Unlikely discovery of backpack fosters friendship

It's impossible to know how many people drove past the child's backpack, lying abandoned on the median of a busy street near downtown Minneapolis.

It's impossible to know how many people saw the blue and pink bag, with happy hearts and stars, daisies and the drawing of a dark-eyed girl with braids, and wondered why it was there, or felt uncomfortable that it was.

We do know that one person pulled over, ran into traffic to rescue it, and looked inside.

Renee Gusa, 25, and Rikki Iglesias, 41, rushed into a Minneapolis pharmacy on a bitterly cold day last week to buy a dehumidifier for Gusa's newborn son. Two months ago, the women didn't know each other. Today, Gusa's children called Iglesias "Auntie Rikki," and Aunt Rikki calls Gusa "a friend."

They're both surprised at their unlikely alliance. They both feel lucky. They're both proceeding cautiously.

"From the start, I always got this good vibe from her," Gusa said of Iglesias, "but I did think it was odd that this happened to me."

"I've been trying to be really careful," Iglesias said of Gusa and her family. "I love them, but I didn't want to push myself into their lives without their blessing and cooperation."

• • •

On Wednesday, Sept. 17, Iglesias was tired from driving most of the day. A certified wine sommelier, she travels hundreds of miles each week to make calls. She was heading into downtown Minneapolis near Hennepin Avenue S. midafternoon when she saw "a little pink backpack" in the median. "Omigod," said Iglesias, married and the mother of 14-year-old twin girls.

She jumped out of her truck to grab it. Inside, she found one little worn sock and a neatly typed identification card with a phone number. She called it.

"I found your child's backpack," she told the woman who answered. "I'll bring it to you."

The emotional woman reluctantly gave Iglesias her address — a homeless shelter. "I used to live right up there," Iglesias said, to break the ice. "I used to live in an efficiency apartment right near there."

Iglesias hung up. "This sucks so bad," she thought. So, on her way to the shelter, she stopped at a pharmacy and bought markers, notebooks and crayons, and put them inside the backpack.

Around 5 p.m., she pulled up at the shelter. Gusa, nine months pregnant, was outside to greet her with her four young children. It was Iglesias' turn to fight back tears. She handed Gusa the backpack and learned its story.

• • •

On that September morning, 5-year-old Zareah woke up excited to go to school. Her mom couldn't afford a fancy backpack, so the shelter bought her this dazzler. She and her 7-year-old sister, Coreanna, got on the school bus and sat just where their mother told them to.

On the way to school, older girls whom Zareah didn't know began to tease her. She made it through the day. On the ride home, however, the same girls grabbed her precious backpack and threw it out the window.

"For that to happen … I didn't show her how upset I was," Gusa said. "I cried that night. As a parent, you should be able to stop harm from happening, but I wasn't on that bus."

Gusa talked to school administrators, who were responsive. But the backpack, which Iglesias had taken pains to return, was slightly scuffed, as was Zareah's confidence. She didn't want the sparkling backpack anymore.

"I've been bullied," Gusa said. "I know how it feels."

• • •

After meeting Gusa, Iglesias called her mother, Patty Bratton Wicken, to tell her what had happened. She told Wicken how it pained her that a sweet little girl was bullied, and that the little girl's mother faced an encroaching winter with no home or car. "She loves those kids and she's trying so hard," Iglesias said.

What could they do to help?

Wicken, a radio personality in Alexandria, immediately posted the story on her Facebook page, dubbing it, "The Minnesota Backpack Project." Monetary donations, as well as offers of hats, mittens, clothes, diapers and formula, flooded in.

• • •

Two days later, Iglesias called Gusa again. "Some people don't want help and don't want some nosy person coming in and knowing their business," she said. "But people are really willing to help you."

Gusa burst into tears. Growing up in Minneapolis, she and her widowed mother moved in and out of shelters "tons of times." But from age 16, Gusa worked. She'd take two jobs if she had to. By 17, she supported herself in her own place. She graduated from South High School in 2007.

"My mom raised a strong person. I don't like the word 'help,' " Gusa said. "If I have to go through a struggle, that's what I'll do. I'm glad that at the end of it, I know what to do."

But since last summer, she and her longtime boyfriend, David Rogers, have faced tougher challenges than ever. Both have struggled to find work, which makes it nearly impossible to find stable housing. Rogers had to take a break from school because he couldn't pay his tuition.

"We've never been homeless for this long," she said. "It's draining us."

So when Iglesias appeared in her life, Gusa took a deep breath. "I could really use some help," she said.

Iglesias leaped in, as chauffeur, driving Gusa to appointments and to the grocery store. As a supportive coach, too, talking to Gusa about steps she might take. As baby sitter, watching the kids so Gusa could get a breather. As coordinator of gifts, arriving at Gusa's shelter with a vehicle filled with supplies Gusa might consider taking to continue moving forward.

A role she's relieved she didn't have to fulfill was that of doula. On Sept. 24, Iglesias drove Gusa to fill out a housing application. But Gusa went into early labor, so Iglesias rushed her to the hospital, where she gave birth. Iglesias brought her twins to visit Gusa, with gifts of baby clothes. With donated cash, Gusa bought a stroller, covered bills and paid down David's student loans.

Well-meaning friends have expressed concern to Iglesias about her hands-on approach. "Can't you just make a donation to a food shelf like everybody else?" they ask her. Iglesias' response: "I feel like I haven't done enough."

Wicken champions her daughter's efforts. "If you know Rikki, you wouldn't be surprised that she pulled over [to pick up the backpack]," Wicken said. "She sees all kinds of things and helps people along the way."

Iglesias is carefully keeping track of where every dollar donated to Gusa is going. "I want to be respectful of the donors," she said. "We can show them that David is going back to school, that the kids are clothed now."

• • •

Gusa and Iglesias continue to navigate their growing friendship. Iglesias tries not to hover. Gusa pays when she can and takes the bus when possible, reserving Iglesias' time for when she really needs it.

Gusa continues to apply for jobs, willing to work for $6 or $7 an hour. "Once someone gives me that chance, I'll be able to show my dedication," she said.

When she gets a job lead, she texts Iglesias. "Only the good news," she said. "Every other day or so, I let her know what's going on with the kids. If I don't text her for a number of days, she'll text to check in on me."

She pauses to collect her thoughts.

"This is really, really, really weird," Gusa said with a smile. "David says the Lord blesses us with someone like Rikki. Everything is so, so overwhelming," Gusa said. "Now she's in my life and I thank God for her every day."

• • •

Things are looking up. David has several job leads. Gusa will return to school in January to work toward a degree in practical nursing.

And Iglesias is in it for the long haul. "I don't know if I'm making a difference, but I feel like these kiddos are in a different place than they would have been. I hope Renee knows I'm there. I'm around."

Unpacking the complex stories carried in this little backpack has "energized" Iglesias. "I want to keep moving and help more people," she said. First, though, she's determined to help Gusa and her family find stable housing.

"Every day, I walk downtown," Iglesias said. "Every day, there are soup lines, a huge line every day.

"But how many times do we really look?"

gail.rosenblum@startribune.com

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