Givers

CHRIS BUDNICK

Cby SETTLE MONROE CONNECTION AND COMMUNITY ARE AT THE HEART OF CHRIS BUDNICK’S work. Like many of the men and women who come to his organization for help overcoming homelessness and addiction, the executive director of Healing Transitions in Raleigh says his path to a meaningful and productive life came with challenges.

His early years were difficult. Budnick suffered a head injury as a young child, and his father left his family when he was a teenager. By the time he was 12 years old, Budnick was regularly using drugs and alcohol and suffering frequent bouts of depression. He attended his first 12-step meeting at 16, and by 19 he had completed an intensive inpatient, rehabilitation, and treatment program. As a teenager, fresh out of rehab, he could not have imagined that one day he would lead hundreds of men and women to a path of purpose and hope. Today, Healing Transitions (formerly known as The Healing Place) has become one of the nation’s flagship programs for men and women battling addiction and homelessness by providing shelter, food, and therapeutic support.

Budnick has been with the organization since its inception in 2001, and became its executive director last year. He also works as an adjunct professor in N.C. State’s department of social work, and helps run Recovery Communities of North Carolina, an organization that holds events promoting recovery,

community, and awareness. Budnick is quick to point out that his path to leadership has been bolstered by many “guardian angels” along the way. A framed photograph of a middle-aged man with a hearty smile sits on the bookshelf in his office. “This is Bernie,” says Budnick. “I had just gotten out of treatment, and he hired me to work in his restaurant. It was my first day of work, and out of the blue, he turned to me and said, ‘I am 14 years sober. Today I can look people in the eyes.’” Bernie’s commitment to his own recovery provided a much needed safe place for Budnick during one of the turning points of his life. “There have been others,” Budnick continues, “People who took a chance on me and folks who hired me and believed in me.” Budnick extends this same grace and trust to the Healing Transitions participants and alumni with whom he works. “The men and women who go through the Healing Transitions program are some of the most determined and generous people you will ever meet.” He beams with the pride of a father as he describes the monthly Transition Ceremonies for participants who have successfully completed the rigorous multi-track and peer-led program. The organization offers three main services at both its men’s and women’s campuses: overnight emergency shelter, non-medical detoxification, and a social model recovery program. The social model program is based on peer accountability and includes earned privileges in exchange for added responsibilities. The organization has been successful. Despite rapid local population growth, Healing Transitions and its partners have helped to reduce the Wake County homeless population by 25 percent, Budnick says. He’s also proud to point out that more than 70 percent of graduates are still in recovery after a year. Operating with a $3.5 million budget, the nonprofit is now a proud living wage organization, meaning that each of its 50 staff members earn at least $13.50 per hour. Most are Healing Transitions alumni, and about 70 percent are in recovery. Budnick takes great pride in his staff. “Having men and women come back to Healing Transitions to work inspires the folks working the program. It shows them what is possible.” The organization also benefits the entire community, Budnick says. “People in recovery pay taxes. The folks who have completed our program are dedicated to giving back. They volunteer. People in recovery are less dependent on emergency

room visits and less likely to end up incarcerated … They become citizens who contribute to our community.” He also cites less tangible benefits, including a safe and revitalized downtown ripe for business development and real estate growth. As he looks to the future, Budnick says he plans to grow long-term community connections and boost addiction advocacy and awareness. In the meantime, the participants continue to inspire his work. Jessie Bennett, a student at N.C. State and the father of two young children, completed the program in 2013. He says Budnick’s humble leadership approach has been a large factor in his own personal success. “I admire Chris’s desire to make everyone feel important and everyone’s voice heard. He leads by example, and he never talks down to anyone. He is always striving to help everyone become the best they can be and more.” Budnick, an avid reader whose latest favorite book is Simon Sinek’s Leaders Eat Last, says being a leader means always pushing himself to improve. “I want to create opportunities for the people at Healing Transitions to grow. I want for our participants to be a part of the conversations we’re having. We must treat them as resources and not as objects. We ask our participants to embark on a huge journey of self-improvement, and we must be willing to do the same.”

“The men and women who go through the Healing Transitions program are some of the most determined and generous people you will ever meet.” -Chris Budnick

REFLECTIONS

the OCRACOKE TRIBE

IIN SEPTEMBER 1976, ON THE Aldert Root Elementary School playground, there were really only three legitimate male “role models” for fi rst grade boys. Hawkeye Whitney, the star forward on the N.C. State basketball team, was one. Clyde Austin, also of the State basketball team, was another, and then there was Phil Ford, the great Carolina point guard. By Th anksgiving of that year, a boy might have chosen President-elect Jimmy Carter as a role model, and a year later, he might have gone with Han Solo. But in September of 1976, a star basketball player represented everything that a six-year old Raleigh boy, or at least this six-year-

