What is the respectful term now? Homeless? Houseless? Why does the terminology matter and to whom does it matter?
Hard to imagine it matters much to the people themselves.
Encounter #1
I gave a woman a dollar once in front of a New Seasons store on a chilly night. On my way out, she humbly requested a second dollar, which I denied her. Later, it struck me that she was cold, physically, and that was obvious, but I’d refused to see it in the moment. To assuage my conscience at having been so callous, I resolved to carry blankets in my car, to give out to homeless people I saw on the street.
I bought three “throw blankets” at the Fred Meyer store for something like $12 each. I knew that, being pretty small, they wouldn’t make anyone’s night a whole lot warmer, but they might be better than nothing. A friend also donated a couple of small blankets to my “cause” so I had five clean blankets in my backseat for a while, two of which I managed to give away to individuals on the street at night.
But I don’t drive much, and weeks later I still had three blankets to distribute. What the hell? At this rate it would be spring before I could “place” them. Meanwhile, I knew there were people were shivering out there.
I decided to make it easy on myself. After a nighttime outing, I drove to Transition Projects in Northwest Portland – a homeless services agency with a strong reputation. They have a 24-hour drop-off there for clothes, and I was sure they’d take my blankets too.
As it happened, unsurprisingly, there were homeless people hanging around the place (this was past midnight). I saw a bonfire on the sidewalk across the street, and as I pulled up my car to a stop next to the building itself, there were four young people standing on the sidewalk right next to where I parked.
How to describe them? They were speaking to each other in sharp, curt tones. Three young women, one young man. None of them appeared older than 20. One of them had a dog. One of the young women was African-American. One of the girls said something in an agitated voice about looking for a cigarette. They all wore a profoundly forlorn, beaten down aspect. Their camaraderie, such as it was, felt haphazard, fragile, fraught with suppressed hostility.
I stepped out of my car and politely asked if any of them might be interested in a blanket. Of course they were. This was easy. I disposed of my remaining three blankets almost instantly.
Only the young man, sad-eyed, thought to say “thank you,” and he said it with tender sincerity. The two girls (I have to call them girls; they looked like girls to me) were more brash, cut-and-dry. Yes they wanted blankets but they hardly acknowledged me at all. They were forceful; they stepped forward to take blankets – the white girl with the dog, and the black girl. The remaining girl, the one who didn’t get a blanket, hung back a little, looking mournful and ashamed. She too met my eyes. Her face remains etched in my mind. I imagine she may have occupied the bottom power rung in this little grouping.
As I drove away, a fleeting thought crossed my mind that this was not the nicest gang of kids, and that if perhaps I’d taken the time to cross the street to the sidewalk where the little bonfire was, I might have found more “deserving” blanket recipients.
Then I noticed how strange it was that I should think I had to judge who was truly most worthy of a blanket on a cold night. I chuckled inwardly at the thought and felt rather fine about myself. My mission was complete.
Encounter #2
The other day I went to the bank to deposit two checks in the Higher Thought business account. Together, combined with the existing balance in the account, these checks would cover both our tax accountant’s fee and our fees to the state. (What is that fee for anyway? Just a fee for existing? There’s another $100 fee we also pay each year to the Oregon Secretary of State which is, I believe, a “registration” fee. But this extra $150 we pay each year when we file our taxes is ….? I dunno.)
I realized, however, that our bank account would still be drained of money very soon. So – I transferred $40 from my personal account to keep us “safe” for the next month or so. That is, I loaned money to our business.
This was hard psychologically because my personal finances have been sucking lately too. Not to go into detail, but I’m very low on funds, and I’m afraid of losing my house. Leaving the bank, my mind was mired in “scarcity mode.” I was feeling terribly insecure about money.
It was pouring rain. I opened my umbrella. A man on a street corner stopped me and said something like, “Excuse me, can you help me …?” I actually don’t remember the exact words. But he was asking for my attention softly, piteously. He may have been in his 30s or 40s. White dude. Backpack. Soaked to the bone. Wasted looking.
He told me had pneumonia and was trying to raise 30 dollars to get a room. I pulled a single dollar bill out of my wallet and gave it to him, saying, “Sorry I’m not feeling very flush.” Then I asked him if he wanted a jacket.
Earlier that day, I’d taken a jacket with a broken zipper to a shoe/zipper repair shop, where I was told that the entire zipper would need to be replaced; it couldn’t be fixed. So rather than spend money to fix the zipper on that jacket, I’d resolved to give it away.
I said to this soaking wet man in front of me, “The zipper’s broken so you can’t zip it up, but it’s still a warm jacket. Do you want it?”
He eyed me wearily, a little confused. “I’m already soaked,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But the jacket’s dry. Maybe you could wear it underneath one of your wet layers?”
I think he actually took a small step back. Did he think I was nuts?
“Do you want it?” I repeated. “I can go get it. It’s in my car.”
He hesitated for a second. “No thanks,” he said sadly. “I might as well not take it if I’m not gonna use it.”
That certainly made sense. The rain was fierce. Any jacket, other than a raincoat, would be utterly sopping wet within minutes, unless the guy had shelter, which he obviously didn’t.
I took out my wallet again and drew out another dollar bill. “Well,” I said. “Here’s another dollar. Good luck.”
Taking it politely from my fingers he said – with compassion, no less! – “Thank you, brother. I appreciate you.”
And so we parted ways.
Walking on, I wondered what room he was hoping to get for 30 dollars. And what would he do the next day?
People tell you all kinds of stories on the street. Did he really have pneumonia? One thing for sure though: he was soaking wet, and not in good shape.
And yet it seemed he was able to tell that, whatever my mental machinations were, it wasn’t easy for me to give him the extra dollar in that moment. And his spirit was generous enough to appreciate the “stretch,” and to tell me so.
Heading back to my warm home, I felt shitty and stingy.
Had I actually stated to him that I wasn’t feeling “flush”?
Postscript
The next day, my car wouldn’t start. I need a new fuel pump. It’s expensive. I’ll pay the mechanic with my credit card. Thirty dollars one way or another on this particular bill wouldn’t make much psychological difference, if you know what I mean.
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