Not many people would make a sacrifice like Od’Juan Whitfield.
He’s a military veteran, spending much of 2003 in Kuwait. He was married with a young son and a steady sales job at Interline Brands.
His dysfunctional marriage came to a boiling point Thanksgiving 2006. Another argument, this time with him leaving.
But the Indianapolis native didn’t have friends or family in Jacksonville. He didn’t want to move away from his 5-year old son. All but about $30 of his paychecks each week went to his stay-at-home wife and Od’Juan Jr.
They stayed in their Arlington home. Whitfield stayed on the streets.
Outside the Prime Osborn Convention Center some nights. Other nights on the boardwalk. A night here and there taking shelter in storage units at the Regency Home Depot when he needed to be closer to home.
He’d still see Od’Juan Jr. on weekends. Whitfield would take the bus or walk to the place he paid bills and the two would go Downtown to the Landing or Friendship Park or McDonalds. Never with much more than a few dollars.
Whitfield made it work for a few months, while continuing his job at Interline Brands. He found ways. Like being the first to arrive at the company around 6 a.m., enough time to take a shower and change. People just thought he was dedicated.
He kept his situation private, but eventually people found out and suggested Sulzbacher Center.
He stayed there a couple of months starting in January 2007. Even that was tricky, though. He was still employed and didn’t qualify for programs.
“Here I am making too much money but homeless,” he said. “It was crazy.”
While he managed to still work, his performance wasn’t where it needed to be. He was let go by Interline shortly after he arrived at the homeless center.
He and his wife tried working it out but to no avail. Months later, he was back on the streets.
“I was out again. I was so disappointed with myself. If I had planned it better …,” he said, his voice trailing off.
No job, no paycheck. He couldn’t — and wouldn’t have — paid for his wife anymore.
He was too embarrassed to go back to Sulzbacher. He kept looking for a job, kept sleeping on the streets in familiar haunts.
What money he had from selling his personal items went toward clothes from Goodwill. A Tracfone he calls his “ace.” His time with Od’Juan Jr.
Still, jobs were hard to come by until he heard about Sulzbacher hiring a dorm counselor. Perfect, he thought. He knew what the men who walked through the doors were going through. The staff recognized him, too, but not his secret.
“They didn’t know I was still homeless again at the time,” he said, able to laugh about it now.
He started the 12-hour weekend shifts in December 2007.
He remembers with that first paycheck he rented a room at the downtrodden motel on the Arlington Expressway.
“It was probably the worst ever, but you couldn’t tell me that,” he said.
He remembers sleeping on top of the covers, but smiling. It was a bed and he was floating.
“It felt so good not having to worry about anyone coming into my space,” he said.
He stayed a couple of weeks there until he found a room at the Beaches, which made the bus trips to Downtown about 21/2 hours. Still, he made it work and the job grew to include the 11 p.m.- 7 a.m. graveyard shifts.
He made it work, eventually renting his own efficiency studio. He was still a big part of his son’s life. He had found a way.
Whitfield went back to school, using his GI Bill to earn a bachelor’s degree in supervision and management.
By 2013, Sulzbacher tapped him as part of its new veterans program in addition to his supervisory roles elsewhere. And last year, Sulzbacher contracted him out to Friends of Hemming Park for social work, guiding people who were on the street like him at one point to services.
Od’Juan Jr. is now 14 and Whitfield has custody. Dad wakes up weekdays at 5 a.m. to take him to Oakleaf High School, where son is a freshman.
They talk about Whitfield’s time on the streets and his sacrifices. He’s honest with his son, letting him hear his story on the homeless speaking circuit or anytime he asks.
It was just the sacrifice he made for him — and ultimately, it worked out.
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