lonelycity

Some questions I frequently get from my kids when confronted with a homeless person is: “Mom, how do you know if the person is actually hungry? How do we know when to give money, and when to pass a person by? What if they’re just scamming us?”

These are good, fair questions. Kids are intuitive. Kids are smart.  They have thoughts like, “Why does my daddy work late so we can have food, but that guy can put his hat out on the train, and get his food for free?”

Good, fair, questions.

My response to these questions will never be black and white.  I teach my kids to always err on the side of generosity- especially when we have little ourselves.  I teach them that giving resources is always better than money.  I teach them that ultimately, it comes down to the small voice that we hear when asked for money. You pray. You wait for a prompting. You act.

Recently, I’ve read numerous articles about young mothers on the streets of NYC who prop their young children up behind their cardboard sign, in hopes that using a child will conjure up more sympathy, and, as a result, more money. The articles imply that many of these women are not actually Homeless, but have created this method to make drug money. Does this problem exist?  Most definitely. I have met these women.  Is this money making method tragic? Absolutely.  However, my fear in reading such articles is that the reader will, in response, decide to boycott supporting young women and children on the streets. When they look at them, they will no longer see two struggling human beings, but rather a con artist with her child prop sidekick. 

Let’s assume for a moment that all the beggars are con artists.  Let’s assume they are all conspiring to lazily take our money while we slave away to make our own living. If this were the case, should we rightfully ignore them?

It always comes back to a story.  Every human being has a story.  Every adult was once a child.  Their prior experiences have shaped who they have become. I have never met a child who dreams of becoming a beggar.

My husband can work a corporate job in Manhattan because he was blessed with being raised in a good, healthy home by good parents.  I can raise 3 children with positive values because I, too, was raised in such a home.  Did Micheal and I have perfect childhoods?  Of course not.  But, compared to the rest of the world, we pretty much won the lottery.

It is not my job to decide who is worthy of my help. Rather, my job is to pray, wait for a prompting, and act.  Does that person deserve my help?  Probably about as much as I deserved to be born in the richest country in the world to a good family.

Today, I will pray, wait, and act.  I will give, because I was given much.

“It often happens that the real tragedies in life occur in such an unartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style.”
               –Oscar Wilde

Have you ever noticed how many different types of pasta there are?  I hadn’t until the other day, when I was feeling uncharacteristically domestic, and decided to cook-cook.  Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I am not particularly adept when it comes to culinary terminology, but what the hell is Trofiette?

Standing in the vexatiously narrow market aisle, palms sweating, temple throbbing, I loosen the damp wool noose from around my neck. Wearily, my glassy eyes hap-hazardly scan row after continuous row of delicately molded straw colored pasta.  Each one, neatly encased in brightly colored cardboard capsules.  Each one, looking all too much the same.

Faintly, a familiar tune streams from a speaker eclipsed by water stained ceiling tiles. “Something Michael Jackson,” I think to myself, “At least they have mus-ac.”

I fumble through my purse for the recipe, to no avail. Someday, yes someday, I’ll be a real grown up graced with organization and order. I mean, I’m only 35. I’ve still got time. 
That’s when your song came on. 

You know, your song.  The one you chose to be your fight song. The one that was supposed to pump you up and get you strong so that you could tell that mother fucker, cancer, where to go. I remember when you first played it for me. Like you, I believed in its magic.  Pair that with the right medicine, healthy food, and a handful of prayers, and you’ll be fine. 

You were supposed to be fine.

I’ve now completely forgotten the name of the pasta I’m looking for. Something with a T…? Was it T? I numb out, and all I can focus on is the rhythm of my own heart, beating in my throat. That, and well, You.

I let my cloth grocery bag go limp and sprawl out, unapologetically on the muddy tile floor, it’s handles recklessly spread eagle across the main walkway.

There are 350 types of pasta, each one differentiated only by shape and size. When I entered this place, finding just the right one seemed important. That’s right:  Pasta.  Important.

Your song ends, and I awake from my trance. 

Turning for the door, I walk home empty handed.

In recent years, homelessness in New York City has reached the highest levels since the Great Depression of the 1930s.

In November 2015, there were 59,929 homeless people, including 14,476 homeless families with 23,912 homeless children, sleeping each night in the New York City municipal shelter system. Families comprise nearly four-fifths of the homeless shelter population.

Over the course of the last City fiscal year (FY 2015), more than 109,000 different homeless men, women, and children slept in the New York City municipal shelter system. This includes over 42,000 different homeless New York City children.The number of homeless New Yorkers sleeping each night in municipal shelters is now 88 percent higher than it was ten years ago.

Research shows that the primary cause of homelessness, particularly among families, is lack of affordable housing. Surveys of homeless families have identified the following major immediate, triggering causes of homelessness: eviction; doubled-up or severely overcrowded housing; domestic violence; job loss; and hazardous housing conditions.

