When I first moved to LA from San Francisco, my first bewildering thought was, “Where are all the homeless people?” I grew up stepping around homeless people on a regular basis. It’s just the way it was in San Francisco. San Francisco itself is a mere 7 miles by 7 miles and if you’re a city who’s famous for hippies, fair weather, and fabulous welfare infrastructure, well… it attracts a lot of soul-seekers and down-on-their-luckers.
I was either 5-7 years old when I met my first real homeless man. I thought he looked like Santa Claus so I paused to stare at him. “Why is he so sad?” I thought. He was playing a harmonica. He had no shoes, just these ENORMOUS callused feet that looked like Sequoia tree stumps. He held out his hand to me. I turned to my mom, “He wants a quarter mom!” (In those days, quarters were a LOT of money. You could buy something from the BIG gumball machine with a whole quarter!) My mom looked at him and said, “No he doesn’t. He just wants to kiss your hand,” and she led me away from him.
I decided right then and there that my mom was a bitch. A mean, selfish, lying bitch. If my mom wasn’t going to save the world, I sure as hell would!!!
Crossfade to the present. I’m now working in downtown San Francisco and once again, passing homeless people on a regular basis. But now that I’m older, I’m noticing different things. One, they’re all the same people. They seem to have staked their own territories, even fighting people off to keep their corners. Each seem to have a specific need: “Why lie, I need a beer?” “Have a newborn, can’t pay for him,” “Today’s my birthday!” (even though it has been his birthday every day I pass him), “At least help me get the dog some dog food!” I feel… changed. Mean, even. I think maybe my mom was at least pretty when she refused money, I think I simply advert my eyes. I pull my body close to me and walk at a clipped pace. In short, I’ve learned to harden my heart.
Earlier this week, I was at the Downtown Berkeley BART station. I was entering my five dollar bill into the ticket machine. “No, ma’am! Wait! WAIT!” I hurriedly pushed the bill in as the voice grew more urgent and his footsteps rang behind me. I was afraid, I was tense, and I was anxious. In my mind, I see the scratchy guy who smells like a weed forest going into the 2 minute long spiel about how he has this BART ticket and how he’s willing to sell it to me for less than it’s worth if I just give him half the amount in cash and if not, just a dollar would be nice, blah blah blah. A lot of people use this tactic and therefore hang out around the ticket machines, waiting for a tourist or someone willing to stop and listen. It makes ticket buying a frustrating experience since the human condition is to listen when another human voice is speaking and also since saying “No,” several times within the course of 3 minutes can be taxing on my liberal heart.
“No WAIT! SERIOUSLY WAIT! Awwwwwwww!” he wailed as I pushed the ticket button quickly and the machine spat out my five dollar ticket. “I’m sorry sir,” I mumbled as I started to walk away. I finally glimpsed the face to the voice. He was an African-American male, about 40-50 years of age and ….. dressed like he was coming from a conference. In other words, he wasn’t homeless.
“No, wait.” He demanded as I tried to leave him. “Watch.” He ordered. He put in his BART ticket; the machine read, “$7.00 value”.
“I just needed cash for a taxi,” he scolded me.
“But I already have my ticket, I can’t return it to the machine, ” I protested.
“Don’t say anything,” he snapped. “I’m a professor. I’m on the board at Berkeley. Just say what it really was, ‘You didn’t want to help.’ I’m from New York. I get it. But that still doesn’t make it right.” He walked away angrily, his heels clicking.
This suit costs as much as my salary of 4 months.
And I felt that somehow, despite all my parading of love for everyone and everything, my decision showed me for what I really was….. a mean, selfish, lying BITCH.
Question: What do you do for the homeless?
Who’s to say he wouldn’t have done the same as you had the tables been turned? He probably would have but he had the gall to call you on something he had in his own heart.
…and that’s how hard my heart is.
Still no guarantee he wasnt full of it. Just because he was dressed well doesnt mean he wasnt trying to con you. There have been so many nicely dressed people at different places asking for money. At a lot of airports I have run into people asking for some money for a ride, always claiming that they will pay you back. Whether you want to help someone is up to you, you shouldnt feel bad about whatever you decide to do.
I lived in a part of the city where many homeless. If they asked me I was offered food but no money. I don´t think you have a hard heart, if you had a hard heart would not be thinking about what happened and if you did right and wrong. =)
i tell people i’m a professor at NYU all the time too!
$7 for a taxi? where does a professor who should have credit cards and ATM cards go on $7?
Yeah, I don’t think his professor story checks out.
It’s a dilemma. Even if you decide to give, how do you know you’re not just feeding a destructive booze or drug habit?
So to assuage my bay area liberal guilt, I volunteer at a soup kitchen once a week. No money, alcohol or drugs change hands. Just questionable chili.
And not to be too cliche about it, but I get back far more than I give. It’s church for agnostics.
i live in las vegas (but am about to move to the bay) and am confronted by beggars all the time– I say beggars instead of bums here, because probably half the people that ask me for money or help, etc. are really not bums but have gambling problems. i have learned to harden my heart a bit because you’d go broke in vegas trying to help all the people that approach you everyday.