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Steven A. Rosenberg

Here, the American Dream passes them by

The American Dream rolled over and died again on a recent morning. This time the setting was a spit of oceanfront land tucked behind the Lynn-way, with views of Boston.

They call this patch of coastal woods Tent City, and it’s the end of the line for those who have burned just about every connection to the outside world. Here, souls leave traces of their demons along the paths that circle a few small hills and trees. Used hypodermic needles, empty liquor bottles, and old crack pipes lead a trail to tents and sleeping bags alongside rusted cooking grills, clotheslines, and piles of moldy trash.

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At the base of the hill, Stacey Woodruff pulled hard on a cigarillo outside of the lean-to she recently inherited from a few strangers. Woodruff, a 38-year-old Sissy Spacek look-alike, wore a smudged yellow sweatshirt and jeans. She sat on an overturned shopping cart, rubbed her hands together to try to get warm, and stared at the Atlantic. When she saw Pat Byrne, she jumped up, threw her arms around a man with one of the biggest hearts in the city, and began to sob.

“If you see my children, please tell them I’ve looked everywhere for them,” she said, as fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

She held onto Pat for almost a minute, and the former postman turned street worker for the homeless did not interrupt her.

If there’s anyone who understands the homeless in this area, it’s Pat. He’s worked as a street advocate for the Lynn Shelter Association for nine years, and every year he gets to know as many as 400 people who pass through the city and sleep on the beach, cemeteries, in abandoned buildings, and in Tent City.

He also knows what addiction can do to a family. Last year, his son, Jamie — who held a master’s degree from Boston University — died of a heroin overdose after a long stretch of sobriety.

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In his son’s obituary, Pat and his wife wrote about their son’s battle with the disease of addiction. “ . . . the family asks that readers take the time to tell their children that they love them,” the obituary concluded.

After Jamie’s death, Pat somehow was able to find the strength to continue counseling to people like Stacey, who have lost everything. He’ll try to find a person health insurance, food stamps, and a bed in the homeless shelter, and he even gives out his address so people can receive mail.

Many face addiction, criminal involvement, mental health issues, and childhood trauma. Many became victims — and some later, perpetrators — of sexual abuse. Pat is realistic about how he can influence their future. He smiles, listens, and acts as cheerleader to the cheerless.

“This is a job where victories are counted on one hand. We have dozens and dozens of failures or disappointments for each positive result,” Pat said.

Pat has known Stacey for years, and in the past he has helped her get food stamps and arranged for doctor’s appointments. She grew up in Salem and Beverly, married and had kids, and took a liking to heroin. In recent years she has lived down South, but last summer she returned to the North Shore to attend a funeral and stayed, working at carnivals and living in the woods.

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Stacey lit another butt, tucked her red strands of hair inside the yellow hoodie, and wanted people to know that even though she once was a heroin addict and lost custody of her children, she still had a will to live and craved a sense of dignity. She asked that people not be quick to judge the homeless.

“It’s hard and it’s sad and it’s heart-wrenching,” she said, outside of the blue tarp strung between a couple of trees that’s filled with clothes and a dirty mattress, where she has been sleeping since the snow melted. She spent much of the winter in a small tent in the woods behind Walmart in Salem, sleeping just above a bed of snow with her boyfriend and nearly freezing to death because she had no money.

She does not blame anyone for her troubles, and has modest hopes — to see her children again, to work for a paycheck, and somehow to find a way to sleep inside in a warm room again, on a clean bed.

“If you can’t work, there’s no way to get up,” she told me, mustering a sad smile. “It’s almost like death. You feel like dying, just killing yourself. I’ve felt it almost every day for a long time.”


Steven A. Rosenberg can be reached at srosenberg@globe.com.