How I learned to stop blaming others

An essay & a fiction story written in poem form

On a recent drive to my favorite coffee shop, a man stood on the corner of a busy intersection. He held up a sheet of cardboard. Without my contacts, I squinted to make out his needs: $14 was all I could see. My thoughts rushed out quickly,

“Damn, wish I had some cash on me”.

“Oh damn, I do have some cash on me.”

The light turned green, giving me justification for not pulling the cash out of my backpack.

“I have no time commitment, I can turn around,” my third thought rolled in just as the two lanes between me and the left turn lane opened up.

Fuck it, I said out loud, and veered over to make a U-turn.

Growing up, I was conditioned to believe that giving money to people on the street was a bad idea. It will be used for drugs, alcohol, lottery tickets, or something worse. I also remember learning that they were lazy, and that if they really wanted to find a job they could. Despite this, I still gave money or bought food for homeless people from time to time. Usually when I had extra cash, or was feeling generous. Or guilty for my lack of suffering. Until one day several years ago on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, when a convincing man’s performance act made me reconsider my approach.

He was a skilled actor—his tearful plea for money moved many passersby, including me. I handed him $20, and was commended by another pedestrian for my giving. I saw him the next Saturday, positioned in the same spot, forcing his tears just as he had the prior Saturday. It was then that I recognized it was all an act meant to prey on the sympathies of tourists. The man took advantage of my human emotions for his own benefit. After witnessing this, and feeling used, I stopped giving money to strangers on the street.

So, it was out of character for me to have turned my car around for the man with the $14 sign a few days ago. The specific nature of the man’s request was unique - it made me feel like he had a sense of purpose, and a clear goal for getting out of his situation. More importantly, it gave me confidence that I wasn’t going to see him standing on the same corner next week, holding the same sign.

When I placed the $23 from my backpack in his hand, he made eye contact with me and reached his other hand out to shake mine. He left the street corner as soon as I gave him the money, reassuring me that I had made the “right” decision.

But, as I reflect on both of these scenarios, I’ve realized that a “right” decision did not exist in either scenario. Maybe, the $14 was the local heroin dealer’s asking price for a gram of the black pearl. And the reason he left so quickly was that his skin was crawling. The weeping man in Chicago could have needed the money to buy food for his children. He could have been saving the money for the first month’s rent.

There was truly no way for me to have known these men’s intentions. But, in both scenarios I left believing I had figured them out. In his book Talking to Strangers, Malcolm Gladwell explains my behavior:

“We think we can easily see into the hearts of others based on the flimsiest of clues. We jump at the chance to judge strangers. We would never do that to ourselves, of course. We are nuanced and complex and enigmatic. But the stranger is easy.”

And, if somehow I am wrong in my judgement, it is not my fault, but the stranger’s: as I said about the man in Chicago, “The man took advantage of my human emotions”

From these experiences, and my reading of Malcolm’s work, I’ve realized that I will never be able to adequately ascertain the intentions of homeless people (or that of any stranger). Moreover, I now understand that I cannot be outcome-driven when dealing with strangers. I can only act in the moment—out of empathy, kindness, or guilt—but not because I expect my money to be used for good. And when my mind inevitably attempts to create a fantastical outcome for how my money was used, I will watch the thought float by in my consciousness and laugh.

For I am nuanced and complex and enigmatic. And so is the person on the street.

Twenty-Three: A Poem

To his name,
Six dollars, a pen, and a box
To his shame,
Fourteen more would put it on rocks

Fourteen more, he’d have himself a ticket
So he made his way to the street
Took his box, turned it into a picket
And stood tall, despite his bare feet

He stood and hoped
His fellow humans
Would throw him a rope
Fourteen dollars, all he needed was Fourteen more,
Head just above water, Never been more poor

Earlier that morning, he had seen shore.
A job in Reno
No more liquor, he swore
No more casino,
No more of the whores

And a promise was made.

Fourteen dollars, Fourteen more
Was all that stood between him and the shore

Hundreds, nay, thousands of cars passed by
His faith was unwavering, his eyes remained dry

After a few hours, a car pulled up
Gave him a rope to pull himself up

Twenty-three dollars

Nine dollars more than he had bargained for
Twenty-three dollars for a pint of Tullamore

Was a promise made a promise kept?