A man met me as I exited the convenient store. He asked for my help — a ride — saying that his truck had “broke down.” I shook my head and told him, “No.” As I drove away, I watched the man cross the street and enter a parking lot. In my rearview mirror, I could see him slowly walking down the street. I was irritated, and my irritation confused me as I remembered having driven two men from that same gas station to their requested destination.
One of my neighbors told me that the East Washington street intersections are populated by panhandlers that are bussed in from Chicago to collect money for “the mob.” I have not tried to verify that, but at the exit from one shopping center, I saw two women less than 10 yards apart, each with a sign proclaiming herself as homeless. On three corners of a popular intersection there are often three men begging, with two of them holding cardboard signs saying that they are “homeless veterans.”
When I lived in St. Louis, I lived in the downtown area. My apartment was near the city jail, but even closer to a homeless shelter. I knew the location of many of the places that worked to help the homeless, and often watched as church organizations passed out sandwiches to people who passed their homeless days in the city’s parks. (This practice was frowned on by city officials, who encouraged the homeless to seek food from the shelters.) I donated clothing to the shelter that was a few blocks away from me, but never gave money to those who begged on the corners and in front of the convenient store. (I don’t remember seeing any women begging.)
I have conflicted feelings about those who beg on the streets. I know what it means to be poor; I lived a large part of my youth as a recipient of welfare. I have a long, narrow brown box with these words on it: “PASTEURIZED PROCESS AMERICAN CHEESE. DONATED BY U.S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE FOR FOOD HELP PROGRAMS.” I remember standing in line to get that 5 lb. box of “government cheese,” but I never saw my mother ask anything of anyone on any street. I think of her pride when I see people begging on the boulevards and wonder when we lost our sense of shame. Then, I am ashamed of myself for having that thought, for I cannot know what is in the heart of another, what privations drive one to the corners of the city.
One day some time ago, I left the convenient store near me and two men asked for a ride. I agreed, for reasons that, still, I cannot define. I took them to the place they specified (which appeared to be a closed business) and declined their offer of payment. As they rounded the corner of the building, I turned my car toward home. Some days later, I passed an intersection near the place to which I had carried them and saw one of them at the freeway off ramp, begging card against his chest. I was disappointed.
Recently, I watched a telecast from the Oval Office and heard the president use the term “a belief in human dignity.” Despite my disappointment in what I perceive to be the panhandler’s lack of pride, I think that I must continue to try to believe in the “better angels” of nature, and for each “no” to the street beggar, I will try to set aside a sum for an agency. I am going to work harder to remember that belief in human dignity.