R. Dean Wright, retired professor of sociology at Drake University in Des Moines, died of cancer Friday, August 17th, at age 69.

REMEMBERING DEAN WRIGHT
By Linda Mason Hunter

Back in the early 1990s, when I was in my mid-40s, Dean Wright offered me one of my life’s most memorable experiences. He invited me to help him deliver hot breakfasts to the tramps and vagrants of Des Moines, the homeless and mentally ill living in the city’s shadows.

As I tumbled into the front seat of Dean’s little car, barely awake at 3:15 that morning, I didn’t know what to expect. Truth be told, I was a little frightened. We experienced that dawn together, Dean and I, driving empty city streets until night morphed into day.

First stop—the Salvation Army, where we picked up 20 hot breakfasts wrapped in aluminum foil. Then, bathed in eggamuffin essence , we methodically drove a tight circle around the city’s center, stopping in dark unlikely places Dean knew to be homeless haunts. We found them huddling in doorways under a blanket of newspaper, camping out in abandoned warehouses, alone and paranoid among bats under bridges, and living in earthen caves dug out of the south bank of the Raccoon River.

“Hot coffee,” Dean yelled out when we got within earshot. In the murky dark I saw the glow of eyes first, then the outline of physical form as one by one they noiselessly emerged from the shadows, eyes darting furtively, obviously wondering if they should trust this stranger Dean brought along that morning.

Dean knew each of them by name. He inquired after their health and the whereabouts of their friends and relatives. Most trusted him and each gratefully received the warm breakfast he brought. No lectures. No advice. Just simple friendship from the other side of the advantaged divide. For some, it was the only hot meal they ate all week.

We pulled back into my driveway in full daylight at 6:30 that morning. I spent the day alone processing those three pre-dawn hours. It was a profound experience, as it should be. What I came away with was profound insight. As I experienced the lifting of the veil between night and day, a veil in my mind lifted as well. For the first time I clearly saw how much we humans resemble our animal cousins—predator and prey, the fight for survival on a primal level—evolution played out before our eyes, for our benefit, as a lesson. My next insight surprised me—I understood on a deep level that each one of us is but a hairline away from living on the streets, if only metaphorically. “There but by the grace of God go I.” In the end there is no insurance.

Dean understood that. Behind his quiet suburban persona dwelled a selfless soul with a Don Quixote spirit. Yes, he was a popular and much admired university professor. Yes, he was known internationally for his scholarly work, and headed state panels exploring criminal and juvenile justice. But he also walked the talk, taking his fight to the streets.

Deep in his kind heart Dean understood one of life’s most profound truths—that we are all connected, more by our similarities than by our differences. He was his brother’s keeper. I am not alone in missing him, but I pray his bright light will still shine for a while, especially at the bewitching hour before dawn.

Linda Mason Hunter is a Des Moines-based author and host of “Green Zone” on KFMG 99.1 FM.