental health and substance dependency supports, etc., have the power to engage victims and offenders in restorative justice programs that promote healing, respect and progressive, people-centered solutions.
Experiences that lower recidivism and, hopefully, build healthier communities.
Take good care of each other, friends.
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Andrea Charest serves as director at the Listowel It Takes A Village location.
