Okay, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this kind of story on the news:
But something bothered me on a couple different levels as I was watching the piece. While I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, I think a lot of it has to do with the way the story’s being shared on the media. First, I suppose something about innocent-till-proven-guilty makes sharing their personal info seem wrong. I mean, I’m kinda taking the word of people I don’t know and the filter of a news story the media wants to make seem interesting. Maybe giving the car’s ID is alright – but sharing where they live? I’m not rooting for the villain (if the story’s true and that’s what they’re doing). But it just feels like vigilante journalism, I guess.
Then, there’s a larger underlying message being told subtly.
When I was little, the rule about passing the homeless on the street was one of “do not engage!” It wasn’t meant to be out of cruelty or lack of compassion – but mostly of fear. Because we know that when people have nothing, they have nothing to lose – and may be capable of doing anything at all to make ends meet. That fear – of those with less – carried over for many years until I got a bit older and came to understand that there does exists a happy medium between keeping yourself safe while helping others. And that compassion can be provided in a logical way. Stories told like the above one highlight the problem: “Some people panhandle when they have more than enough money”. As a result, it almost feels like the suggestive implication is “Don’t help anyone – because they might be lying about being poor.” Especially when the statistics aren’t provided about just how many legit homeless people are suffering in the country, or what you can do to help if you’d like to – but don’t wanna get ripped off by fakers.
And I would like to help.
This is why – especially after seeing a handful of these – I stopped donating dollars to the destitute.
And started offering goods instead.
I’m struggling to make ends meet myself, but the thing is this: I do have more than the man holding a sign outside of Home Depot. And as a writer (which can be an isolating field), getting out of my own head by talking to and helping others helps. Both of us get our needs fulfilled symbiotically. For me, it’s validation that I’m not as awful as I’m feeling I am. In a way, when I do a nice thing for someone who has nothing – like someone sans a home – it’s almost selfish. Because I can go home (to my warm bed in an apartment with heating and a space heater and blankets) and feel good about the little contribution I made. Unless, of course, I see them drive off in a Mercedes. Then I feel cheated. Trolled. Angry.
What I’ve come to find is that – but no longer doling out dollars – I can weed out who’s in true need of help and offer it. If you’re without shelter or employment – then food, warmth, and the life-needs that money can get you will likely be something you won’t turn down. In fact, that’s what you actually need in that circumstance. Money’s just paper that gets you these necessities. So, no, I don’t stop helping.
I just cut out the dead president middle men.
And maybe use that time to introduce ourselves while I help instead.
(Now Homer has to walk all the way to the store. In the freezing cold. When we could’ve had a chat about how delicious these peanuts we’re sharing are.)
So, that’s what I offer. Some food. An ex boyfriend’s clothes. Whatever. And, if it’s light enough out and a public place, I’ll stay and have a chat and ask them about their story. If it’s a lady, I’ll give her a hug. Am I Fort Knoxxing my wallet and valuables all the while? Yes. Yes, I am. Yes, I still live in reality. No, I’m not Pollyanna. But, as I said, there’s a happy medium between my well ingrained childhood fears of being robbed blind – and connecting with a fellow human less lucky than I.
Plus, my ego likes to believe that maybe an act of kindness I did might motivate them to make whatever small change (if there is indeed something they can change) they need in order to get back on track. Hope’s a powerful thing. And there’s something about offering the gift of interaction while filling a cold void of hunger (or literal coldness) that feels platonic and parental all at once. That’s what it does for me. What it does for them, I dunno. But for the ones who hug me tightly and say thank you with tears in their eyes, I imagine it sticks with them a bit. Those who are genuinely suffering, generally respond in this way. Those who’re riding away in a Mercedes later will turn their nose up at your non monetary offerings. They do not represent the collective. In fact, for my financially secure friends who feel tummy turmoil over these tales, there’s your whittled down version of an alternative: an embrace, a sammich, and a chat. And much like you do when taking a chance on friends, romantic partners, or even masseuses (because your last one didn’t understand draping or boundaries), you don’t give up altogether and unibomber yourself inside forever behind a fortress of felines just because the first few human encounters sucked. You keep trying. ’cause that’s all homeless are.
Regular humans that are “less” one “home” than you (assuming you only have one.)
Some of them are still bitter at life and bite a helping hand holding out food.
Some are desperate and grateful for anything at all.
(Sounds like a chilly meal, my dude.)
Like the veteran I gave my gloves away to two days ago. He was caked with dirt and soulful eyes visibly haunted by the memories of the kinds of things you know better than to ask people about. His massive hands holding a cardboard sign in the parking lot were red and weather beaten from clearly having done that all day. It was so cold. All I had to offer were these too small black gloves. He graciously took them anyway and told me “Thank you so much for caring.” When I asked him his name, he said, “Russell.” This made me really happy because that’s the name of a man who once helped me when I was suffering rough (albeit of a very different nature) times myself. The Russell I know is a public figure, and when I met him, we took pictures. I’ll probably never see him again, so when I lost all my media on my phone this week, my pictures with him were lost too. Without the visual reminders of the memory, I thought it’d become like one of those surreal things (“Did that even ever happen? Did I imagine it?”). Having this transpire not a couple days later reminded me – helping this homeless Russell is something I never would have done before meeting the Russell who helped me. I was clearly left with more by him than mere snapshots. I was infected with a bit of compassion. And that’s what I try my best to pass on now.
Despite news sensationalism, these tales have actually helped me improve how I help.
Not by passing down cash and departing.
But by pulling up others to where I stand.
And leaving them with something more than some crumpled singles.