by BURKE KOONCE

old boy, could aspire to become – masculine and cool. In 1976, dads who had fi rst-graders weren’t role models, at least not the way we use the term today, which is now more analogous to “non-smoker.” In those days, a dad likely wasn’t a non-smoker, literally or fi guratively. A dad was a man who lived in the house where your mother was trying to raise you. A dad came and went pretty much as he pleased, and a boy was generally well-served to stay out of his way. Th at’s why we wanted to be Hawkeye Whitney or Phil Ford. We could read about them in Th e News and Observer or, in the evening, Th e Raleigh Times. Th ey played a game that we understood and could actually play, sort of. A dad? Dads were basically a mystery. Th ey just didn’t have a whole heckuva lot to say. Sure, your dad might take you out to Reynolds Coliseum or over to Carmichael for a ball game. And many dads were endowed with incredible stamina, driving station wagons all the way up or down Highway 70 to Tweetsie Railroad or to the Sea Hawk Motor Lodge for a weekend. But what did they do when they went to work? What did they do all day when they weren’t with you? I knew my dad went to something called the Kiwanis Club fr om time to time, and he went to work in an offi ce on Atlantic Avenue that smelled like ammonia and overlooked an open fi eld that is now a bridge over Capital Boulevard. But that was about it. So, masculine? Absolutely. Cool? How could a six-year-old know? At the same time, a new program at the Raleigh YMCA called Indian Guides was attempting to change some of that. Th e program, which is now known nationally as Y Guides, was growing in popularity in Raleigh, but it was not yet by any means considered a rite of passage. But somehow, Raleigh commercial mortgage broker John Dickinson, whose son Michael was at Root, became aware of it and recruited eight other dads to join

him in what had to have been considered at the time a radical social experiment – the dads would commit to spending one Sunday night every month between September and April dressed up like Indians – the term “Native Americans” was not yet in common use – to teach manly things to their young sons. For those of us in the first grade, this was the equivalent to an invitation to fly to the moon with actual astronauts – something that had in fact only been accomplished seven years prior. Nine dads, 10 boys, no moms or sisters. And we each got our own Indian name! John and Michael Dickinson were Walking Bear and Running Bear. Ed Lilly and Steven Lilly were Flying Eagle and Fighting Eagle. Larry and Bo Maddison were Red Falcon and Black Falcon (CPA humor). John and Johnny McConnell were Big Horn and Little Horn. Ed and John Moore were Red Owl and Horned Owl. Buzzy and Vann Russell were Big Foot and Little Foot. John C. and Owen Williams were Big Wave and Little Ripple. Jerry Young, the jeweler, was Shining Rock, and Graham and George Young were Little Rock and Little Pebble. Everybody had amazing Indian names. Everybody, that is, except me. Typically, my dad, Marvin Koonce, older than most of the other dads, had gone out and researched North Carolina Indian lore – and came up with Junaluska for himself and Oconaluftee for me. Lilly got to be Fighting Eagle. I was an unpronounceable river near Cherokee. Not cool. For the next three years, we were the Ocracoke tribe. And, well, we basically did get to fly to the moon. Before there was a Sunday night meeting at your house, you had to deliver handmade invitations, often inscribed on a cross-section of a small tree, to each member of the tribe. That meant you were spending not one but two evenings per month with your dad, one at the meeting, and one riding around in the front seat with no seat belt delivering the invitations you had just crafted. At the meetings, we told ghost stories, built bird feeders out of pine blocks, assembled battery-powered light bulbs, and observed the strict rule of the talking stick. Whomever had the talking stick could speak, but no one else. The credible threat of actual corporal punishment meted out immediately made it actually work. The annual pilgrimage to Camp Sea Gull was a major highlight; so was the unsanctioned side trip to the Texasgulf phosphate plant near Aurora, where we searched for shark’s teeth among mountains of sediment freshly dredged from the floor of the Atlantic. If you couldn’t find a megaladon tooth in there – well, there was just no helping some people. Dinner at The Trawl Door in Oriental. Jeep-powered trailer rides not just around but into the camp lake. The long trip back to Raleigh, exhausted, with empty Wendy’s Frosty cups on the floor of the Buick from one half of the group and several empty airplane bottles from the other. And then, after the three-year program run was over, the Ocracoke tribe, like the other YMCA Indian Guide tribes, disbanded. But then something unusual began to happen. Or rather, began to not happen. Nobody ever said goodbye. We started to matriculate at different schools, yes, and then different colleges and different careers, but we never lost touch with each other. With unusual frequency, we would find ourselves at a meal or social gathering and realize that everyone present was in our tribe. We had unintentionally begun to hold mini-Ocracoke reunions. In 1996, the Ocracoke tribe held its first official meeting in two decades – a 20th reunion dinner at the Angus Barn, and all but two members were still living in Raleigh. By the next one, the 25th reunion at the Barn, the only member who wasn’t living here flew back for the occasion (and got lost between the airport and the Barn in a labyrinthine new development called Brier Creek). By the 30th, everyone was back living in Raleigh, though we had lost the first dad – my own. By the 35th, we had lost another, Jerry Young, and by the 40th, we had lost another, John C. Williams. As a father myself now, with two children who are already post Y Guides, I cannot fully explain the Ocracoke tribe and what it is that keeps us together. I know that what binds us is not mere nostalgia, even though we do reminisce. The population of Raleigh was about 172,000 when the Ocracoke tribe first met. Soon it will be half a million. It’s not inertia helping keep us together. It’s gravity. There’s a lot going on in Raleigh. But I think what really keeps us in each other’s orbit is the gentle but genuine interest we have in each other’s lives that we learned from first watching our fathers together forty years ago. It was fascinating. Spending time with your own dad was wonderful on its own; but observing those nine fathers who were not already lifelong friends like we would turn out to be, but who thought to share their time with us taught us a certain humility and mutual respect. They were different from one another, and they weren’t perfect, but perfection wasn’t the goal – it was commitment to nurturing us. It was, in its essence, love. When we gathered at the Angus Barn in October, someone observed that there wasn’t so much as a single divorce among either generation. These Indian Guides had done their job well. They were gentlemen and family men, and they still are. And they weren’t role models. They were heroes. And, Dad, thank you for naming me Oconaluftee. Turns out it’s pretty cool being different. I love you too.