He was the most family-oriented member of my extended family. He was the guest of honor at Thanksgiving and Christmas. He remembered every birthday: the year before he died at the age of 50, he gave me an eagle bandana for my birthday.

Mark also suffered from schizophrenia, and lived on-and-off the streets for 30 years.

In November 2013, for the first time since he died 10 years prior, I visited his gravesite in Santa Cruz. My dad and Uncle David had chipped in for a plot of ground to call his own, refusing to have Mark's memory forgotten.

As poignant as this was for me, I wondered if there was anything I could do for the people still living on the streets each day, whose lives we forget or ignore.

Like Mark, there are many people on the streets who suffer from mental illness, or drug addictions, or severe disabilities. Many people who have problems, just like the rest of us.