Research shows that, compared to homeless families, homeless single adults have much higher rates of serious mental illness, addiction disorders, and other severe health problems.

Each night thousands of unsheltered homeless peoplesleep on New York City streets, in the subway system, and in other public spaces. There is no accurate measurement of New York City’s unsheltered homeless population, and recent City surveys significantly underestimate the number of unsheltered homeless New Yorkers.Studies show that the large majority of street homeless New Yorkers are people living with mental illness or other severe health problems.

As in other American cities, New York City’s unsheltered homeless population is concentrated in the central business district – that is, midtown Manhattan. Surveys show that nearly 60 percent of New York City’s unsheltered homeless population is in Manhattan.African-American and Latino New Yorkers are disproportionately affected by homelessness. Approximately 58 percent of New York City homeless shelter residents are African-American, 31 percent are Latino, 8 percent are white, less than 1 percent are Asian-American, and 3 percent are of unknown race/ethnicity.

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I’ve talked to many who won’t go to shelters because they’re unsafe. A step in the right direction for NYC Homeless. 

http://www.ny1.com/nyc/all-boroughs/politics/2016/01/30/mayor-deploys-more-mental-health-workers-to-homeless-shelters-after-grisly-stabbing-murder-in-manhattan.html

On average, 40,000 bodies per year are collected nationwide by the coroner’s office that are left unclaimed. The majority of these bodies are that of the Homeless.  With blue tags tied to their toes, and the inscription, “John or Jane Doe”, they are laid to rest with no one left to grieve their absence.

I look for him

The man whose home lies between the walls of the Bridge and the fence of the garden

He has settled in for winter, adding blanket upon blanket to his secret corner

He has painted his bedroom walls, and adorned them with framed artwork found in dumpsters

Inscribed next to the place where he lay:

“WE MAY BE UGLY, BUT WE AIN’T DUMB.”

Judgement.

It’s sting lasts longer than the bite of winter’s wind.

His longing for acceptance

His longing for love

An insatiable hunger

Fulfilled only in dreams.

It is greater than his hope for a better home.

On the train ride home from Manhattan this morning, I saw a homeless man that I’m quite familiar with.

When he’s not resting, he’s hobbling from one train car to the next, styrofoam cup in hand, begging for spare change.

I recognize him by his urine-soaked socks, which cover badly swollen feet.

The stench that comes from him is so strong, that people rarely venture to sit next to him. 

On this particular day, all other passengers were huddled on the opposite side of the train car, in hopes of escaping the unpleasant stench.

Sitting down on the bench near him, I became sick to my stomach. 

The odor of sweat and urine was overwhelming.

As I do with all homeless folks, I looked at him, and began to wonder what brought this man to this place.

He was once a child, with dreams and ambitions.

He has a name.

He is somebody’s son.

My eyes trailed down his crusted fleece blanket, to his brown-stained socks.

His feet were so swollen, it was as if he had stuffed them with water balloons.

That’s when I heard it.

It wasn’t audible, but it was so clear, it might as well have been.

“Give him your socks.”

What?? …Here?! …Now?! 

I can’t take my socks off on the train!

People will look at me in disgust!

They will think it’s gross to see my bare feet in the middle of winter in such a public space!

“Give. Him. Your. Socks.”

But, I don’t have time.  I mean, I’m getting off at the next stop.  I won’t be able to unzip my boots, remove my socks, zip them back up, and not miss my stop.  And if I miss my stop, I’ll be late for my appointment…

“Give. Him. Your. Socks.”

I glanced down at my boots.

My black, suede, fleece-lined, top-of-the-line, Rocket Dog boots.

A blanket of shame came over me.

How can it be, that in this moment, I am more worried about social graces than the welfare of this suffering man?

In this moment, I am more concerned with keeping my day perfectly comfortable, and my schedule “just right”, than I am that this man is covering his wounded feet with cloths of urine.

Disgusted with my selfishness, I quickly unzipped my boots.

I had forgotten that in a frantic frenzy to get the kids out the door on time this morning, I had thrown on a nice, thick pair of men’s socks.

Ironic.

Perfect.

I removed my socks, rolled them together, and slipped my (still incredibly cozy) boots over my pasty white feet.

I placed my socks next to the man, who was in a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

Just after I placed them, my stop was announced, and I swiftly exited the train.

Hardly noticing the inconvenience of bare feet in cozy winter boots, I walked the 8 blocks home, so I could throw on another clean pair of socks.

Next time, I hope I skip the foolish hesitation.

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insideous mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong.

The old Sunday evenings of home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano, our guide.

So now it is in vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato.

The glamour of childhood days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance,

I weep like a child for the past.

                        – D H Lawrence