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Thursday
March 18, 2010 Since 1922 |
Stop-light sympathy
By Luke Hales
I have to admit, it takes a lot of courage to ask for help, especially from the hundreds of people that pass by that stoplight everyday. I guess it’s the “just try everyone and see who actually stops” theory.
The assumption is, of course, that these folks are homeless. I can’t imagine what that’s like, nor do I want to. It’s got to be a rough existence, what with the whole not having any food or a house thing.
I have to give them credit, though; these folks are certainly masters of improvisation and creativity. I have seen every type of compelling tale on this street corner; there’s the usual “I’m (Insert a large number of miles) from home and need help getting back. There’s the “I just lost my job and have a family” approach. And let’s not forget the “Disabled veteran” argument.
It gets even more specific from there. I have seen signs such as “Ordained priest needs a ride to Hoboken.” Not long ago I saw “Evacuated from Ike and can’t get home.” And my all-time personal favorite, “The dog ate my paycheck.” That is truly unfortunate, but that’s what you get for letting your dog go to the bank for you, I guess.
Speaking of dogs, somehow some of these guys manage to bring a dog out there with them. These canine companions come in all shapes and sizes. I really dig it when there’s some enormous character walking a Chihuahua, though. That’s the best.
No word on whether the dog that ate the paycheck was the same one I saw with that one guy. I have a feeling it wasn’t.
They’re not necessarily hard-chargers, these wielders of the cardboard cause. They’re pretty passive, actually; they stand there and wait for someone to drop them a buck or two, and they’re always grateful. Contrast this with some of the kids’ sports teams I’ve seen on the same corners. I’ve had my car window pounded on and been screamed at on certain occasions by some of these enterprising athletes. I guess they can’t leave the aggression on the field.
By some manner I was given an alternative gift for situations such as these. It’s a plastic baggie, filled with non-perishable goods like a fruit tin, some kind of crackers, and other stuff, basically an improvised MRE, which I’m sure we all remember from last September. I was passing this same intersection and saw a particularly sad-looking guy, and I tried to slow down but a big rig behind me wouldn’t allow for it. So I kind of lobbed the bag out of the window, aiming for the ground directly in front of him.
I beaned him on the head. I’m sure that fruit tin didn’t feel too swell on impact. But hey, he didn’t have food and now he did. A little headache isn’t a huge price to pay.
By the way, if you’re that guy, sorry about that. Hope the diced peaches were tasty.
One time a few years back I was watching one of the news stations around here, and they did a short feature on these cats. Basically, they hid in an unmarked van and followed one of them to their house.
Yep. They followed the homeless guy home. And it was a two-story place in the suburbs.
So then, as per usual, what’s the point?
The fact is, these guys aren’t going away any time soon. Sure, cities can pass ordinances against panhandling and the like, but these folks just pack up their stuff and move down the road. And we all know they have a bad reputation. We call them bums, we tell them to get a job, and we hurl curse words and peach tins at them … because we can.
Several of my columns recently have been about judgment of others, and it appears this one falls in the same category. I’m not saying that all of these sidewalk entrepreneurs are legitimate; in fact it’s been proven that many aren’t. But then, consider what it’s like to live in the worn, torn shoes of those who truly are without a place to call their own.
You wake up in the morning shivering because your blanket blew away last night. You take your few belongings to the corner and prepare for abuse and heat and hunger. You take what few dollars you can and go on your way.
Then you get up the next day and do it again.
A lot of the homeless are mentally ill and didn’t receive proper treatment. Some are drug addicts or alcoholics — and judge how you will, but addiction is in itself a mental illness. And there’s any other of other afflictions and misfortunes that can befall mankind along the way. Remember that we all start out on the same footing, for the most part. And, but for the grace of God, any of us could be one of these unfortunates.
It’s your money; give it as you see fit. I’m not advocating or condemning anything anyone wants to do. If you squeal the tires to teach them a lesson, so be it. If you pull out a $20 and hand it to them, fair enough. If you’d rather volunteer or work on a food drive, more power to you. All I ask is that we remember that these people are people, just like we are, and if you strip away the cars and the big televisions and the fancy clothes and, most importantly, the egos, we’re all the same.
But, once we’re all stripped down and vulnerable, watch for the flying peach tins.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun.
