Katie Bashor, a beloved teacher and tireless volunteer director of a homeless shelter, died suddenly Friday.
She taught PE at Fernbank Elementary School in DeKalb County. At the same time, Bashor, 59, was at the helm of the Central Night Shelter in Atlanta for several years. She was known for her generosity, compassion and big heart.
See below a recent video about Bashor and the Central Night Shelter, a ministry of hospitality and compassion to homeless men in downtown Atlanta which opens every year during the coldest months — Nov. 1 through March 31.(It occupies space in two churches, Central Presbyterian and the neighboring Catholic Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.) Atlanta’s Homeward Choir, a group of men from the city’s Central Night Shelter, was invited to perform at the White House last December. In the video, Bashor talks about why the shelter, the volunteers, and the men who stay there mean so much to her.
At the shelter, she led yoga classes and provided foot baths. At Fernbank, she started a popular walking/running club - after school — under one condition.
“She was adamant it remain free and open to all students,” said Jason Marshall, principal at Fernbank Elementary School. “She said she would start the club and supervise it as long it would be no cost to any student. She was that kind of person.”
Bashor died Friday while visiting family in Oregon during spring break. Her family said she died of natural causes.
Bashor grew up in Rutland, Vermont and graduated from the University of Vermont. She has been deeply involved in helping run the Central Night Shelter for over 30 years.
“My brother and I grew up at the shelter. It was so normal to us I think we both thought everyone’s parents did stuff like run a homeless shelter,” Bashor’s daughter, Jessie Bashor, said in an e-mail. “Before she started teaching at Fernbank she was always our class mom; she’d come and talk to our classes about the shelter and the class would make sandwiches for their sack lunches. I never asked her why they ran the night shelter; it was just what they did… Both my parents instilled the importance of social justice in our lives… She taught my brother and I that it doesn’t matter where people come from. Their race, gender, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status- it doesn’t matter. You treat people the way you want to be treated and you do right because it is right.”
Marshall said he deeply admired Bashor.
“One of the things I admired about her is that she was an integral part of Fernbank, the shelter, her church, cyclists and runners, and her life overlapped so many groups,” he said. “We often shape our lives around people like us, or PLUs so to speak. She branched out - young and old, rich and poor, people of all races -none of that matter. She enjoyed people… The thing that is easiest for me to say is she was a hero to me. As we get older, we have fewer and fewer heroes. When you are young, as kids, you have Batman and Robin, and then sports figures and teachers, and when you get to be my age - I am 43 - heroes are harder to find. But she was my hero because of the lives she touched, the way she approached work at school, and work at the shelter with equal passion.”
Tributes and condolences are pouring in online for Bashor.
Some people are sharing Facebook posts by Bashor herself including this recent one Bashor posted on Jan. 4:
The buzzer went off in the kitchen meaning someone was downstairs wanting in. I groaned as I had just come upstairs and finished our community announcements at Central Night Shelter. But I grabbed my clipboard and went downstairs to see what was what. One of our guests had arrived about ten minutes late. His foot was in a boot and he was out of breath. “My boss made me stay late tonight. I am a dishwasher. I told him I had to be here but he wouldn’t listen. I tried to run but I couldn’t because of my foot.”
I opened the door and told him to come in. Upstairs he followed me to the kitchen to get signed in. I found the sign-in book and wrote his name down. I turned around and told him he was signed in. He looked at me with amazement. I asked him what was wrong and he said, “You know my name. You didn’t look at my ID.” I assured him that I did know his name. He replied, “I feel blessed. Someone cares enough about me to remember my name.” When you feel invisible the smallest of gestures can mean the world…
Features writer Helena Oliviero will continue updating this story. Feel free to share your stories about Bashor. You can reach Oliviero at holiviero@ajc.com.
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