Still Learning From Paris Powell

I’ve made a point of writing about Paris Powell every year since he was unceremoniously murdered back in 2011. The man was, as far as I’m concerned, a true hero. Powell, at 29, had dedicated his life to helping homeless people living on the rough streets of East Oakland. It was not a glamorous life. Powell worked construction, and though he was part of the Rise Above Foundation, everything he provided to the homeless came out of his own pocket. A husband and father to two step children, expecting a third child with his wife, Powell was as selfless as it got.

It wasn’t easy. Powell admitted to a former homeless man he befriended named William Holloway that sometimes he didn’t know if it was worth it, that some of the people he helped didn’t even seem to care what he was doing. Holloway told Powell that he certainly cared for his help, and that as long as one person did, it validated his efforts. Powell had that conversation with Holloway just a few months before he was murdered, and considering he was out after midnight handing out meals to those same homeless people, he clearly took his friend’s words to heart.

Anyone can become jaded, but it takes a special kind of person to fight through the negativity and keep trying, anyway. Powell was special. Powell was the kind of person that other people should aspire to be like. When he was killed, and the news explained the circumstances, I balked. It was outrageous. Powell was feeding people. He had his family with him and was handing out hot meals to strangers. He had no enemies, he lived a charitable life. There were theories as to why Powell was targeted, chief among them being a case of mistaken identity, but ultimately all it boiled down to was cowardice.

The people who killed Powell are the lowest of the low. They’re the kind of monsters that destroy places like Oakland, suck the life from it and bask in the evil they spread. The murderers were never found, and the case is yet another file sitting on some officer’s desk in the Oakland Police Department. One of thousands, at this point, but nonetheless important, at least to me. I hate hyperbole, and I’m not trying to make this sound bigger than it is, but this murder haunts me. It was seared into my mind the second I found out about it. The injustice of it went beyond the pale.

What does it say about us that it went without so much as a peep from protestors and so-called activists in the Bay Area? Any stories about Powell that can be found are three years old. No one seems to care that the man’s murder has gone unsolved all these years. He’s chalked up to a statistic, nothing more. The press and protestors only care if there’s something glamorous about a killing like this to warrant any attention. A race angle, some kind of controversy to stir up headlines. That probably sounds negative, but I don’t care, because it’s sickeningly unfair and it’s true.

Another year gone by, another year that Powell’s family lives on without it’s father and husband. Powell’s legacy is a small one, but for the homeless he helped, for his friends like Holloway, and for the few random people in the world like me who remember him, he was a hero. I set my standard for human decency and bravery level with Powell. He was someone to be inspired by. He is someone to never forget. I know I haven’t.