Finding David

Two years is a heartbeat. On April 27, it’ll be that long since we lost David. As Andy Jones mentioned in his thoughts written after David’s passing, I know I have to write about him, in this case, as we approach the next anniversary of his death and an upcoming trial to determine the fate of the person who took his life.

For those who are strangers to me and David, you can do a quick search for “compassion guy” to learn about his murder.

Here, I’ll say that David was many things. He was my brother—I met him soon after his birth. For many years, he was a sibling, son, friend, cousin, nephew, uncle, marathon runner, boyfriend, summer camp counselor, screenwriter, high school teacher, and program manager for at-risk youth.

Ultimately, he was a spiritual leader who guided those who sought his quiet wisdom, seemingly giving them enlightened access to an infinite number of secrets—if only they recognized that they already knew them.

These are the parts of him that existed before he abandoned his identity altogether, dropping the “he,” “I,” and “David” (often referring to these in quotation marks).

He moved to Davis in 2009, where he stood on a street corner with a pen and notebook, asking passersby to write down their definitions of compassion.

People came to see him as a “street therapist” and The Compassion Guy—an identifier he initially shunned but eventually embraced because it reminded people of compassion—someone they could pour their souls into and in whom they’d always find a willing ear, open mind, and welcoming heart.

Since last year, I’ve been writing a book on his life and mission. It’s filtered through the lens of our shared upbringing, his relationships with depression and hypothyroidism, and the spiritual traditions for which there are scant examples of Black men finding a supportive community in a tight-knit, mostly White town.

David and I were close. We weathered many storms together. Even so, with every interview with someone who knew him, every page of his diary read, and every email thread pored over, I’m piecing together a journey whose every moment and every breath was devoted to selflessness and a life of purpose.

His email threads include requests to speak to groups about compassion, offers of support to those he gave his address to at the corner, signups for compassion groups, email newsletters, and listservs, planning for his book and Compassion Tour, and many other actions David took every day to forward his mission.

They bring many discoveries, like his episode of Rodrigo Ojeda-Beck’s American Nobodies, just one example of a project David was eager to participate in, with the understanding that the moving image is a powerful way to share a message.

My interviews with those who knew him as the Compassion Guy consistently depict David as kind, brilliant, and peaceful (his familiar answer to “How are you?”).

“We lost a saint.”

“No one [in our organization] had ever witnessed that kind of presence.”

“I felt a connection to his spirit.”

“I think he was a living saint.”

Albert Einstein wrote these words to Gandhi on his 70th birthday:

Generations to come will scarce believe that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth.

In a college town in California—and compassionate cities all over the U.S.—a soft-spoken man doggedly pursued his calling, heeding the calls of angels. His calming presence settled frayed nerves and psyches, and his kind smile relieved grief.

As I talk to those he impacted, as I recall his decades of struggle, followed by 14 years of daily actions to make the world more compassionate, I’m connecting the person I thought I knew so well with the embodiment of truth he became. I’m not only finding David, but a source of joy and light that radiates far beyond his physical time “upon this earth.”