I have to admit, it takes a lot of courage to ask for help, especially from the hundreds of people that pass by that stoplight everyday. I guess it’s the “just try everyone and see who actually stops” theory.
The assumption is, of course, that these folks are homeless. I can’t imagine what that’s like, nor do I want to. It’s got to be a rough existence, what with the whole not having any food or a house thing.
I have to give them credit, though; these folks are certainly masters of improvisation and creativity. I have seen every type of compelling tale on this street corner; there’s the usual “I’m (Insert a large number of miles) from home and need help getting back. There’s the “I just lost my job and have a family” approach. And let’s not forget the “Disabled veteran” argument.
It gets even more specific from there. I have seen signs such as “Ordained priest needs a ride to Hoboken.” Not long ago I saw “Evacuated from Ike and can’t get home.” And my all-time personal favorite, “The dog ate my paycheck.” That is truly unfortunate, but that’s what you get for letting your dog go to the bank for you, I guess.
Speaking of dogs, somehow some of these guys manage to bring a dog out there with them. These canine companions come in all shapes and sizes. I really dig it when there’s some enormous character walking a Chihuahua, though. That’s the best.
No word on whether the dog that ate the paycheck was the same one I saw with that one guy. I have a feeling it wasn’t.
They’re not necessarily hard-chargers, these wielders of the cardboard cause. They’re pretty passive, actually; they stand there and wait for someone to drop them a buck or two, and they’re always grateful. Contrast this with some of the kids’ sports teams I’ve seen on the same corners. I’ve had my car window pounded on and been screamed at on certain occasions by some of these enterprising athletes. I guess they can’t leave the aggression on the field.
By some manner I was given an alternative gift for situations such as these. It’s a plastic baggie, filled with non-perishable goods like a fruit tin, some kind of crackers, and other stuff, basically an improvised MRE, which I’m sure we all remember from last September. I was passing this same intersection and saw a particularly sad-looking guy, and I tried to slow down but a big rig behind me wouldn’t allow for it. So I kind of lobbed the bag out of the window, aiming for the ground directly in front of him.
I beaned him on the head. I’m sure that fruit tin didn’t feel too swell on impact. But hey, he didn’t have food and now he did. A little headache isn’t a huge price to pay.
By the way, if you’re that guy, sorry about that. Hope the diced peaches were tasty.
One time a few years back I was watching one of the news stations around here, and they did a short feature on these cats. Basically, they hid in an unmarked van and followed one of them to their house.
Yep. They followed the homeless guy home. And it was a two-story place in the suburbs.
So then, as per usual, what’s the point?
The fact is, these guys aren’t going away any time soon. Sure, cities can pass ordinances against panhandling and the like, but these folks just pack up their stuff and move down the road. And we all know they have a bad reputation. We call them bums, we tell them to get a job, and we hurl curse words and peach tins at them … because we can.
Several of my columns recently have been about judgment of others, and it appears this one falls in the same category. I’m not saying that all of these sidewalk entrepreneurs are legitimate; in fact it’s been proven that many aren’t. But then, consider what it’s like to live in the worn, torn shoes of those who truly are without a place to call their own.
You wake up in the morning shivering because your blanket blew away last night. You take your few belongings to the corner and prepare for abuse and heat and hunger. You take what few dollars you can and go on your way.
Then you get up the next day and do it again.
A lot of the homeless are mentally ill and didn’t receive proper treatment. Some are drug addicts or alcoholics — and judge how you will, but addiction is in itself a mental illness. And there’s any other of other afflictions and misfortunes that can befall mankind along the way. Remember that we all start out on the same footing, for the most part. And, but for the grace of God, any of us could be one of these unfortunates.
It’s your money; give it as you see fit. I’m not advocating or condemning anything anyone wants to do. If you squeal the tires to teach them a lesson, so be it. If you pull out a $20 and hand it to them, fair enough. If you’d rather volunteer or work on a food drive, more power to you. All I ask is that we remember that these people are people, just like we are, and if you strip away the cars and the big televisions and the fancy clothes and, most importantly, the egos, we’re all the same.
But, once we’re all stripped down and vulnerable, watch for the flying peach tins.
Luke Hales is the assistant managing editor for The Baytown Sun.