Conscious Choice: Hey Buddy...

January 1996

Hey Buddy...

by Sheri Reda

There is a woman who stands, every day, at the Division Street exit ramp of the Kennedy. She is slender and blue-eyed, with short, stringy hair. She talks with a blue-collar Chicago accent. And she leans on crutches, waiting for help.

She stands at a precarious place for begging; Division Street isn’t exactly booming, for one thing. There’s not much extra money floating around. The exit is a favorite for nearby light industry, so mostly trucks rumble past. And there’s rarely a backup at the light, so if you stop to give her money, you hold up what little traffic there is. Still, she stands there, every day. Some people give her money. Most do not.

The first time I saw the woman, her eyes were bright, almost blazing. She had won a few patrons, and she made a little conversation with each one who gave. As the weather got colder, though, the light behind her eyes got dimmer. She seems a bit absent these days; and the cars don’t stop.

She has taken to holding up one of those cardboard signs; hers reads: "Homeless and with children. Please help with money, food, or clothes." I wonder, whenever I pass, where the children are during the day. And I have to admit, I’ve studied her legs. One of them does turn in a bit at the knee. It is exceptionally thin — thinner, even, than the rest of her. It’s twisted, and it seems to hurt when she moves.

So I give her money when I can. I’m broke a lot, so sometimes, I only give her change. Other times, I give her a dollar or two. Twice now, I’ve given her clothes that my daughter has outgrown. When I do have something, I try to jump out of the car and bring it over to make her life easier. She brightens up a little, manages a brave smile, thanks me profusely, but with dignity. I brighten up a lot; I’ve done a good deed, proved I’m a good person, established that I am one of the folks. Then I drive on to pick up my daughter at her expensive private school, wishing idly that I could help the woman further.

It occurs to me lately that for me, at least, this homeless woman is sort of a pet. I pull her down into my consciousness between work and parenthood, treat her nice, feel good, and go on. When I have a treat for her, I look forward to seeing her there. When I don’t, I wave kindly, and gesture: Maybe later. In between times, I wonder vaguely to myself what she has done wrong to get this way. Or whether she’s got a drug habit. Or how she’ll make it through the winter.

Do you give money to strangers on the street? There are so many these days, almost no one just says yes. I know people who give until their petty cash runs out, and people who study each request. I know people who insist on a certain standard of begging behavior and people who give only to the disabled, or women, or venders selling Streetwise. I know people who refuse to give money away, but who will buy a sandwich to any and every taker. I know people who will give money to anyone but an obvious drunk.

I also know some kind and generous people who will not hand out money on the street. One friend cannot stand close-up to the begging and needing and dire pain. Another is afraid of getting mugged. (It’s a terrifying kind of mugger who will attack pity and kindness.) Another remarks that her judgment is poor; she can’t tell who to give to, so she gives to no one. Yet another good friend has "compassion fatigue." He has simply given up.

Of course, almost no one is really satisfied with their response. My friends can refute their own positions, with searing, incisive clarity. For example:

Giving only to the first people you encounter each day leaves out in the cold those who wait fearfully for morning to get some sleep. Making yourself a judge is not only arrogant, it awards the most sociopathic beggars. Giving to women, children and the disabled ignores those men who are trying to support a family. Streetwise vendors are industrious folks but they’re often not the most needy; and I dare anyone to tell a homeless man or woman who is cold and hungry and often afraid that he or she shouldn’t have a drink. As for fear — we all know that fear is an excuse, not a reason. There are plenty of things in the world worse than fear.

My friends argue back, and I agree, that enabling an alcoholic or drug addict may not be the responsible thing to do. Certainly, the city fathers and mothers of Evanston and Lakeview think it is better for beggars and better for business if money does exchange hands. On the other hand some say, and I agree, that it is a form of kindness to let a hopeless addict die in comfort. Still others argue the situation is never hopeless. Only the argument, it seems, is hopeless — and never-ending, at that.

There is a legend that St. Francis, that icon of kindness, once refused to give money to a beggar. He was working, at the time, in his father’s store, selling textiles to the gentry, when a beggar walked in. The man asked for money, and St. Francis (obviously not a saint yet) turned him down. The man left, humbly, and when he was out the door, St. Francis was overcome with guilt. He ran out of the store, chased down the beggar, and stuffed into the man’s hands all the money (probably belonging to his father) that he had.

Then he did something more — something that revealed a saint in the making. He took off the hip clothing he was famous, in a minor way, for wearing, and he gave it to the man. He dressed himself in brown sackcloth, and he never went back to work. From that day forward, Francis lived as a beggar. He preached mildness, gentleness, humility, and trust — and became an icon of Christian kindness. How many of the people on the street are St. Francis? How many offer a chance to become one?

My friends and I argue back and forth, enjoying mental gymnastics while people suffer and starve. Does compassion require us to take the long view — to get a history and make an assessment — or does it urge us to ease another’s immediate pain? Does responsibility mean jumping in to lend a hand — or staying out of the fray until I know what I’m doing? The ghosts of my Catholic past offer an incessant command: "Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me." But what — in the name of whatever the divine may be — does that mean we should do?

I follow my own, often rudderless, path. I say no to some beggars, regret it, and run back to them — only to find they are gone. I give money to others and bless them when they bless me. I try — and often fail — to look each man or woman in the eye. And I give when I feel I can spare the cash, however relatively rich I may be. I witness myself feeling proud, humble, guilty, or annoyed, and I try to maintain an attention span long enough to ponder what those responses mean.

Am I satisfied with this approach? No. I’m not. The poor probably aren’t satisfied, either. But I tell myself that for part of the time, at least, I am doing the best I can. The rest of the time, I hope I never come to such straits as they have reached. If I do, I hope I meet people who are kinder than me.

Recommend this page to a friend

Top Ten pages recommended to friends: