When I was nine years old my father and I moved from a lavish, upper-middle class suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of
Instead, he found a sitter (ironically an attractive, young Hispanic lady) up the road a ways that could watch me in the morning so that I could attend school in the suburban area of Northridge.
My dad would drop me off at the sitters' house at four or five in the morning, I would amuse myself there until 7 and then I'd make the walk to school. Northridge was cleaner than Van Nuys but the sitter lived near the poorer end of town so I had to walk through it to get to my snobbish little school.
Along the way every day I'd see them; people sleeping on benches, under bushes and trees, wandering around looking dirty and lost. I'd see them digging through trash cans and smoking rolled cigarettes. They never seemed frightening to me though I guess they probably should have. They just seemed different. I had already taught myself to believe that different wasn't bad.
I asked my father about them and of course he told me to stay away from them; they were dirty and lazy and could not be trusted. I thought on that. Sure, they were dirty sometimes but not a one of them I encountered ever so much as came within reaching distance of me. I didn't understand why my father called them lazy because if they weren't sleeping they were usually always doing something. As with most of my fathers' comments, I heard his opinions but I didn't trust what he said to be true.
It got to the point where I could expect to see some of the same people every morning. Like the older man that was always hanging out near the first intersection I came to. He had crazy (Einstein style) white hair and always had on a dirt-dusted white t-shirt and a pair of old brown polyester trousers. He never said a word to me but he did always acknowledge my existence and I would smile brightly at him before crossing.
Then there were the three that hung out around the Target parking lot; one woman and two men. At the time they looked like they were in their early thirties. All wearing ripped jeans and t-shirts. After getting used to seeing me pass, the woman, when awake, would smile and say "good mornin' suga". I always smiled and waved back and returned the greeting. The guys with her never said a word.
Then came the panhandlers at the 7-11 across from the Target. They never bothered me, after all, I was just a kid! They knew they wouldn't get much out of me. Sometimes I stopped in at the 7-11 to get the gum we were forbidden to chew in class. Other times, I just kept walking. Beyond the 7-11 began the residential district, lined with neat, tidy, picturesque complexes and houses. Sometimes I would see random homeless people walk through there heading in the direction I was leaving.
One morning, I had packed an extra PB & J sandwich for my lunch and as one of these guys walked by me I got up the nerve to hold it out to him. He looked at me funny, I assured him I had another one, he said 'thank you' and walked away. I looked back to catch him opening the baggie and putting the sandwich to his mouth.
The rest of the way to school I had this sort of high feeling. I couldn't explain it but I was really happy. The next morning, I again packed an extra sandwich, this time I tried to give it to the old guy at the first intersection. He declined and I didn't push. Instead I gave it to a panhandler at the 7-11; an older, crazy looking lady. I didn't say anything, I just walked up to her, handed her the sandwich and walked away.
I couldn't pass out sandwiches every day or my father would have gotten suspicious. Some days I took other things; fruit, yogurt, cereal--food my dad bought for me that he wouldn't miss. I didn't do this ever day but I did do it as often as I could. I didn't tell the kids at school, I certainly wouldn't tell my father and I didn't know anyone else. As a kid, I did it because it made me feel good and in my mind it was something nice to do for someone else.
My lack of fear or pretentiousness then didn't strike me as being anything great. I was a kid, they were adults; I was taught to respect my elders. I didn't see them as any different from any other adult and I treated them exactly as I would any other adult. Even when I did give them things, I didn't get all weird about it. It was like I was handing in a homework assignment. I gave them whatever it was and walked away. No fuss. And I treated them exactly the same the next day and every other time.
My father and I left Van Nuys at the end of that school year and moved back to the hoity-toity area we had lived before heading to
During my teenage years, I was confined to classes and home so I didn't have an outlet with which to do my good deeds. I became just like my fellow classmates; preoccupied with my lack of friendly social-status-with the kids that made fun of me, with my friends and my studies. I was always willing to do nice things for others but sometimes it wasn't enough.
Now that I'm an adult, I find that I often times forget that part of me which I held so dear as a kid. I was proud of that and I don't do anything to exercise that part of my personality and demeanor. Oh, I have here or there.
I used to work at a coffee-shop in the downtown area of my small-minded pretentious Midwestern "city". Anyone could sit in the shop as long as they purchased something and stay for as long as they wanted. All of us employee's did what we could. I was not above buying a cup of coffee for someone just to give them somewhere to sit and relax for a bit. Sometimes a co-worker of mine and I would hand out the left-over coffee instead of dumping it. That's the one thing I've always loved about coffee shops (I'm talking real coffee shops not that Starbucks corporate bs) -the sense of camaraderie and community.
There was an older man who'd been a patron of the shop since it opened; he wasn't homeless but he was damn close. He always paid for his coffee but we used to give him the leftover soup at night even if there was enough to save for the next day.
My friend F reminded me a few months ago of the time a local crack addict was sitting outside the shop and I came in before my shift, bought a cup of coffee and took it out to her. I didn't know anyone had seen me do it. The woman wanders through the downtown area every day, sometimes only half dressed asking for money and we all knew what for. We weren't supposed to let her into the shop which I hated but we couldn't let her panhandle the customers. Keep in mind, I don't feel bad for her but I feel for her because she's human.
That's true of anyone really. I think we as a society have forgotten that. Regardless of any other fact about any other person...we are all human! We all deserve respect, freedom, food, clothing, and shelter BECAUSE we are human. Where did that philosophy go?
I didn't ask for her gratitude and I didn't make a big deal of the situation. She would have preferred money but I gave her the cup instead of my spare change and she was respectful enough to drink the coffee and let me go back to my job. F told me that it was one of the things that made her like me as a person. Truth is, it was one of the things that made ME like me as a person.
I want to do more. I find myself in a crunch here because the local 'assistance' programs are run by the Salvation Army, an organization I loathe, and will, in no way, assist. There are the churches that help out randomly but I'm not a church-go-er either. Still, I didn't need an organization to do things as a kid and I guess I don't need one now. What is it about growing up that makes you abandon some of the things you treasured as a child? Have I really become so jaded?
Sure, I don't treat destitute people like crap and sometimes I do remember to help in any way I can at the time. But, I, like most of my friends, have also turned my head and pretended not to see them. As a kid, I at least had the decency to look them in the eyes and smile, say good morning and treat them as I would anyone else. Even if I don't have a dime in my pocket, they deserve at least that much. Something I innately knew as a child...so what the fuck happened to me?
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