Those who build walls are their own prisoners. I'm going to go
fulfill my proper function in the social organism. I'm going to go unbuild
walls. We don't have to engage in grand, heroic actions to participate in the
process of change. Small acts, when multiplied by millions of people, can
transform the world. - Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed (1974)
Two Sets of Clothes, 92F
I had
come to the craft store to buy a small stand for my candles so that they can be
visible onscreen when I zoomcast Morning Prayer on Tuesday mornings. I saw the
woman out of the corner of my eye as I pulled into the parking lot.
She
was clearly a homeless person, bearing all her worldly goods in a beat-up
duffle bag and a couple of fraying plastic bags, She had to have been uncomfortable
wearing a couple of layers of clothing in the 92F were experiencing that day.
When you have no closet to store your few sets of clothing in, you wear what
you want to keep, no matter the temperature.
I
tried to look away but she made a beeline for my car the minute I stepped out.
“Excuse me! Can I talk to you for a moment?” she began in that loud,
semi-urgent voice homeless panhandlers almost always use.
I’m
not sure what gives me away in these encounters. Perhaps it’s my non-defensive
demeanor or the fact I don’t just mutter something dismissive and walk away. (I
wonder if people who scream “Get a job!” at unemployed, sometimes
mentally ill, people living on the street ever consider how sadistic that is.)
In any case, homeless people always seem to know they have an empathetic ear –
if not a possible source of funds - in me.
And
so she began.
An Avalanche of Flakes
Hers
was a strange tale of being unable to get into local shelters because of a
scalp condition that was causing her skin to flake off. Her skin looked like
alligator hide, weathered from weeks spent in the sun. She had a crew cut in
which a large area of scabby scalp was visible. She insisted upon rubbing the
spot to illustrate her dilemma at which point an avalanche of flakes descended
to the asphalt below.
I felt
my stomach churn and I had to wrestle with myself to resist the urge to step
back from her.
She
began to tell me about her frustration in dealing with the local health
department, a lament that went on for a couple of minutes. The story was
getting more and more detailed when I finally raised my hand and said, “OK.
Stop. I’m going to give you some money. You don’t have to convince me.”
I
opened my wallet, pulled out a $20 and handed it to her.
It Already Belongs to Them
Basil
the Great, one of the church leaders of the 4th CE, was clear that “the
money which you hoard up belongs to the poor.” Such an understanding would
be later reflected in the teaching of Francis of Assisi, of whose order I am a
professed third order member. He taught that those with more money than they
needed to meet their daily life expenditures were essentially stealing from the
poor when they refused to give it to those who begged.
Francis
was clear: At a basic level, it already belongs to them.
Indeed,
Jesus, whose Way I seek to follow as best I can know it, was pretty clear about
this: “Give to the one who begs from you; and don’t turn away the one who
tries to borrow from you.”
That admonition appears in two of the synoptic gospels as well as in the sayings Gospel of Thomas. And biblical scholars are pretty clear that, unlike much of that which is attributed to him (including the assertion in John’s Gospel that “the poor you will always have with you” that those seeking to avoid living into any kind of social responsibility inevitably cite), this is probably the historical Jesus speaking to us.
It has long been my policy that when I am confronted by beggars, I first consider what’s in my wallet at that moment. If I need what I have to get home or to buy food or gas, I keep it. I say I’m sorry and move on. But if I have more than I need, I will give at least some of it to the human being who is in front of me. If they appear to need it and I don’t, it seems like a no-brainer.
In making that decision, I do not try to second guess them. I’m not a psychic so I can’t know if they are lying or running a scam and I never start with that presumption. Constructions of human nature cast in depravity have never made any sense to me. My time as a defense attorney continues to shape my understandings. I still believe in the presumption of innocence.
Moreover, I’m not their parent. If they use the money for booze or drugs, that’s not my concern. The second the money leaves my hands, it’s no longer mine. In giving them a gift, I’m not entering into a contract with them in which payment is conditioned upon demanded behavior. And truth be told, if I were sleeping on the streets of Orlando tonight, I’d probably want to be intoxicated just to endure the indignities of my situation and the insecurities of the night.
