Ten Cents a Day

The first time I remember seeing a homeless person I was little, maybe 5 or so. I was downtown with my parents and it was cold. Holiday season. We were at the Pike Place Market. I can see the cobblestone roads and hear the fish mongers shout. I can smell the salt in the air mingling with my father's ever present cigarette and I can feel the warmth from winter coat.  

I was ahead of them, stepping on sidewalk cracks. A dirty broken shoe caught my eye and I looked up to see a bearded man sitting on the ground. His clothing was soiled and he smelled a bit. I stopped in front of him, taking in his meager belongings while my parents caught up. He had a plaid blanket, also filthy, balled up under him. His beard was long and gray, stained yellow around his mouth from smoking. He smiled at me, showing me his teeth, or what was left. He held out his hand and looked down at a cup near his feet. Inside of it I saw money and though I was young, I knew he needed some-that he was asking.

I turned and saw my father nearing. I went to him quickly, looked up at his face. "Daddy, can we give that man some money?"

I didn't even really understand why he needed it I don't think. I certainly wasn't old enough to internally debate if this man was seeking aid under false pretenses or if he was really in need. I only knew that someone needed help. I knew that by giving him money that would help. I didn't really understand money either, and that most people have to work hard to keep theirs.

My dad's face turned to a scowl I recognized from football games that weren't going well or bad days. He reached in his pocket and grabbed his change. I heard the coins crash into his strong hand and felt a rush of happiness. We were going to help the man!

Instead of putting the money in the man's cup or outstretched hand, my father threw it at him. Hard. Pennies and dimes reflected the light as they fell like water all around him.  My dad grabbed my arm and walked me down the sidewalk, muttering about how the "stupid son of a bitch needs a job". I glanced back, not understanding his anger. I saw the man searching the sidewalk for the coins my father had thrown. My mother was quiet. Her laugh carrying down the street only moments ago-gone.

I was too young to understand, but I remember.

I see homeless people every day. I don't want them to fade into the background, but they do.

I've always been a city girl. Seeing people on the street clutching a cardboard sign isn't shocking to me.

But it should be.

When I was in South Seattle, walking to work in a not so great neighborhood, I saw more than just people standing on the corner with a sign. I saw outright violence. I saw intimidation and theft and invasion. I saw property destruction and drug use and mental instability. It became frightening and there were days where I literally lost track of how many times I called the police. It made me angry and eventually, numb.

The little girl that felt so much for the man on the sidewalk now scowled at strangers and carried mace and spiked keychains. I grew hard and intolerant and I never gave money anymore. For every one person that legitimately needed help, there were five that were there daily with the same story. It became easy to call the police. To let someone else handle it and go on about my day. It became...normal.

I moved to a new city-the one I'm in now-and haven't looked back. I've been here about a year and a half and I've settled in. I work downtown in a big office building across from a Starbucks.

Every morning I drive past a park dotted with people sleeping under colorful blankets. Walking down the sidewalk, I pass doorways with people in them. The corners of the streets are decorated with shopping carts stuffed with belongings.

 Standing in line at the aforementioned Starbucks, a woman comes in and tells the barista that she should know about the invasion that's scheduled next week. She clutches at her hair and then wanders back out the door, muttering about how 'we should all know'.

In my office, looking out the window over the parking lot I see a man dressed in reasonably nice clothing remove his shoes and arrange them artistically on the sidewalk. He spends time sitting in an empty parking space while my coworkers debate whether to call the police. I voice that I feel he's harmless and others disagree. I continue to watch. He leaves his shoes and moves to the wall of the building, desperately trying to hang his coat on an invisible hook. He's in another world.

I leave the window and head back to my office. I'm reminded suddenly and just in time, that this man that is being discussed, is a person. He's a man that for whatever reason, isn't himself and I want to help. I do a bit of research and send out a few emails, looking for information on what I can actually do.

It's surprisingly easy.

I can donate to a shelter. I can give money or my time or material items like the blankets in the park. But perhaps more than all of that- I can care. I can care enough to not look away.

I can keep faith that others feel the same and are helping when they can.  I know they're out there. Just the other day, while sitting at a red light, I watched a woman hand a stranger a bag of food. He looked up at her and from my car 300 feet away, I saw the gratitude in his face. It gave me hope.

I may not always be able to give money, but if I can, I will gently give it. I won't pretend that it's normal to have people mentally unstable and drug addled and sick and so very much in need dotting the landscape. These are people. Someone loved them, perhaps loves them still. They deserve to be loved. They deserve to be acknowledged. They deserve to be helped.