I, being one of the bleeding hearted, hate the feeling in my gut when I see the downtrodden. I don’t judge them, I feel for them. It occurs to me readily that my internal condition has so often resembled their outward disposition, especially on lonely nights when I feel so far from where I want to be or aught to be. The sight of the homeless evokes a strong feeling of pity and their countenance makes my heart ache. I know that feeling and temptation of giving up. I know the pain of not knowing how to cope with the pains of life. I know the looming fear of self-doubt. I know what the feeling of inadequacy. I’ve felt impotent to improve my circumstances. In many ways I’ve felt just as hopeless as these.
Some people say that it’s easier to pretend that the homeless don’t exist than it is to make eye contact and tell them, “no, I don’t have any change, sorry.” Quite honestly, I don’t feel responsible for them. Their plight is not my fault. They made the decisions individually—not withstanding mental illness—that landed them quite literally in the gutter. It’s to each of us to pick ourselves up again. In fairness, sometimes we need a hand.
When I see a guy holding a sign that reads, “I need a miracle,” I smile at him and drive on by. He’s standing and holding a sign and breathing. What more could I give him? Ten dollars for liquor? Yeah, no. I don’t really do cash hand outs for people who have proven that they cannot manage their money. I will have a conversation with a homeless man or woman, however. I feel that the likely reason that they ended up homeless is that they stopped believing in themselves. Clearly they did. Our lives slip slowly and quietly away from us as we lose our sense of value and self-efficacy. I know this feeling as well. They stopped believing that they are even people, to some degree. Acknowledging each of them as a person is by far the greatest thing I can offer and it should go farther than a few bucks.
But today, on my drive to work, I saw a man holding a sign saying, “I NEED FOOD.” I recognized something very different about his state of mind and my own. His basic needs are unmet and I have a lunch packed for work. I reached in my lunch box and pulled out my freshly purchased and sliced cucumber. Surely I can miss a snack today. I rolled down my electric window and waved at the man. He came running over, gabbed the Ziploc bag of cucumber, thanked me and retreated to his cardboard sign and tattered lawn chair.
The light remained red for a long time. The man reluctantly delved into the bag—I’m sure he wished my light would turn green; certainly he knew I was watching him. He took a bite of my carefully and evenly spaced cucumber. Unable to keep up pretenses his face turned sour and he spit the chunks of my lunch on the street. He tossed the bag over his shoulder into a bush behind him. I could see him mouth a few foul words as he put his rolled cigarette to his mouth. He picked up his sign again.
For a split second I was angry at the man for throwing the best part of my lunch away, and for littering, and for lying and for being an ass. Then I laughed hard. I should have known better: he had a lawn chair. He was not totally without property and therefore, with such luxuries, could afford to be picky. And I laughed because this man and I really aren’t alike at all. I love cucumber and I don’t require hand outs; not today at least.
So I’ll keep my veggies next time. I’ll eat them, and keep my cholesterol low, and my energy high. I’ll share a smile and a “hello” but I’ll keep my food to myself.
But there is an important lesson here: if you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll end up homeless. Take a memo, kids.