It Wasn’t the Money She Really Wanted
However,
this woman didn’t just want my money. And she certainly didn’t want my pity
which almost always comes with no small dose of unrecognized condescension. What
she wanted was some affirmation of her humanity. And she wasn’t going to let me
go until she got it.
“I hate being in this spot,” she said. I could hear the tears she was
choking back at that point. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
And
she was right. I didn’t. And as I stood there looking at this woman, beaten
down by life, I was thankful that I haven’t had whatever experiences led to
this aging woman with her two layers of grimy, sweat-soaked clothing carrying
around the bags of all her worldly goods. I was deeply grateful that I was not
living on the streets of this city known for its hospitality to tourists with
money but no small amount of hostility toward the homeless.
Our
city motto is “The City Beautiful” and Orlando truly is a beautiful
place to live. It’s also a progressive city willing to wrestle with its racist
past and protective of its sexual minorities. I am grateful for such beauty
every day in this safe, blue urban island in an angry red sea just outside its
beltway.
Tragically,
that beauty rarely extends to its dealings with the homeless. In the past,
draconian laws restricting panhandlers to 2 X 2 blue squares painted on the
curbs and creating offenses for lying down on park benches served to keep our
downtown sanitized for professional middle class folks like me. That might be a
lot of things but whatever beauty that might result is but skin deep.
In
a city that has gone out of its way to fund sporting facilities, light rail and
shuttle services and neighborhood development city-wide, its track record with
the homeless is mediocre on a good day. I stood facing this woman who was
probably a good decade younger than myself but whose appearance suggested a
much older person, revelations of a difficult life that had taken its toll on
her. And I realized how fortunate I am not to know “what it’s like.”
Small Acts Multiplied By Millions
At
this point, I felt I had done all I could. I reached out and touched her
shoulder, seeking to convey some empathy with that gesture, hoping not to be
seen as violating her autonomy. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time,”
I said. Leaning down to look directly into her down-cast face, I added, “I
really pray things will improve for you.”
At
that moment, we both knew our exchange was over. She thanked me and assured me
that G-d would bless me. Perhaps. But not necessarily because of this
encounter, I thought.
“You, too,” I said and turned to head into the store. She picked up her
bags and shuffled off across the parking lot.
In
the end, the $20 I gave her was undoubtedly a drop in the deep bucket of
whatever physical needs she had brought to our encounter. It certainly wouldn’t
pay for the medical attention she needed in one of the premier cities of the
world’s wealthiest nation, a country which denies its citizens the guarantee of
health care. And it did nothing to address the structural pathologies that
generate and then demonize homeless people in the world’s wealthiest nation.
Some might even say that my actions, driven by compassion, largely served to
rationalize this sadistic status quo. Perhaps.
But
it is my prayer that the momentary recognition of her humanity, however passing
it might have been, may have been the real gift she desired from me. In the
end, it was a gift that cost me nothing more than my time and my willingness to
step outside my comfort zone momentarily.
In
return, the gift she gave me was a reality check of my fortunate life, much of
it unearned, and the duties to others that flow from such good fortune. She
also gave me this story and the reflection it required of me prior to writing
it. For that I am grateful.
I
believe Ursula Le Guin is right when she says that it is small acts, when
multiplied by millions, that have the power to transform our world. And I believe
that she has an important insight on how that happens: unbuilding walls that
separate us one from another.
Unbuilding
walls, much like building them, never occurs in one day. But perhaps it’s
chance encounters in parking lots like this one where that unbuilding begins.
Today, this is my prayer.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Harry Scott Coverston
Orlando,
Florida
If the unexamined life is not worth living, surely an unexamined
belief system, be it religious or political, is not worth holding. Most things
worth considering do not come in sound bites.
Those who believe religion and politics aren't connected don't
understand either. – Mahatma Gandhi
For what does G-d require of you but to do justice, and to love
kindness, and to walk humbly with your G-d?
- Micah
6:8, Hebrew Scriptures
Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do
justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly now. You are not obligated to
complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it. - Rabbi Rami
Shapiro, Wisdom of the Jewish Sages (1993)
© Harry Coverston, 2021
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