By Eli Francovich (’15)
On a hot day in north Spokane, I interviewed a woman addicted to drugs. I could see the track marks; they ran up and down her arms, each one a harsh line to oblivion. Self-consciously I rolled down my sleeves in an eff ort to hide my baby-soft forearms.
I stood on the threshold of her home, a home her neighbors claim she has no right to. I stood there in the heat, in my slacks and button-down, and asked her questions. She was suspicious and almost closed the door in my face. But we talked, and she loosened up. She started to smile, and she was pretty when she smiled, like a wild and unwanted dandelion. She used words I arrogantly assumed she wouldn’t know. She was high on something, and spoke loudly and intensely, but she spoke well. She needed to be heard; she was insistent that I listen to her story.
My story has always been heard. From the very beginning I’ve been wrapped in a blanket of affirmation. Gonzaga University continued that experience. Affirmation can occur in small ways. I remember printing my class schedule on the second day of school. Sitting at a computer in Foley Library I logged on using my student account for the first time.
The little window popped up, “Welcome, Francovich, Elijah.”
It acknowledged that I was now in the system, that I had a place at Gonzaga. I was somebody to someone. I knew then, instinctive, that I was being rooted into a powerful institution, one with clear and meaningful benefi ts, one that would empower me.
Now, four years later, I’ve been established as a voice in a community that spans the globe – a tree with roots in all areas of human interaction. It’s a good spot to be. The world is open to me. I’m standing on the brink of possibility with education and affirmation at my back.
The woman on the porch took my business card, saying she’d call me. We both knew she wouldn’t. She closed the door and I walked back to my car.
She’s living on the brink of eviction, jail, or worse.
As Gonzaga graduates, we inhabit a unique and powerful position. We have a place, and a voice. We’ve been empowered by our education.
The world we’re going into can be unfair and unpredictable. Working at a newspaper I see
behind the headlines and interview the casualties. Run-down homes, hopeless addicts, abandoned infants, homeless humans desperate for a touch of warmth.
The world we’re stepping into can be a harsh place. Rot and decay is hidden under a thin veneer – one that is easy to see, but even easier to ignore.
Standing on that collapsing stoop, on the edge of this woman’s desperation, I realized all my education, all my connections and dreams and hopes meant nothing in that moment. All I could do was listen to her story as she told it. Judging her actions, her experience, would only be an exercise in arrogance.
Leaving Gonzaga, we must remember to listen. Listen to the voiceless, empower their stories and fi ght for their place. Give them a chance to have the warmth, knowledge and respect that we’ve been so privileged to live with for four years.
They need to be heard.
Eli Francovich is a 2015 graduate. He contributed to Gonzaga Magazine for two years before accepting an extended internship at the Spokesman-Review. This article appeared in the fall 2015 issue of Gonzaga Magazine. www.gonzaga.edu/magazine.