| Mar. 22nd, 2008 @ 04:38 pm the gift of a handout |
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"Are you done with that?"
Y leaned over and pointed at my pile of uneaten french fries, ignoring the pile of ends that I had discarded (I eat french fries like they are shrimp). I couldn't help but notice that she still had a bunch of french fries on her plate, in fact more than half of her original portion was still there, still waiting to make the ultimate sacrifice, the leap down her throat. Guardedly I told her that I thought I was done with them so she quickly scooped them up and put them on her plate.
Looking more carefully I noticed that while she had appeared to finish eating she still had a piece of chicken left. "OK, what gives? Why do you want my fries?". She looked me in the eye, and gesturing to the street outside the KFC, she explained that they were for the poor kids we passed when we walked in. I couldn't help but notice a twinge of "duh" to her statement, like this is something I shouldn't have even asked about.
This was a generous act. It was a good act. A decision of such warmth and selflessness that I should have applauded her right there before walking up to the counter to buy more food, for the kids outside. But I didn't. I found the whole exercise incredulous, wondering why in the world she would want to do something like that. I had spent the past few months purposely ignoring the homeless, the hungry, the sick so that eventually they were as much a part of the cityscape as buildings or churches. I had gone out of my way, to avoid getting ripped off or encouraging a life of begging, to be a bad Christian, a bad human.
Of course there was no reason for me to react this way. I was done with the food and it was destined for the garbage. But still it was MY food, I bought it with my own money and had every right to dispose of it the way I felt it should be. The garbage was just as good as my stomach. If they were hungry they should go out and get a job like..... blah blah. It is funny when theory doesn't mesh with reality.
I think my real discomfort stemmed from my own embarrassment rather than some ingrained sense of ownership. In my desire to be culturally sensitive I had gone out of my way to make excuses and became unable to draw a distinction between a cultural difference and abject poverty. By acknowledging their plight I was doing them a disservice because what if their hunger was a momentary problem and those rags they called clothes were a mere costume? How could I tell? My french fries, the droppings from my table, would be an affront to their dignity. Their situation was temporary and how dare I assume otherwise. How would I respond, save face, when they rejected this offer?
By the time we finally finished our discussion and left the KFC with the bag of food the street kids had dispersed. We looked around the parking lot but only found middle class shoppers returning to their cars, their bags of newly purchased clothing or canned food held tight in each hand. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief but Y looked a bit upset by not finding the kids. She took one last glance around and began to head towards the nearest garbage can.
"Wait"
I grabbed her hand before she could dispose of the food and told her of a homeless man I had spotted a few times, over the past few days, in the same spot. Judging by the belongs he had spread out in the shadows I figured he would still be there. It was on our way home. Perhaps he would want this. I didn't explain that both times he looked drunk and possibly belligerent. We left the parking lot and with leftovers in hand went in search of the homeless man.
Much to my dismay he was there when we arrived at his spot. I began to make excuses. "Look, he is nesting next to a large BBQ restaurant, surely they feed him" or "See, he is sleeping, surely we can't disturb him." Y listened to my pleas and finally decided that we would be better off just leaving the dish next to the sleeping man and avoiding a disturbance. I agreed and stood back to watch as she went up and made the drop. Except she didn't. She made me do it.
He was tucked in a corner, the shadow providing his shelter, and laying on a cardboard box. I could see that while he was wearing multiple layers most of them were riddled with holes. With the wind and the coming rain I couldn't help but be thankful that I would be spending that night in a house, drawing warmth from Y. I approached him tentatively, ready to leap backwards if he erupted into a flow of hostile obscenities. I had no way of explaining my presence other than to hold out the food and smile. With each step I took closer to him he never stirred, never made an effort to acknowledge me. I left the food about a foot away from him and returned to Y.
The next day he, and the food container, was gone. I will never know what happened to it, if he ate it or one of the many stray dogs got to it first. I will never know what his thoughts were upon waking, if he wondered about it, or where it came from. In the end I realize that doesn't matter. Years from now I will remember the gesture, my own rebellions against it, and how Y, in her good nature, spurred me on. |
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