Are we human
“Begging is a profession, like dentistry, like shining shoes. It’s a service. Every so often you need to get a tooth filled or your shoes shined or to give alms. So when a beggar* presents himself to you, you have to ask yourself, ‘Do I need a beggar today?’ If you do, give him alms. If you don’t, don’t.” – A Rajasthani host in Tom Stoppard’s play India Ink
Wednesday afternoon. Downtown meeting. I cross the Morrison Bridge, and park near 10th. It’s 4:35. I have time to run to Art/Media to buy the good pens and some spray adhesive. I cross three busy streets and run in the door. There’s already a line of hipsters at the register. First day of the term for art students?
I scout around the store, noticing what an excellent field trip this would make for my older niece and nephew. I find the spray adhesive, then the 0.3 and 0.4 ceramic tip roller balls I prefer. I get in line and pay $25. No, I am not a student. Thank you.
I walk up the block to cross at the light. A young man is selling Street Roots. I have a rule that I buy this paper whenever I see a seller. But I all I’ve got on me is a $20, and it’s a tight month after Christmas. He’s talking to some other people who are ignoring him when I move to the corner to wait for the light, avoiding his eyes. “Miss,” I hear him say, and I don’t turn around ‘til I’m a few steps in the intersection to give him an apologetic smile.
As I cross the street, I start to waver. He was so polite. So desperate sounding. That little voice in my head says, “Take care of yourself first,” I tell myself. “Pay off that credit card. Be responsible.”
But when I reach the other corner, I know what I need to do. I have savings. I won’t notice that $20 so much. I have just enough time before my 5 p.m. church meeting for this act of grace. I turn around and cross the street again. When I’m a few strides in front of him, he sees me.
“Would you like a paper?” he asks. “I only need to sell eight more to get a place for my wife and I to stay tonight.”
“I’d love one,” I say. “This is all I have – that’s why I hesitated before.” I hand him the $20. “Keep the change.”
His eyes well up when he sees what it is. “Can I…” he starts to say. I think he might offer me some small amount of change. Most Street Roots vendors can’t afford to make change for a $20. “Can I give you a hug?” he asks. His words are heartfelt and sincere. He is incredulous. We are beaming at each other.
“Yes,” I say. We embrace. It’s one of the warmest, nicest hugs I’ve ever gotten. Now both of our eyes are wet.
“Thank you,” he says. I thank him. “God bless you,” he says. I thank him, again, then realize I ought to bless him, too. I do.
There is something in the exchange. We are equals. He has made my day as much as I might have made his. I don’t want to leave, but it’s time. Commuters are all around us, some of them watching and wondering. Eff ‘em. Here’s a human trying to earn a place to stay for just one January night. Here’s a human who has nothing to eat. And everyone is passing him by, missing out.
- Street Roots vendors are not beggars. Selling papers is their job. But I like the idea of recognizing that some of us need to give just as much as some of us need to receive.