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THE COURAGE TO BE DIFFERENT AND KIND
NICK ALBRITTON
Why would Nick Albritton, a transgender man and creative, leave rural Texas to move across the country? What motivated his efforts as a career coordinator helping young people experiencing homelessness in Seattle overcome societal barriers on the road to building a life reflective of their worth?
Nick’s answers to those questions took him back to a moment in his childhood:
My father’s brow was furrowed in despair as he reached for the thin wad of cash in his pocket. “This is all I got,” he said to me as he thumbed past a few dollar bills and found his last $20. I cradled the loaf of bread, can of Chef Boyardee, and bottle of sugary soda as we made our way toward the door.
The twisting knot in my stomach was two parts hunger and one part shame. Shame for needing. Shame for not having enough.
I was familiar with this feeling, though. My family understood poverty. It was woven into the script I’d been born into: that corporate America was broken. That the business taxes on our family’s old convenience store had run it into the ground. That the system had failed us.
My father had a good work ethic; he rose with the sun and set with it, too. He poured his blood, sweat, and tears into our family’s farm. We were rich in a certain way—with hard work, swimming holes, grassy fields, and animal life. None of the green had faces on it, though, and if it did, it didn’t last long.
As Nick grew into his teens, he recalled, that shame before dinner had grown with him. His self-image formed around a deepening awareness of the binaries set up by society. Rich or poor. Healthy or unhealthy. Normal or abnormal.
Rather than inhabit the shell of the identity that society imposed on him, however, Nick chose to be the person he was meant to be:
I knew at an early age that I was different. That I came from difference. Being poor was one thing; being transgender was a layer deeper.
Rural Texas didn’t create much space for a kid like me, and because I had lost my mother in a tragic car accident at a young age, most people just thought I hadn’t been taught how to be a proper woman. It’ll take me a lifetime to heal from those wounds, but I’ll continue to do that healing as the man I am today.
As adrift and alone as Nick felt, miraculous messages of kindness and encouragement arrived just in time. One of those came in the middle of senior year, when his high school band director informed him that his talent and skill were strong enough to earn him a scholarship to a large state university:
My band director sat with me as I wrote an email requesting information about scholarship auditions. As the day approached, I printed directions at the local library (this was pre–Google Maps, plus I didn’t have a phone) and borrowed my grandma’s car to drive two hours east to the university.
That’s how I found myself, at sixteen, standing in an orchestra audition room. The flute I’d borrowed from my high school was resting in my sweaty palms.
I’d decided to play a four-page solo that I’d memorized for a state competition my freshman year. In front of an intimidating panel of professors, before striking my first note, I took one powerful in-breath. The middle section was a blur of muscle memory as I gave in to melody, allowing myself to fill the room with my love for playing music. Whatever was going to happen next, I didn’t know; I only knew that nothing existed in that space except for creation. It was freedom in so many ways. I let my final note echo in the room before I exited to the waiting area.
As I sat picking at the raised red fabric of the chair, a soft voice interrupted my quiet.
“Are you here alone?” a woman said, peering at me kindly. She had short red hair and a gentle smile.
“Yes.” I nodded.
More questions followed. “How do you think you did?” “Where are you from?” “How old are you?”
Her kindness put me at ease so much, we were soon laughing and carrying on like we were old friends, even family. Then she offered to buy me a meal so we could continue our conversation. We stayed in touch, and when news arrived that I’d been awarded the scholarship, she was among the first to know.
After that, she helped me fill out financial aid paperwork and drove me back and forth to community college so I could take prerequisite courses. When school officially started, I was taken into her home—where I lived with her and her family for close to a year.
Nick acknowledges that what changed his life were those moments and connections with kind and compassionate adults who gave him opportunities, who sat with him and listened, who helped in the small ways they could.
There were no quick fixes, no one-stop shop for unlearning trauma. But kindness helped, and it still does.
Nick observed that power every day when he worked at YouthCare, an organization in Seattle that works to end youth homelessness and to ensure that young people are valued for who they are and empowered to achieve their potential. YouthCare offers resources for outreach, basic services, emergency shelter, housing, counseling, education, and employment training—where Nick focused his attention. From interview skills, to resumes, to customer service, to obtaining legal identification or an internship, he helped.
He underscores that there aren’t easy remedies for curing the systemic issues that result in the homelessness of teens and young adults. From his own struggles, he knows all too well that these youth have been underserved by a broken system, that too many of his clients are widely dismissed as lazy or undeserving by uncaring people who never even spoke to them.
That may be one reason why Nick refuses to give up.
Every interaction I have with a client reminds me of how many times I myself had to try again, and still do. Each young person I meet in my work says something that takes me back to mistakes that I made in my own youth, out of pain or ignorance or a feeling of unworthiness. These youth deserve adults who give them opportunities. They deserve to be cared about and to have programming offered to them that helps them heal.
So many people in our society operate under the belief that if troubled or at-risk youth just worked harder, they could change their circumstances. But they need opportunities. They need room to make mistakes and to hear that they can come back and try again. They need teachers, counselors, internships, and job opportunities that understand they’re using the tools that they have and the strategies they’ve developed for survival.
If we can instill hope in their lives, if we can give them relief from shame, if we can work to untangle the lies they’ve believed about themselves, we can help change their lives.
I know that I alone can’t fix a broken system, that I alone won’t be the miracle in any kid’s life. But maybe I can help them send an e-mail that unlocks a positive fresh start. Maybe that e-mail can get them an audition. Maybe the woman they meet there in the waiting room will become like a mom to them and offer her spare bedroom, rent-free. And maybe that audition will lead to a scholarship offer. And they’ll learn that their bravery to keep trying gets them places. That the kindness of others does make a difference. That the negative things they believe about themselves now won’t always be their truth.
Ultimately, Nick Albritton works as tirelessly as he does because he is committed to kindness:
Maybe our youth will see that if they keep showing up, that we, as a society—as caring adults and committed social workers—will keep showing up, too.
It takes an ample amount of courage to unapologetically be who you are. And I’m so proud of you for being unapologetically you, Nick. Not only have you worked through difficult struggles growing up, but you have retained your kindness and loving heart through it all. To stay gentle in a sometimes-cruel world also takes courage. Thank you for using that courage to show up for all the young people you worked with at YouthCare. Everyone needs someone to show up for them, and I’m comforted in knowing that you were that person for so many young people. If you’d like to follow Nick’s example and show up for a young person experiencing homelessness, check out YouthCare or the Ali Forney Center.
